Sandringham Days

by John Matson

  The Princess of Wales might be forgiven if she had expressed resentment at her husband’s unfaithfulness, but she never allowed her actions to express displeasure until ‘the Beresford affair’, when she deliberately missed the Prince’s fiftieth birthday celebrations at Sandringham. She might refer to him in private as her ‘naughty little man’ but she remained intensely loyal to him. Was there, perhaps, a certain chilliness about her beauty, or had her ardour abated after bearing him six children? Her almost suffocating affection for them and the simplicity of her mind might provoke the suspicion that there was an element of immaturity in her love for the Prince, whose restlessness and susceptibility for beautiful women led him to stray. Yet he always returned to the Princess and her own wisdom allowed her to accept the inevitable. What seems certain is that she never gave cause for suspicion that she was unfaithful to him. One friendship, however, deserves consideration.

  Oliver Montagu, whose brother Edward was a friend of the Prince’s, formed a bond with the Princess which was to last for a quarter of a century. A younger son of the Earl of Sandwich, Montagu was appointed an Equerry to the Prince in 1868 and frequently attended the Princess on social occasions; away from Royal circles he had a reputation for wildness. Certainly, in an idealised way, he adored her, nor can there be any doubt that she valued his company. But the relationship remained platonic and caused scarcely any gossip. They were both religious, and the Princess had been carefully brought up. Though she could indulge in practical jokes and badinage, she knew at once when things had gone far enough and would kindly, but firmly, check any attempt at familiarity. If this may appear inconclusive, it must be remembered that a wife’s infidelity was regarded as a much more serious matter than a husband’s. The Princess was aware of public opinion and would not have risked forfeiting her husband’s love for her, which remained steadfast throughout his inconstancy.

  In August of this ill-fated year, 1891, the Prince and Princess were together for Cowes Week. At this time they were faced with the necessity of grappling with the problem of Prince Eddy’s future, which had become a matter of some urgency. But the Prince, hard-pressed by other difficulties, dodged the issue and left for Homburg. The Princess thus had to consider the options before her: various permutations of foreign tours for Prince Eddy were suggested, which would keep him out of at least some of the influences to which he was unfortunately so prone, or marriage to Princess May. The Princess settled for the latter and almost at once left England for Denmark. It was while she was abroad that news of the Beresford affair reached her and, since such publicity was unendurable to her, she postponed her return and elected to visit the Czar and Czarina, who were celebrating their silver wedding in the Crimea. It was particularly significant that her absence at this time meant that she would miss the Prince’s fiftieth birthday festivities at Sandringham, an event not lightly to be passed over. She missed a good deal more, for on the night of 31 October fire broke out on the top floor of the house. It seems that fires had been lighted to air the rooms before the Prince’s arrival, the weather having been unseasonably wet. Early the following morning, smoke was observed to be issuing from the upper windows and the alarm was raised. Local fire brigades were summoned, and the Prince, who was staying with Lord and Lady Brooke in Essex, was telegraphed. Despite his concern, he remained calm and simply awaited further news. This must have called for some self-command on his part, for he had long been interested in conflagrations and, having assisted at a number of fires in London, had taken elaborate precautions to ensure that there was an effective fire service on the estate, and he would have wished to see, now that it had been called into action, how effective his measures had been. By the time the fire engines had arrived the top floor was well alight and soon afterwards the roof collapsed in a burst of flame and sparks, while the men below ran for safety. On the lawn, all those not engaged in fighting the fire laboured to rescue the treasures of the house. Pictures, ornaments and furnishings from the over-crowded rooms were carried to safety, whilst on all sides firemen swung the handles of the fire-pumps. It was some time before the fire could be brought under control, but it was fortunately largely confined to the top floor.

