Sons, Servants and Statesmen

by John Van der Kiste

  On returning home from Berlin, he was treated like a conquering hero. The Queen’s feelings on the situation were aptly summarised by The Times, as it declared that the Prime Minister was now ‘at the pinnacle of Ministerial Renown’, as well as ‘the favourite of his Sovereign and the idol of Society’.19

  Disraeli never lost sight of the fact that he was serving the Queen of England. Though cynical by nature, he always retained a deep reverence for the monarchy and the throne. Perhaps it was as well that his sovereign was a woman and not a king, for she fired his imagination. Maybe he saw himself as a knight in shining armour, another Sir Francis Drake or Sir Walter Raleigh to a latter-day Queen Elizabeth. He gave her new confidence in herself, instead of indulging her unduly in her complaints that, as a widow, she had too many demands placed upon her by her country and her ministers.

  In some ways, Disraeli’s influence was questionable. During his second period of office, Victoria was inclined to think of him as the servant of the Crown, rather than of the people who had elected his government to power. Perhaps she saw the government of the country as a partnership between the sovereign and her prime minister, to which they each brought their accumulated knowledge and experience. Disraeli kept the Queen well informed as to what was going on, and he was constantly asking her opinion and advice. Now, to an extent which she had perhaps never known before, she was completely and willingly absorbed in the day-to-day business of government, and probably for the first time she could see herself as all-important.

  Such intimacy between sovereign and prime minister might have passed without comment, had there not been a sense of something unconstitutional in the air. Sometimes the two of them spent hours in close discussion, frequently writing directly to each other without using the customary third person and without the prior knowledge of the Queen’s private secretary, who felt theirs was unnaturally close for a working relationship.

  He was not alone in thinking that the influence they had on each other was excessive, particularly if Disraeli was inadvertently encouraging the Queen to be something more than a constitutional monarch. His utterances about her being the ‘Directress’ and ‘Arbitress’ of Europe were probably not meant to be taken seriously, but such theatrical expressions were bound to be interpreted by others as indiscreet, not to say tactless. It was as if he never hesitated to encourage her authoritarian spirit, or to use her name to further his policies. To her, Disraeli’s policy became ‘our’ policy; and ‘our’ policy thus became the ‘imperial policy of England’. To criticise his measures or policies seemed to her like criticism of the Crown. It was an ill-advised stance for a constitutional monarch.

  As it was, Queen Victoria’s concept of the role of a constitutional monarch was changing. It was hard to avoid the belief that Disraeli was giving the Queen too self-important an opinion of her role as head of state. By the time of his second premiership, or at any rate during it, she was adamant she would not become a mere cipher, with a role restricted to signing Bills and opening parliaments. Almost imperceptibly, she was developing a somewhat exaggerated idea of her royal prerogative and strongly objected to any signs that her ministers might be encroaching on it.

  Lady Ponsonby believed that ‘Dizzy’ had ‘worked the idea of personal government to its logical conclusion, and the seed was sown’ by Baron Stockmar and the Prince Consort. While they lived, they had kept matters in proportion, but despite themselves they had inadvertently been responsible for establishing ‘the superstition in the Queen’s mind about her own prerogative’. Now they had gone, there was always the danger that the situation could be used by an unscrupulous minister to his own advantage and the country’s ruin. ‘If there comes a real collision between the Queen and the House of Commons (say, for instance, that the country insists on Gladstone for the next Liberal Prime Minister) it is quite possible she would turn restive, dorlotède [pampered] as she has been by Dizzy’s high-sounding platitudes, and then her reign will end in a fiasco or she prepares one for the Prince of Wales.’20

  Disraeli had shrewdly walked the tightrope which enabled him to keep the country out of war with Russia, and it was to be a short yet inglorious war during the last year of his premiership which led to a rare argument with his sovereign. In January 1879 fighting broke out in southern Africa between the Zulus and the British, a conflict provoked by Sir Bartle Frere, who was determined to break Zulu power, seeing in it a threat to British expansion and commercial interests in the area. Lord Chelmsford, the British commander, had greatly underestimated the Zulus’ fighting spirit, and under his leadership the Army was severely defeated.

