I did not know that at the time, of course; but I had witnessed the better understanding between them, and the increased respect and warmth with which Palmerston addressed my darling, and in June 1856 I wrote a long letter to the Prime Minister, reviving an old question which still rankled with me, and which my little Arthur, in his innocent child’s way, had phrased: ‘If you are Queen, Mamma, why is Papa not King?’
So I wrote, ‘It is a strange omission in our Constitution that while the wife of a King has the highest rank and dignity in the realm after her husband assigned to her by law, the husband of a Queen Regnant is entirely ignored by law. This is the more extraordinary, as a husband has in this country such particular rights and power over his wife, and the Queen is married just as every other woman is, and swears to obey her lord and master.’
I went on to say that initially members of the royal family had resented any defining of Albert’s position, but that now they were all dead the matter should be settled for Albert and for all future consorts of Queens. My own preference was for the title of King, but as this was a complete novelty in England and might cause resentment, I had settled on that of Prince Consort; which, together with the highest precedence in the land after the Queen, ought to be settled on the husband of the Queen Regnant by Parliament once and for all. I pointed out the disadvantages of the present system: that my children officially had precedence over their own father, whom I was bound by my marriage vows to obey, which was insulting to both of us; that when we went abroad the husband of the Queen of England had no legal position other than that of younger brother of the Duke of Coburg, which was detrimental to the dignity of the Crown and of England; and that in my own country my husband was perpetually presented as a foreigner – ‘The Queen and her foreign husband Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha’ – which was injurious to the Crown and prevented his very great services to the country from being generally recognised.
I was quite confident now that Parliament would not oppose such a measure, especially if it was made clear to the Lower House that there was no request attached to increase Albert’s pension. Albert did not care about it as I did. He agreed with my reasons in theory, but said in practice it made no difference. ‘I do what I do because it is my duty, not for recognition – you know that.’
‘Of course I do, but you should have recognition all the same. And I hate the way the Fashionables go on calling you German.’
‘They will do that whatever my title, Liebchen,’ he said with a smile. ‘I shall never be beloved by them. I must make do with being loved by the best little wifey in the world, and the finest family of children any man ever had.’
‘Well, at the very least,’ I said, wishing I could stir him up to a resentment of his treatment, ‘you shall not be slighted again by foreign courts,’ remembering 1845 and the behaviour of the King of Prussia, who had given the place that should have been Albert’s to the mere uncle of the Emperor of Austria!
‘I wish you will not trouble about it, my love,’ he said mildly. ‘You only court disappointment.’
‘Nonsense!’ I said; but he was right. First of all the Bill was postponed because of pressure of business; and then when the Cabinet considered it again in March 1857, they raised a completely new objection, which I thought after seventeen years was too much to swallow. They said that the law and usage of England was for a husband to communicate his rank to his wife and not vice-versa; therefore if the husband of a Queen Regnant were treated the same as the wife of a King, he would become King Consort, and if he survived her and married again would make his new wife Queen. Furthermore on the matter of precedence, the proposed Bill would place the consort between the Throne and the Prince of Wales, depriving the latter of the proper constitutional priority of the Heir Apparent, and creating further problems in the case of the Queen’s predeceasing her husband.
I was furious; Albert was philosophical; and Palmerston, though he sympathised very warmly and in very proper terms with my disappointment, was adamant that nothing could be done. ‘The legal position, ma’am, is so very delicate – the question of the right to sit in the House of Lords and on the Privy Council – the position of the Heir Apparent – I have no confidence at all that I could find anyone to sponsor the Bill, let alone get it through the Lower House.’ I raged a little, and when he had heard me out, he said gently, ‘The position of a Queen Regnant, ma’am, is bound to be anomalous in some ways; but one of the great strengths of our Constitution lies in what it does not specify. His Highness enjoys a degree of power and influence in the country and in the Government which, if it were defined in law, might well frighten a great many people, and lead to our being deprived of the inestimable value of his services.’ This soothed me a little, but I was still sore, which the poor old sinner plainly saw. ‘If I might be so forward as to suggest it, ma’am, you might give him the title of Prince Consort by Letters Patent. That might be done at once. It would take no longer than the time needed to draw up the document.’