  The Prince arrived at Sandringham the next day, to gaze at the charred rafters and the runnels of sooty water from ceilings and walls. It was scarcely an auspicious start to his birthday festivities. The dining room, which was immediately below the area most affected, had sustained much of the damage, most of it by water, which had badly stained the valuable Goya tapestries given to the Prince by King Alfonso of Spain. Happily, it was found that the stains could be removed and the damage repaired for less than £10,000. These tapestries had been much admired by the Prince on a visit to Spain. King Alfonso had promised to have copies made but somehow the order had never been executed and the King had generously sent the originals. Considerably heartened by his review of the situation, the Prince departed for London as soon as the restoration work commenced, announcing that he would, as usual, celebrate his birthday at Sandringham. His plans were ruined, of course, both by the fire and by his wife’s absence; there was a week, however, in which to put the house to rights so that he could still hold some kind of a celebration there. Any measure of enjoyment achieved was a triumph over the odds, with parts of the house still damp and smelling of smoke, the roof under tarpaulins and the Princess conspicuous by her absence.

  Yet it seemed that there was no end to their worries for, on the day after his father’s birthday, Prince George complained of a bad headache followed by a high temperature. The symptoms were serious enough for his doctor to advise a move to London, where typhoid was diagnosed. ‘I had a pretty bad attack,’ Prince George wrote afterwards,

  …and never moved out of my bed until Dec. 21st… Motherdear and sisters returned from Russia on Nov. 22nd. I was very glad to have her back… On Dec. 30th I came down to dear Sandringham with Papa, Motherdear, Eddy, Toria, Harry, Charlotte, Ellis and Holford; the journey did me no harm, although of course I am very weak.137

  Prince George fortunately possessed a strong constitution; even so, he was laid up for six weeks and left much debilitated. The fever had been serious enough to cause real public concern: had not Prince Albert died from it and, so nearly, the Prince of Wales himself? Had Prince George also died, the line of succession after Prince Albert Victor would have devolved on Princess Louise. This would have been unfortunate, for though Queen Victoria had shown beyond question that a woman could rule effectively, her granddaughter was shy and retiring. The Princess of Wales cut short her visit to the Crimea and returned to nurse her son. No wonder the Prince wrote to his sister, the Empress Frederick: ‘I cannot regret that the year ‘91 is about to close as, during it, I have experienced many worries and annoyances which ought to last me for a long time. My only happiness has been Eddy’s engagement and Georgy’s recovery.’

  Such was the situation when the family were struck by a new and most grievous blow. The new year of 1892 arrived bringing with it a continuation of the cold spell which had frozen the lake at Sandringham. Indoors, influenza had laid low members of the Royal family and the Household with equal impartiality, from Princess Victoria to Captain Holford, equerry to Prince Eddy, while the Princess of Wales and Princess May both suffered heavy colds. Prince George was still convalescent and feeling very weak. This was the state of affairs on 4 January when the Tecks, with Princess May herself who, we recall, had barely a month previously become engaged to Prince Eddy, arrived to celebrate his birthday.

  On the 7th, Prince Eddy was one of the guns of a shooting party. He felt unwell during the course of the morning, but set out with the others, turning to wave his hat to his mother. It was a gesture she was to remember for the rest of her life. He felt increasingly unwell during the course of the morning and, after meeting the ladies for lunch at Sir Dighton Probyn’s house, was persuaded by Princess May to return to the house. Once he was comfortably installed in bed, the Princess went to sit by her fiancé in his cr
amped, narrow little room overlooking the great porte-cochère.

  On the morning of his birthday it became clear that the Prince had caught the prevailing influenza. He came downstairs to look at his presents, but felt too unwell to remain long and soon returned to bed. Outside, the weather remained as cold as ever. ‘Froze hard in the night and a little snow fell,’ ran Prince George’s diary entry. ‘Answering telegrams for Eddy and writing all day.’138 The evening celebrations continued according to plan, but something was lacking in the festive spirit. The birthday dinner, at which the Duke of Teck proposed Prince Eddy’s health, was followed by an entertainment with a ventriloquist and a banjo-player, which might at any other time have appealed strongly to the absent Prince. At this stage, only twenty-four hours after the onset of the illness, there was no sense of anxiety. Influenza was almost commonplace among one’s acquaintance at this time of year, and in a telegram to the Queen at Osborne, the Princess wrote philosophically: ‘Poor Eddy got influenza, cannot dine, so tiresome.’139

