I, Victoria

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Well, Alix proved a good wife for Bertie, and steadied him a great deal, and if she did not manage in the end to keep him straight, she did the next best thing, which was to behave as if he were. ‘He might stray,’ she told me once, ‘but he always loved me best’ – which I would regard as cold comfort, but I suppose we must all get through trouble as best we can. She gave him six children in the first eight years – Eddy, Georgie, then the three girls, and then the boy, John, who lived only a day. All of them were born prematurely and all frail-looking and puny. The girls, with their bulging eyes, sloping chins and quivering nervousness, always reminded me of mice (the Household called them Their Royal Shynesses) but it was the misfortune of all of them to look too much like their father and not enough like their pretty mother. Alix smothered and cosseted them too much, to my mind, and kept the boys tied to her apron strings (compensation, perhaps, for their straying father!). Poor Eddy was the strangest-looking of all, with such a long neck and long arms that Bertie gave him the nickname of ‘Collars-and-Cuffs’. I think there may have been something wrong with Eddy, for he was always lethargic in his body and slow and dawdly in his mind; but a dear boy all the same, and kind to his sisters – I was always very fond of him, and in his last delirium it was me he called for, not his mother. On the day before his twenty-eighth birthday, shortly after becoming engaged, he fell ill with influenza, which turned into pneumonia, and six days later he was dead. However, Georgie, who was always the prettiest and most lively of the children, took over and married Eddy’s fiancée, May of Teck, and they have now amply secured the next generation. The Throne is safe.

  So the first years without Albert passed, and I did not die, though the work was a load which would have killed a horse. Everything Albert and I had done between us, I now had to do alone, for the idiot Government reverted to its previous stand that I might not have a secretary. The Prime Minister was ex officio my secretary, they said, just as they had said in Lord M.’s time. That was all very well, but Lord M. had actually acted as my secretary, which Palmerston was incapable of, even if I had felt inclined to have the old sinner permanently at my elbow. Dear Sir Charles Grey, Albert’s secretary, did all he could to help me, but it was not until 1867 that the Government gave in and appointed him officially as my secretary. But the work was in its way a blessing. Every hour of the day, except for meals and a little walking or carriage exercise, I spent at my desk, labouring through my Boxes, mastering the arcane details of every case, though they were often couched in such dreadful English they were like a foreign language. No beloved Albert to read them for me and précis them; no Albert to explain the significance, look up the references, fill in the background. No Albert to discuss them with – my conclusions must be my own now. I vowed at the beginning of the new reign – when he died, that is – that I would always be guided by what he would have done; but as the years carried me further and further away from him, I could not always be sure what that might have been. Looking back now, I can see that I have moved in some cases quite a distance from his ideas, and I sometimes feel a little shy about the thought of facing him again, for I’m afraid I have done many things he will not approve of. When I decided to submit myself to him in all things, to submerge my life in his, it was rather like pressing a foot into a shoe too small for it. Once you take the shoe off, the foot spreads and swells into a quite different shape – different from the shoe, and different from its original self, too. (Not that I mean to suggest that Albert’s was a smaller soul than mine – only that his mind was so disciplined it was an ill fit for an unruly one such as mine!)

  And suddenly I was two years, three years away from him, and it was plain I was not going to follow my darling to the grave. That was a hard thing to bear, even though I never dreamed at that time how very, very long I would have to stay behind. Oh, I was angry with him for leaving me! Often and often I lay awake through the tedious nights alone, remembering those last years when I had watched him withdrawing, worried about him, refused to allow myself to believe; he died in the end, as I saw quite clearly in the middle watches, because he did not want to live. The load of work and worry had been too much for him, and instead of fighting, he had given up. I railed at him through the darkness, even as I wept: I would not have left you, Albert, no matter how weak, or sick, or tired I was! I would have fought and fought to the last breath to stay with you! How could you desert me? How could you leave me here alone? In the end, he did not fail of love, but of the joy of it. ‘It is not you I wish to leave,’ he had told me; but I was not enough to make him want to stay. I had always wanted to believe him perfect, and it was hard to have to acknowledge that he had a sad want of what they call pluck.