‘And his precedence?’ I enquired shortly.
‘Next to your own, except where otherwise provided by Act of Parliament,’ he said. I heard Lord M. in those words, and smiled inwardly. In seventeen years we had come full circle! But I saw the benefit of the vague wording. It might be stretched a very long way before it broke, and absence of specification could work to one’s advantage, if one were clever. ‘It will give His Highness an English title,’ Palmerston added temptingly.
‘His Royal Highness,’ I corrected sternly. ‘Yes, and it will prevent his being treated by foreign courts as nothing but a junior member of the House of Saxe-Coburg. Well, let it be done, then, and as soon as possible. I want to hear him prayed for as the Prince Consort before the end of the Season.’
We managed it, just: the 25th of June 1857 was the day when my beloved officially received the title that should have been his long before.
By then a further happiness had blessed us. The previous year, 1856, had been a happy one, and the Season remarkably gay, with the relief of the peace and the joy of everyone’s sons coming home. London was brilliant with balls and banquets, a delicious season at the opera, and for us the pleasure of witnessing the great affection between Fritz and Vicky, whom we had allowed to become secretly engaged. In the May of 1856 the new ballroom and concert-room at Buckingham Palace, designed by Albert, were finished at last, and we used the ballroom for the first time for Vicky’s come-out. I danced indefatigably all through the Season, and had the pleasure of hearing myself described as one of the most graceful performers in the world. With the ending of the war Albert had a little (just a little) less work and worry, and his pleasure over Fritz and Vicky’s engagement (which was a stage in his great desire to see a unified Germany under liberal Prussian leadership) made him happy and relaxed. We had a very pleasant visit at Osborne, including the arrival of our new yacht (also called Victoria and Albert but one hundred feet longer than the old one, and so grand and spacious I felt quite lost in her); and then we went up to Balmoral to find the new house finished and all traces of the old castle completely gone, which was very gratifying to Albert. So what with one thing and another it was not a great surprise to me to discover that I was pregnant again; and on the 14th of April 1857 – again with the blessed, soothing influence of chloroform – Beatrice was born. From the beginning we felt sure she would be the flower of our little flock. We called her Baby at first, as most families do with the new arrival, but the name in her case took on something of a personal quality, and became our permanent, affectionate nickname for her.
(Some years later Vicky’s eldest, Willy, came to visit, and the naughty boy took to calling her Baby because he heard others do so. When he was told sternly that she was his aunt, though only two years older than him, and that he must address her respectfully, he rebelled, and finally wriggled out of the situation by calling her Aunt Baby, which made me laugh very much – though not, of course, in front of him.)
When I was out of childbed,
my good physician Clark came to me solemnly to warn me that I must not have another baby. ‘Your Majesty’s constitution could not withstand it,’ he said with awful emphasis. ‘I must most seriously advise against embarking on such an adventure.’
The awful vision opened up before me. ‘But, Doctor,’ I cried, ‘must I then have no more fun in bed?’
Clark looked away and went red, as he always did when faced with a question he thought delicate (which made me feel rather impatient with him when I considered what he must already know about my anatomy: if I could bear the thought of what he knew, why could not he?) and he harrumphed a bit and indicated that that was a matter on which the Prince might more properly be expected to enlighten me; but the Prince was not at hand, and it was not until that night that we were completely alone and private, by which time I had spent the day feeling low and miserable at the prospect.
When we were alone I told him first of what Clark had said.
‘Why, my little darling, I thought you hated having babies,’ Albert said with a tender smile. ‘Would you not be glad to be done with it all?’