  By the following day it was apparent that the Prince’s condition had deteriorated, and Dr Laking, Physician-in-Ordinary to the Prince of Wales, who had been sent for to assist the local physician, diagnosed incipient pneumonia and sent for Dr Broadbent, who had attended Prince George when he had contracted typhoid. On the 11th, the patient’s condition was somewhat improved, but on the 12th there was a relapse, and by the 13th he was delirious, shouting about his Regiment and brother-officers, his love for the Queen, and frequently uttering the name ‘Hélène,’ the Princess of Orleans, with whom he had been ardently in love the previous year. His lips were livid, and his finger-nails had turned blue; the physicians who had gathered around his bedside, in those days long before the miracles of penicillin and antibiotics, could not but form a pessimistic prognosis: pneumonia was a killer. The Prince’s family, with the Tecks and Princess May, were waiting for news in the small sitting-room next door. Often the Princess of Wales went to sit quietly by her son, wiping the sweat from his forehead and trying to calm him, while the nurses put ice on his head to cool the fever. His father, unhelpful in the sickroom, wandered about the house restlessly, feeling himself useless and borne down by anxiety.

  The day wore on, and it was not until after midnight that the Princess was induced to take some rest, but she was soon recalled with the report that Prince Eddy was dying. ‘I had to master my deep, deep despair, and be calm,’ the Princess wrote. ‘Although the tears were running down I spoke to him, but Oh, he no longer heard me, and yet he was still talking, but only with great difficulty and effort and with that terrible rattle in his throat.’140

  With the Prince’s final struggle for life, the family congregated in the small room until it was crammed. Injections of ether and strychnine were administered, which appeared to revive the dying man. Once he cried out: ‘Something too awful has happened. My darling brother George is dead.’ Whether this was a confused reference to his brother’s typhoid will never be known. As hopes faded, the prayers for the dying were read by Mr Harvey, domestic chaplain to the Prince of Wales. The Princess sat at the head of the bed, holding her son’s hand. At one side knelt Dr Laking, feeling the weakening pulse; at the other, Prince George, too, knelt, with a nurse and Dr Manby beside him; but all were powerless to prevent him slipping away. He repeated ‘Who was that?’ as he sank into a coma, and at 9.35 a.m. on the morning of the 14th, Prince Albert Victor, heir-presumptive to the throne of England, died.

  ‘Never shall I forget that dreadful night of agony and suspense as we sat round his bed,’ Princess May wrote to Queen Victoria. ‘Darling Aunt Alix never left him for a moment and when a few minutes before the end she turned to Dr Laking and said “Can you do nothing more to save him?” and he shook his head, the despairing look on her face was the most heart-rending thing I have ever seen.’141

  For his parents, Prince Eddy’s death was a shattering blow. After years of anxiety about him and his weak, unstable character, his engagement to Princess May of Teck, an intelligent, steady and in every way desirable bride, had been a source of the deepest satisfaction and, let it be admitted, relief to them. And now, suddenly, in a few days, all this had vanished. That he had seemed in all likelihood totally unsuited for the throne no longer mattered. On this day, the hopes they had nourished for the future were utterly destroyed.

  Yet all was not over. The distraught parents felt all the force of the Victorian fascination with death. Again and again they visited the room where Prince Eddy’s body lay, as in a chapel of rest. When the Princess’s old and trusted friend, Oliver Montagu, hastened to Sandringham to pay his respects, he was taken several times upstairs to that small room. Nothing was to be changed there for many years. As at Windsor, where the Prince Consort’s shaving water and fresh clothes were still put out daily, as if he were still alive, so in Prince Eddy’s room the water in his jug was kept fresh, the soap was changed whenever it lost its pristine appearance. On the bed, the Union Jack was spread. Even the hat he had last worn on that fateful shooting expedition was carefully preserved. Today, this preoccupation with the trappings of the dead may seem morbid: to the Victorian mind it perpetuated the memory of the beloved and, though perhaps carried to the extreme by the Royal family, was only an extension of preserving the relics of the dead.