  20th December 1900, at Osborne

  MAUSOLEUM DAY – the anniversary of the day he left me – with its attendant ceremonies, and then the journey down here, have tired me so much that for days I have been able to do almost nothing but lie about on the sofa and have Thora read to me. She is a dear girl! And when I have a mind she chats to me so interestingly about this and that. I dearly love to chat. Christmas will soon be on us, and when I remember the joyful occasion it has been, with the Tables and the Tree, and all the wonderful smells and good things to eat, my spirits almost fail me. Without him it is like a birthday party where the birthday person does not turn up. I must try to keep up appearances, for the children’s sake, but this wretched insomnia disrupts the pattern of my days so much that I find it hard to feel enthusiastic about anything.

  I do feel a little stronger today, and I want so much to go on with my story, so I shall scribble away while I can. I can hardly see the page, and I doubt whether anyone would ever be able to decipher this scrawl, but it doesn’t matter, after all. I must finish what I began, and then Chance can do what it likes. Perhaps when I have finished I should simply leave the manuscript lying about, rather than hide it. People look for what is hidden; what is obvious they often miss.

  In the December of 1864 I had John Brown brought down from Balmoral so that I could take up riding again. Jenner thought I ought to have the exercise, and Baby was learning, and I wished to accompany her; but I should not have trusted a strange groom. I found such pleasure in riding again, ambling about the familiar paths at Osborne on my lovely black Flora, and felt so safe with Brown beside me or at the bridle, that after a few weeks I decided there was no reason not to let him make himself useful in other ways. In Scotland, when one rides out, one’s ghillie does everything, acts as groom, butler, cook and lady’s maid all in one, and it is incomparably comforting to have one person do everything, if they are a good and devoted person. Brown was, and soon made himself indispensable. He was quiet and quick and had an excellent memory, which made him a good servant; but besides that he was physically strong and very brave, which made me feel safe riding or driving with him.

  Looking back, I think it was the beginning of my recovery. Still I laboured through a dark tunnel, but there were moments when I was able to know pleasure, when the children would say something droll, or I would find beauty in a landscape or a sky or a flower. Brown soon came to fill another position in my life, as well as ghillie. When Albert died, so soon after Mamma, I felt very deeply that there was no-one left who was completely mine, whose business it was simply to see that I was happy; no-one with that minute and single-minded interest in all my concerns. My children were a great comfort, of course, but that is not the same as the comfort an adult can give; and when they became adults, they naturally put their own families first, which was right and proper. As to servants, one can be fond of them, but there is always a barrier between, which comes of their dependence, their knowledge that you can dismiss them in a moment if they fail to please; so they are always submissive, servile even, and hide their thoughts and feelings from you.

  Brown was not like that. Though utterly devoted to me, and giving his life to serving and obeying me, he nevertheless argued with me if he thought I was wrong, and did not hesitate to let me know his opinion of t
hings. He did not care in the least about the fear of dismissal: though it would have grieved him, I know, to leave me, he did not cower to keep his job. That was what annoyed my family and the Household, who regarded it as arrogance in him, and were offended that he did not ‘know his place’. On the contrary, he knew it very well: it was at my elbow! As the years went on and he became less and less like a servant, I permitted him more liberty than most people thought proper, and he often addressed me without the deference that is usually expected by any mistress from a servant, let alone the Queen of England. But he knew how far he was allowed to go, and never went further; and he cheered me up, often and often, when all else failed, with his drollery, and his rough-tongued care for me. ‘Whit are ye daeing, wearing that auld black dress again? It’s green-moulded!’ Ah, I miss him, my good and trusty friend! There’s no-one now to care what I wear, or how often!