‘I don’t like being pregnant,’ I said, ‘but I like having them once they are had. Do you think me such a heartless mother that I would wish any of my little ones out of existence?’
‘No, I don’t think that at all. But nine is a good family, is it not? And we have been so lucky not to lose one of them—’
‘Unberufen!’ I prompted quickly, thinking of Leopold, and crossed my fingers, too, for good measure.
‘Unberufen,’ Albert said obediently. ‘Nine lovely children is enough, is it not?’
‘I don’t like to be told,’ I grumbled. ‘It should be as I choose, not Clark.’
‘Don’t I have any say in the matter?’ Albert teased.
‘Ah yes,’ I said quickly, ‘that brings me to another thing.’ And I repeated the other part of my conversation with Clark. Albert chuckled. ‘Poor man, what a torment you are to him, wifey!’ ‘But what did he mean?’ I insisted. ‘What have you to explain to me?’
Now Albert was blushing too. ‘Well, my heart’s heart, there are things one can do – similar to what we do but – not carrying the risk of pregnancy. Things that fall short of the totality.’
I considered, my imagination leaping ahead and supplying me with pictures. ‘I don’t like it,’ I said at last. ‘It sounds like false coin. I want everything to be honest and true between us – as honest as daylight.’ I reached for his hand. ‘Can’t we just go on as before, and trust in God? I don’t want to think I can never have another child. I don’t want you never to be able to love me fully as before. Let God decide what happens.’
‘It is leaving a lot on God’s shoulders,’ Albert said doubtfully, turning my wedding ring round and round on my finger. ‘We are supposed to take responsibility for our own lives, and make our own decisions.’
‘Well, I’ve made mine,’ I said firmly.
‘And what about Clark’s advice?’ said Albert.
‘Doctors don’t know everything,’ I said.
WINTER
Nineteen
12th November 1900, at Windsor
THIS MORNING I had to swear in a new Privy Council: Lord Salisbury has managed to get himself returned again, though the majority is only increased by three. Hardly worth calling an election for, I said to him afterwards (the newspapers are calling it the Khaki Election, and there have been some criticisms, as I expected there would). He – Salisbury – is looking quite exhausted, but is to give up the Foreign Office and take Privy Seal instead, which will be much less tiring. Lansdowne is to be Foreign Secretary, which pleases everybody. There are various other moves which I can’t pretend to find very exciting. But I am glad at least to have the Conservatives again, so that I shan’t have to get used to a new Prime Minister. Salisbury and I agree very well and understand each other’s little ways.
It is Conservatives and Liberals now, where when I was a girl it was Whigs and Tories. Oh, how passionately I was for the Whigs and against the Tories! It is hard to believe now, especially when I consider how little difference there was between the parties: they were all drawn from the same rank of society. It is not so now, since the various reforms. We get some very odd people coming into Parliament, though they all seem to behave pretty well once they get there. The House, I’m told, is much less unruly than it was back in the ‘twenties and ’thirties. This last election has even seen two candidates returned from the Independent Labour Party, which has ruffled a few feathers, but I can’t see any harm in it. Provided they behave like gentlemen, it doesn’t matter a jot who their fathers were.
I remember at my first Privy Council, I had to look to Lord M. to tell me what to do; not one of that first Council is still alive, and these days the new men look to me to guide them through the protocol. I have had ten Prime Ministers during my long reign. Salisbury has in some ways been the best; Gladstone was in all ways the worst – I really sometimes think he was a little crazy, the way he tried to create friction between class and class, and threw our country’s honour away abroad. He was always inconsiderate and often impertinent, treated me like a machine and lectured me like a school-girl. And yet he was undoubtedly a man of abilities, though his manner was deplorable. There is a story that a young lady went out to dinner on two consecutive evenings. The first evening she sat next to Gladstone, and rose from the table convinced that he was the cleverest man in England. On the second evening she sat next to Disraeli, and rose from the table convinced that she was the cleverest woman in England.