  The Prince and Princess were brought closer together than for some time by the death of their eldest son. They both broke down when Oliver Montagu arrived to comfort them. When Prince Eddy’s coffin was borne to the church on the edge of the gardens, the Princess wrote: ‘Bertie and I followed him on foot Friday night at eleven o’clock to our own little church’. She had wished that the Prince could be buried beside their infant son Alexander John at Sandringham, but the Prince felt that he should take his place as a one-time heir-presumptive among the Kings and Queens at Windsor. Copies of the sermon preached at Sandringham the Sunday after the Prince’s death were printed. The bereaved father gave a copy to his wife, signed, ‘From her devoted but broken-hearted husband, Bertie.’ Though the Princess watched the funeral service in St George’s Chapel, Windsor from a gallery known as the Queen’s Closet; she had said farewell to her son, in her heart, as she watched from the Big House as his coffin was carried from the little church across the lawns to Wolferton Station. On the pew where he had sat with his parents ever since he was a small boy a brass plate recorded: ‘This place was occupied for twenty-eight years by my darling Eddy next to his ever sorrowing and loving Motherdear, January 14th, 1892.’

  The Queen, who had wished to visit the family at Sandringham but had been dissuaded by the Prince of Wales, wrote in her letter of sympathy of the ‘overwhelming misfortune’ of Prince Eddy’s death – it was a time for conventional expressions of grief. His sisters replied and Princess Victoria wrote: ‘…It is almost impossible to believe that our beloved Eddy has really been taken from us – Just now when all his future seemed bright, it seems cruel he should have had to go…’ Princess Louise noted that, ‘His was such a gentle, kind and affectionate nature that everyone was devoted to him.’ The Prince’s compliant and affectionate gentleness was what the family would remember – and the appalling suddenness of his death.

  The Press was more guarded. The Prince had never been a public figure and his obituary notices were as near neutral as it was possible to be. The St James Gazette wrote that ‘he may be said to have lived under the shadow of the shadow of the throne.’

  The funeral ceremonies ended on a wry note. The Princess had expressed the wish that women should not attend her son’s funeral, but the ‘Aunts’ from Osborne were unwilling to miss such a family occasion. Somehow, at the end of the service, they found their pew door stuck, and had to be released, and they came to the conclusion that they had been locked in, which brought a strongly-worded protest. Sir Arthur Ellis, an Equerry to the Prince of Wales, replied to the Queen’s Private Secretary:

  The Prince of Wales desires me to say that the harem of Princesses was not locked into the further
Zenana pew closet but the door got jammed, and adds that they were none of them wanted at all. No ladies were to attend, and the Princess of Wales especially requested privacy – and to avoid meeting her Osborne relations. So they all came. If Princess Beatrice was annoyed it cannot be helped and she must get over it – as she likes.142

  The same writer estimated the bill for answering the thousands of telegrams which poured in to Sandringham at £2,000. But not all the eulogies from monarchs and statesmen that flowed around them like a sea could brighten the gloom as the grieving parents returned to their silent house in the Norfolk countryside. Yet, even while the Prince of Wales grieved, he knew in his heart that his eldest son had been entirely unfit for the high position to which the circumstances of his birth directed him. He could find solace in the fact that his new heir, Prince George, possessed sterling qualities that would one day stand him in good stead.

  Later, the parents paid a visit to the Queen at Osborne to recount the manner of Prince Eddy’s death. ‘Poor darling Alix looks the picture of grief and misery,’ wrote the Queen, ‘ and he very ill; dear Alix looked lovelier than ever in her mourning and a long black veil, with a point, on her head.’143

  The death of her eldest son was a blow from which the Princess never fully recovered. Not only was it the grief of a deeply affectionate mother but also, perhaps, the special love that a mother has for the weakest and most wayward of her brood. Prince Eddy, for all his charm, his dreaminess and his susceptibility to women, was lethargic, dissipated, allergic to nearly every form of education and a source of constant worry to his parents, but all this was discounted by his premature death. Two years later, the Princess was to write in a letter of sympathy to the Marchioness of Granby: ‘I was so touched that you should have turned to me who have had to bear the same despairing sorrow which nothing on earth can ever lessen or change, which must be borne with patience and submission to the will of God.’