  Louis Napoleon, ex-Prince Imperial of France and only child of the former Emperor Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie, was living in exile in England with his widowed mother. He had attended the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, and begged to serve with the British Army in South Africa. The Queen and the Empress readily assented, much to Disraeli’s dismay. He tried to stop the Prince from going, he told his colleagues. ‘But what can you do when you have to deal with two obstinate women?’21 While serving with the Army in June he was killed by the Zulus in an ambush. His mother and the Queen grieved over his loss, and Disraeli wrote to Victoria that it was a tragedy, ‘equalled only by the death of Emperor Maximilian of Mexico’ (see p. 124).22

  To make amends, the Queen decided that Louis Napoleon should be given as splendid a funeral as possible. Disraeli feared the effect such a display of loyalty to the Bonapartes would have on Anglo-French relations, and he and his ministers saw no reason they should make such a public gesture of penitence. He had to persuade the Queen against placing the Order of the Bath on the Prince’s coffin with her own hands, and she was so angry when she learnt that none of the Cabinet were going to attend the funeral that, to placate her, it was agreed that the War Minister and the Colonial Minister should both be there. After the ceremony on 12 July, she telegraphed to Disraeli that everything had gone very well. To Lady Chesterfield he wrote that he hoped the French government would be as joyful; in his opinion, ‘nothing could be more injudicious than the whole affair’.23

  Despite this tragedy, the Queen gave unstinting support to those of her servants engaged in the thankless task of maintaining law and order in the imperial outposts, and firmly resisted any suggestions to supersede Frere and Chelmsford. Although Disraeli upheld the concept of the British Empire, to him it was a noble cause for peace and goodwill. The concept of colonial wars was more or less anathema, and he resented those who were responsible for the conflict and subsequent bloodshed.

  In July, after Chelmsford had finally managed to defeat the Zulu forces at Ulundi, he returned home as a conquering hero, readily forgiven his earlier errors. The Queen shared in the general enthusiasm, but her Prime Minister considered it very ill-judged. When she pressed him to receive Chelmsford at Hughenden, he demurred, saying that ‘it would be hardly becoming . . . for Lord Beaconsfield to receive him, except in an official interview’. He justified his stance by explaining that Chelmsford was indelibly associated ‘with the policy of the unhappily precipitated Zulu War, the evil consequences of which to this country have been incalculable’, and was responsible for ‘having invaded Zululand “avec un coeur léger”, with no adequate knowledge of the country he was attacking, and with no precaution or preparation. A dreadful disaster occurred in consequence,’ after which he was panic-stricken and appealed to the government for reinforcements ‘in order to reduce a country not larger than Yorkshire’. He added how painful it was for him to differ from Her Majesty where public affairs were involved, not only because he was bound to her ‘by every tie of duty and respectful affection’, but also as he had ‘a distinct and real confidence in Your Majesty’s judgment, matured, as it is, by an unrivalled political experience, and an extensive knowledge of mankind’.24

  The Queen was ‘grieved and astonished’ to receive his letter. She said that she wanted him to receive Chelmsford, in order to hear everything from him and those who had actu
ally gone through the experiences, ‘and not to decide on condemning people in most difficult and trying positions from the Cabinet, pressed by an unscrupulous Opposition (at least a portion of it) and still more unscrupulous press – without allowing them to state their own case and defend themselves!’ Chelmsford, she admitted, had made mistakes, but she could not bear injustice or a want of generosity towards those who had had to deal with such difficulties, ‘and who ought to be supported from home and not condemned unheard’.25

  Disraeli was likewise ‘grieved’ at having incurred the Queen’s displeasure, but stuck to his position, pointing out that Chelmsford’s letters had become ‘confused, he might say incoherent, vacillating and apparently without resource’.26 He added that the military authorities supported his view that a new commander should be appointed. These differences were all the more painful to him, he wrote the same day to Lady Ely, as it was a source of grief that anything he should say or do should be displeasing to Her Majesty: ‘I love the Queen – perhaps the only person in the world left to me that I do love; and therefore you can understand how much it worries and disquiets me, when there is a cloud between us.’27