  When he was ill once, and we thought he was dying, I promised him that if he went first, I would have his picture and a lock of his hair put in my coffin with me. ‘In your hand?’ he insisted anxiously. I held up my left hand, which rested when I walked upon his strong right arm. ‘In this hand,’ I said. And he had nodded, content. ‘There’s no-one loves you better than me,’ he said. ‘Nor serves me more faithfully,’ I agreed. ‘You are my true friend.’

  So I have left instructions: Reid will see it done. It must be done secretly, so as not to offend the family, but I believe one should always keep promises, however trivial they may seem, and I will not break my word to my dear old friend. His picture and a lock of his hair, wrapped in tissue-paper, will be placed under my left hand after I am laid in my coffin. Albert would not mind, I know. He has told me he and I will be together for all eternity, after all: he won’t begrudge my good, faithful John his place near me.

  14th January 1901, at Osborne

  OH, WHAT a sad Christmas! My dear Jane Churchill died on Christmas Day after forty-six years in my service. They kept it from me at first, for fear of giving me a shock, but Beatrice told me the sad news at last. It was a heart attack, and thus quick and merciful, but the loss to me is not to be told. And then the old year went out in a series of storms so severe I could not go out of doors for several days. So I begin a new year, and a new century, but oh, so sadly, and feeling so weak and unwell; though Reid says I will be better in the spring, as long as I let him treat me as an invalid, and do not try to do too much. I saw Lord Roberts for an hour this morning and discussed South Africa with him – I conferred the Garter on him on January the 2nd, for his conduct of the war. He says it is in its final phase now. I pray no more of our men will be lost before the peace is signed. Talking to him tired me, but I went out this afternoon for my carriage exercise, and the air did me good.

  I came to bed early, but despite my tiredness, I cannot sleep, so while I can, I will write. It is an effort now; but my mind is still alive and lively inside this ‘wreck’, and I must, must finish!

  I had got up to my dear Brown’s death, I think. Ah, it seems so long ago now. I have lived and reigned so long, I have become a legend even to myself; I sometimes catch myself doing and saying things that are purely the Queen Empress, and have nothing to do with Victoria, the Victoria that lives inside this venerable hulk! When Albert died, I longed to die also. At one desperate time, I even thought (oh, wickedness!) of taking my own life; but I felt his spirit bid me, ‘Still endure!’ – and so I have, year upon year, enduring and outliving everyone. I have reigned longer than any other British monarch; and I believe it has never happened before that there is a sovereign and three direct heirs (I mean, in three generations) all alive at the same time. I have not only grandchildren but great-grandchildren now, scattered all over Europe: Albert and I shall have supplied the Thrones of I don’t know how many countries.

  Oh, but I am tired! This last year has been one of such sorrow and weariness – poor darling Affie dying, the third of my children to go; and then dearest Christl – that was such a terrible shock. And my darling Vicky, my beloved Angel’s first-born and best-loved: they think I don’t know how ill she is, and she tries to keep it from me, but a mother always knows. I think she is dying. One has lived too long when one starts to outlive one’s own children.

  At other times in my life, even in the midst of sorrow, I have felt my own vigour at the core of me, attaching me to the world; but now I am full of aches and pains which make it hard even to rest. Did my poor darling feel like this in his last weary weeks? If so, I have to take back what I said about his want of pluck. I cannot blame him for not struggling to live in such circumstances.

  Not that I would ask it of God, precisely; but if He would like to call me home now, I should go willingly. I have been away from my darling for such a very long time, and I want so much to see him again. Dear Lord, might you not see your way to it? Bertie is not going to get any better or any worse, and my affairs are in order and my funeral planned down to the last carriage, so there will be nothing for anyone to do. I have even ordered my favourite hymn:

  Life’s dream is past,

  All its sin, its sadness;

  Brightly at last,

  Dawns a day of gladness.

  Gladness it will be to me; and I don’t suppose Bertie will be sorry to be King at last.