Dear, dear Dizzy! What an incomparable man: his intelligence, his erudition, his wit were only equalled by his warmth and charm. He never, never lectured or badgered me, like Gladstone, but treated me like a woman, and made me feel strong and beautiful, in a way that’s only possible with someone you truly admire. You cannot pretend it. He and I were naturally drawn to each other – two ‘outsiders’, perhaps – and the longer we knew each other, the deeper and steadier our friendship became.
When he first became my Prime Minister in 1868 I was just beginning to recover from the appalling shock of my beloved’s death. It was as though I had been struggling through a dark tunnel all alone. I never stopped working – indeed, I had to work harder than ever, doing Albert’s share as well as my own – but I felt an aversion amounting almost to horror to the idea of being seen in public. I could not bear to do alone those things which I had always done with him at my side. I was nothing but a poor, shattered widow, and it seemed barbaric that the world should want to stare at me in my weeds.
But it seemed it was not enough for the people that I should do my duty – I must be seen to do it. The fact that I no longer attended public functions annoyed them: once a ‘wag’ went so far as to pin a note on the gates of Buckingham Palace saying To Let, Owner No Longer Requires. It was unfortunate that this was also one of those times when revolutionary feeling was sweeping through Europe. I saw the discontent as an impertinent desire to order my life and stare at me like a waxwork, but France had just become a republic for the third time, and there were many who believed that England was in danger of going the same way. There were even questions asked in the House as to whether I was ‘worth’ my Civil List and whether I performed any useful function – I, who never stopped working from morning till night! (That was Sir Charles Dilke, and deeply it hurt me that he should say such things, for I had known his father, who had worked with Albert on the Great Exhibition. Indeed, I had first met little Charles when he was only eight years old at the Crystal Palace, and had stroked his hair: I can only assume, the wrong way.)
If the Monarchy was really in danger, what saved it, ironically, was a close brush with death – first in the August of ’seventy-one when I became gravely ill with an abscess on my arm, and then in November of the same year when poor Bertie almost died of typhoid. The people soon saw where their hearts really lay: when they almost lost us, they understood how much they wanted us. Still, from then on I unde
rtook more public engagements – never as many as were demanded, and always more than I enjoyed. But when Disraeli came back in in 1874, he found the way to persuade me to do things I would have found impossible otherwise. He had a way of putting his head on one side and saying ‘Dear Madam’ so persuasively, I found him irresistible! I would always more willingly open Parliament for him than for anyone else.
There were those who found it shocking that we should have a Jew for Prime Minister, but I always abhorred such small-mindedness. I loved him for what he was – and, yes, I did love him, and he loved me. I am one who needs to have someone to love, and though nothing could ever replace my perfect union with my beloved Albert, there was great satisfaction for me in the years that Disraeli was my friend. I see, at this distance, similarities with my relationship with Lord M.; but the one was all emotion, while my relationship with Disraeli was a true marriage of minds. He had a bold mind and wonderfully large view, and his vision of the world and England’s place in it coincided pleasingly with mine. As with Lord M., I continued to correspond with him after he went out of office, and he continued to enrich and invigorate my experience of society and of politics, but it was not the same as having him in office. The period of his ministry was one of the most vigorous and stimulating of my life. For six years I felt we governed England together, and it was good.
Well, he is long in his grave; Gladstone too. Politicians come and go, with their aspirations and certainties and their little blindnesses, but I am always here, year in and year out, the one Great Continuity. It has come to the stage where I know more about government than most of my ministers. That, of course, is the great value of our constitutional system: in a republic there is never anyone with an overview, or anyone to say, ‘We tried that in the year such-and-such, and it did not work.’ Ah yes, despite my increasing weariness, I must ask God to keep me here a little longer, for my country’s sake. When I am gone, who will keep a steady hand on the reins? Not Bertie, I fear: he will be at the races!
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