  Despite her requests for Disraeli to retract his views, he would not be swayed. In September the Queen received Chelmsford warmly at Balmoral, conferring on him a knighthood and the Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath. She urged Disraeli to be more generous and receive him at Hughenden, as well as his two subordinate officers. Disraeli made his views on the issue known by receiving the officers at home, while grudgingly granting Chelmsford a few minutes’ formal talk at Downing Street.

  This momentary stand of defiance was soon forgotten by the Queen. In the spring of 1880 Disraeli called a general election, but a vigorous campaign by Gladstone, leader of the opposition, resulted in Conservative defeat and a new Liberal administration. The Queen was stunned to learn the results of the voting, declaring she would ‘sooner abdicate than send for or have any communication with that half-mad fire brand who would soon ruin everything, and be a Dictator’.28

  On 25 April Disraeli left Downing Street for the last time. Two days later he travelled sadly to Windsor to take formal leave of his sovereign, a poignant occasion for both. Like Napoleon, he said, he had been beaten by the elements – six bad harvests in succession. She presented him with bronze statuettes of herself, John Brown, the royal pony and her dog Sharp; he tactfully expressed himself ‘much delighted’ with them, and he promised to visit her again. They continued to correspond, but as in the case of Melbourne’s letters to her after he had left office in 1841, it was necessary to keep it quiet. As the Queen’s private secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby disapproved, fearing it might compromise the impartiality of the Crown. Yet Disraeli was wise enough to avoid political topics most of the time, and when the Queen asked him for advice, he took care to keep it as neutral as possible.

  Gladstone’s audience on taking office was brief. He thought his sovereign had been ‘natural under effort’. She considered that he looked ill and haggard, and was surprised when he told her that he intended to be his own Chancellor of the Exchequer as well as Prime Minister. In view of his state of health, she probably persuaded herself – mistakenly – that this ‘half-mad firebrand’ of seventy would be unable to shoulder the burdens of high office for long.

  On 28 February 1881 the Queen and Disraeli dined together at Windsor Castle. With a chest infection that was developing into bronchitis, he was far from well, and perhaps he had a presentiment that it would be their final meeting. Her gift of flowers a few days later elicited an effusive letter of thanks. ‘No Sovereign could decorate a subject with a new order’, he wrote, ‘which could have conferred greater pleasure, than the box, which contained yesterday the harbingers of spring, and which now adorn my writing table.’29

  A few days later she received her last letter from him, a short note of thanks scrawled in pencil after she had enquired as to his health, to which he answered there was ‘little prospect of my being visible before Easter. I am ashamed to address Your Majesty not only from my room, but even my bed.’30 He sensed that he would probably never leave his bed again.

  ‘We are so anxious about dear Lord Beaconsfield who has been very ill for the last fortnight,’ she wrote to the Princess of Wales on 11 April. ‘It is a great sorrow to me and a cause of grief and anxiety to the nation at large.’31 Towards the end, she offered to come and visit him, but he declined, allegedly with the comment that she had better not: ‘she would only ask me to take a message to Albert.’32

  On 19 April he died, aged seventy-six. The Queen was overwhelmed with grief. Tradition prevented a sovereign from attending the funeral of a subject, but three of her sons, the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Connaught and the Duke of Albany, attended the obsequies as he was laid to rest beside Mary Anne in the churchyard at Hughenden. She sent two wreaths of primroses and on the accompanying card wrote, ‘His favourite flowers from Osborne, a tribute of affection from Queen Victoria.’ Above his seat in the chancel at Hughenden church, she had a large marble tablet erected in his memory, with the inscription, ‘This memorial is placed by his grateful Sovereign and Friend, Victoria R.I.’