  Poor, poor Bertie! I blamed him so bitterly at first for his part in his father’s death – and unfairly, too, as I did come to acknowledge to him (though being sorry afterwards is not the same as not doing or saying the thing in the first place, as I know). Unfairly, because my darling had been fleeing from life for a long time, and he would have found the way out sooner or later. Bertie has not turned out the way my darling would have wanted, but there was nothing he could ever have done about it, as I see now. Lord M. was right. What can any of us do, but what we do? We are all God’s playthings, hemmed in by our flesh and our blood and our shortcomings, and struggle as we might, we cannot outrun our fate.

  Bertie’s destiny was to become a man of fashion, the darling of society, a creature of fine clothes and fine wine and expensive cigars, an expert on horseflesh and she-flesh, a spinner-along of motorcars, the man every hostess would give her hair to have at her dinner-table. I dare say he will be a popular King, if not a good one, and one might say a great deal worse than that.

  My fate was to become England, a little old woman in a bonnet who rules half the world, a profile on a postage-stamp, a sombre, familiar face in a thousand, thousand reproductions, instantly recognisable to half the world’s population, from tall thin Yankees in strange trousers to little hopping brown boys on the shores of the Ganges. All this, Victoria, born to be Queen – she whose legs are too short to reach the ground when she sits on the Throne, and who is so shy she trembles like a cold kitten when she has to meet someone new. Oh, irony! But I am England all the same. That’s what the people mean when they talk of me: not the woman but the monument. The woman no-one now knows.

  And Albert’s fate? Ah, perhaps the strangest of all! His was to change us all, the way we speak, and think, and act, what we believe, what we accept, what we respect. We are all Germans now (except for Bertie’s set, but there aren’t many of them). I have never liked the High-borns, the Upper Classes if you like; but I can admit now, since it doesn’t matter any more, that I’ve never liked the Middle Classes either – too self-satisfied, too censorious, too intolerant of human frailty. But it is they above all who appreciated my beloved one’s qualities; and their virtues, which are his, are good ones – industry, self-improvement, charity, enquiry. And it seems they are the people who count, now and for the future. All England will be middle class one day – when Bertie’s day is done, and Georgie and May rule my country. I once said to Lord M. that modern women have more accomplishments, men drink less, and dogs behave better towards the furniture than in the past. It is truer now than ever, and perhaps that is no bad epitaph for a reign.

  The odd thing is that I suppose when I am gone they will talk about the ‘Victorian Age’, as they tal
k now about the ‘Elizabethan Age’; but the things they will remember my reign by will be Albert’s achievements. Would he mind? I wonder! I see his face now, and his twinkling smile, and hear his voice, with that lovely chuckle in it, saying to me as he so often did, quoting Goethe, ‘Die Tat is alles, nicht der Ruhn’ – the Deed is all, the Repute nothing. All his life he worked with dedication, bowing his back under the stern weight of duty, struggling to bring about the changes he knew were right and good; but he never wanted recognition. The deed is all, he said: I want no statues put up to me.

  So, very well, my beloved, I’ll take the name for you, and I’ll take the blame for you, too, if there’s any going about, for that’s my privilege. After all, it was I who was Queen of England, not you. You were just a penniless German princeling from a country the size of Bristol! You changed the face of England, and then slipped quietly away in the night and left me to stand alone for forty years under the thousand staring eyes, under the fierce light that beats upon the Throne. But I always knew my duty, and I have done it, and shall do it to the end.

  I can write no more: my poor old hand aches so, I can hardly hold the pen. I will stop and resume tomorrow. I really am so tired now that I think I shall be able to sleep.

  Postscript

  THE DAY after this writing finishes, the Queen was seen driving in the park with her daughter-in-law, the Duchess of Coburg: it was her last outing. On the morning of the 16th of January, the Queen could not seem to wake properly, though she muttered several times that she must get up. Reid decided he must see her even though he had not been summoned, and went to her room. He had never seen her in bed before, and was struck by how small she looked. She seemed dazed and bewildered, and he later concluded she may have suffered a mild stroke.