  SIX

  ‘A deluded excited man’

  Everyone on all sides had expected that Gladstone’s new premiership was going to prove a testing one for sovereign and minister alike. The Queen alone, Gladstone told Lord Rosebery, the ministerial colleague who was destined to be his eventual successor as Prime Minister, was ‘enough to kill any man’.1 Nevertheless, on 9 May, some two and a half weeks after Disraeli’s death, he paid his old political adversary a warm, statesmanlike tribute in parliament. Contemplating it beforehand, he said, had made him unwell, and confined him to bed for two days with a stomach upset; writing this eulogy was one of the most difficult things he had ever had to do in his life. Nevertheless, it was a generous, magnanimous address, in which Gladstone praised Disraeli’s long career, his strength of will, long-sighted consistency of purpose and ‘his great parliamentary courage – a quality which I, who have been associated in the course of my life with some scores of Ministers, have, I think, never known but two whom I could pronounce his equal’.2. The Queen called it ‘a fine speech’; her attitude towards Gladstone softened for a while, and she even asked him to sit down at their next audience.

  However, the truce did not last, and before long they were back to their old inharmonious relationship. It was only a matter of time before she was exasperated by his unwillingness to submit to what he called her ‘intolerable’ claims to be kept fully informed about confidential Cabinet discussions. Before he appeared at major public meetings, she issued him warnings which might have been addressed to her own sons. In October 1881, noting that he was to attend a large banquet at Leeds, she said she hoped he would take care not to say anything which might bind him to ‘any particular measures’. Fifteen months later, when he was planning to go and address his Midlothian constituents for the first time since the general election, she advised him in writing of ‘her earnest hopes that he will be very guarded in his language . . . and that he will remember the immense importance attached to every word falling from him’.3 It was a strange letter for a sovereign to write to one of her most experienced prime ministers and members of parliament.

  Another incident caused further problems between them. In September 1883 Gladstone went on a holiday cruise as a guest of the shipowner Sir Donald Currie, with fellow guests including the Home Secretary, Sir William Harcourt, and the Poet Laureate, Alfred Tennyson. Originally they planned to sail around the British Isles but then decided they would make an impromptu visit to Norway and Denmark. They were entertained in Copenhagen, where King Christian and Queen Louise invited them to a dinner at which others present included Tsar Alexander III of Russia and King George of Greece. Gladstone had inadvertently broken one of the golden rules of a premier, namely that he should not set foot in a foreign country without the prior permission of the sovereign.

 
; The Queen was highly indignant and wrote to Earl Granville of ‘her unfeigned astonishment at Mr Gladstone’s want of all knowledge, apparently, of what is due to the Sovereign he serves’. Her Prime Minister, she went on, was ‘one not gifted with prudence in speech’ and ‘not a person who can go about where he likes with impunity’. Relations between Britain and several of the other Great Powers were rather delicate, and his absence was not only inconvenient, but ‘his presence at Copenhagen may be productive of much evil and certainly lead to misconstruction’.4

  Gladstone apologised humbly for not seeking the customary permission, excusing himself on the grounds that he and his fellow voyagers had been encouraged ‘to extend their views’. She grudgingly accepted his apology, while stressing that there were so many topics which could not be discussed with foreign sovereigns by the Prime Minister without prior consultation with her Foreign Secretary and the sanction of the sovereign. While she accepted his assurances that he would have avoided politics with the crowned heads he had met at Copenhagen, a man in his position did not have the freedom to move around like a private individual, especially when every step he made was bound to be reported; and any such trip would be bound to lead ‘to political speculations which it is better to avoid’.5

  Not without justification, he found her letter ‘somewhat unmannerly’. In reply he regretted that he had not considered the likelihood of her displeasure, on the grounds that ‘increasing weariness of mind under public cares for which he considers himself less and less fitted, may have blunted the faculty of anticipation, with which he was never very largely endowed’.6 He told his private secretary, Sir Edward Hamilton, that the Queen was jealous of the deference paid to an old man of whom she strongly disapproved, while she still remained in seclusion most of the time.