And so I went on.
I was not at his funeral in the flesh, but I was there in spirit.
Bertie was chief mourner. I wondered what he was thinking as he followed his father's coffin. What remorse he must be suffering. If only Albert had not gone to Cambridge…
I wanted to blame Bertie, although in my heart I knew it was not fair to do so. I really knew that Albert had been ill for a long time—so ill that he was unable to stand up to a major disease. But I wanted to blame someone. I blamed God for taking him, but it was easier to blame Bertie.
I sat there numb, staring out at the gray sea. Now the burial service would be beginning; the guns would be firing; the bells would be tolling.
They would be laying Albert's coffin at the entrance of the vault.
And when the mausoleum was completed it would be taken to Frogmore to await the day when I should be with Albert.
* * *
THE CHILDREN DID their best to comfort me. My two girls, Alice and Beatrice, did help me, although there was very little they could do. Helena—whom Albert had called Lenchen—and Louise were wonderful, but Alice had a special tenderness. She always had since the days when as a fat little girl she had earned the name of Fatima. Alfred was seventeen. I used to be a little fearful for him because I believed he might resemble his elder brother; he had adored Bertie and made such a fuss when they were separated and I had feared he might follow in his footsteps. Arthur was sweet and especially endearing because he looked more like Albert than any of them. He was eleven at this time. Leopold, of course, had always been a source of anxiety because of his weakness.
But apart from Alice the one who did most for me at that time was little Beatrice. She was rather bewildered by the change in our household and clearly wished it to go on as before. Being the baby—she was only four years old—she had occupied a special place in our affections, and her frank and amusing ways had endeared her to me and to Albert.
She used to come into my bed in the mornings and cuddle up to me. I believed Alice sent her. She was so charming in her innocence and did give me a little comfort. When I held her to me I thought of all I had endured in giving birth to these children and how I had dreaded those ordeals.
That would never happen again. But how willingly would I have endured it if it could bring Albert back.
Beatrice would sit solemnly watching me dress.
“Mama,” she said one morning, “do not wear that sad cap.”
She was referring to the widow's cap that I wore now that I had lost my dear one.
“Mama must wear it now, Baby.”
“Baby does not like it. Baby does not want Mama to wear it.”
I was almost in tears. I held her to me. “Mama does not like it either.”
Beatrice smiled. “Then take it off.”
“Mama must wear it because Papa has gone.”
“When he comes back will you take off your sad cap?”
I could not answer. I shook my head. “I wish Papa would come back.”
“You want him to be back, my darling. You miss him.”
Beatrice said firmly, “I want Mama not to wear her sad cap.”
I could not help smiling. She was so single-minded, my little Beatrice. She could think of nothing but that I must not wear my sad cap—the symbol of widowhood.
I wished that Vicky was not so far away. I felt that she would understand my grief more than any of the others did. She had loved him as I had done. I should never forget their parting when she had left for Prussia. They had both been desolate; she had been almost as heartbroken to leave Albert as he had been to leave her. I remembered afresh those pangs of jealousy. I had not a very noble character, I'm afraid; but then I compare myself with my saintly Albert. Perhaps compared with most people I was not so bad.
I re-read Vicky's letter, which had come to me shortly after Albert's death:
Today is a whole week since we began our new life of desolation. And when I look back upon it—dark, frightful, and cruel—yet I have reason to be thankful. Papa shines like a bright star in our darkness…
Papa read to me from the Idylls of a King at Osborne and wished me to draw something for him, and it has been my occupation for weeks—thinking of him, whether the drawings would please him, whether he would think them right. Do you wish to have them— shall I send them or bring them? They are the last I shall ever take pleasure in doing; as he ordered them I consider they belong to you… I know Papa's taste so well. As he was the most perfect model of all that was pure, good, virtuous, and great—so was his judgment in all things concerning art—unerring.
Oh how I tremble for you! How I pray that God may support you through it as he has done through the rest. How I shall bear it I do not know …
Dear dear Mama, goodbye—and oh may God's everlasting blessing rest on your beloved and precious head.”
What a wonderful letter! She understood as others could not. Vicky's letters were wonderful. I used to read them again and weep over them.
In a very short time she was writing again:
How often Papa and I talked about death when I was sitting with him of an evening in '56 and '57. He always said he would not care if God took him at that moment…he always felt ready…
Poor Bertie. How I pity him—but what sorrow he does cause. Perhaps you do not know how much I grieve over his ‘fall'. It was the first step to sin and whether it will be the last no one knows. I fear not! The education of sons is an awful responsibility and a great anxiety if they do not repay one for one's care and trouble. It makes me tremble when I think of my little Wilhelm and the future …
Oh, what a comfort she was! Far more so than she had been when she was at home with us. She alone understood the depth of my grief.
I went over all the letters I had, my journals, everything. I would brood over the pictures of our wedding. Baby would sit on my lap and look with me. She was a little put out because there were no pictures of her in the early photographs.
“What a pity,” she said, “that I was not old enough to go to your wedding, Mama.”
Alice smiled fondly at her. Dear Baby! She did help so much.
Albert had made plans for Bertie to pay a visit to the Holy Land. He thought the sight of so many relics and sanctified places might have a sobering effect on his character.
I wrote to Vicky about it. She was so sound in her judgment having spent so much time with Albert. She understood so well my grief over Bertie's shortcomings, but she was inclined to be rather lenient with him.
Bertie was weak. He would never be as clever as she was; but he had some good points and he was popular with the people. Vicky believed that if he were married to a suitable wife he would settle down.
Her favorite lady-in-waiting had been the Countess Walburga von Hohenthal who had married Augustus Paget the ambassador to Denmark, which meant that Walburga had become very well acquainted with the Court of Denmark. She had given Vicky glowing reports of Alexandra the daughter of Prince Christian. She was seventeen, beautiful, and unaffected—for of course the family was very poor. They inhabited the Yellow Palace in Copenhagen through the bounty of King Christian. Alexandra would be so good for Bertie, and although it was not exactly a brilliant match there were so few eligible princesses in Europe.
Vicky thought a meeting should be arranged between them. Albert had always said that Vicky was a shrewd diplomat, and I was very glad to take her advice. I felt it was almost like Albert speaking.
Bertie's visit to the Holy Land was planned but before he went Vicky invited him to Prussia. Vicky was a born matchmaker and she arranged a visit to Speier Cathedral, which Bertie could not have contemplated with any great enthusiasm for his interests were not for art and higher things. But when he was at the Cathedral he came face to face with Alexandra who Vicky knew would be there. They were introduced and, according to Vicky's reports, quite taken with each other.
“The first step,” commented Vicky.
After that he wen
t to the Holy Land—as relieved to get away as I was for him to go. Whenever I saw him I was reminded of that visit to Cambridge, and I believed he could not forget it either.
Albert would have said that everything must go on as before. I dreamed of him and in my dreams he would sometimes remind me sternly of my duty.
I could not emerge from my mourning because I knew it was going on for the rest of my life.
Alice's wedding day had been fixed for July. It was only seven months since Albert's death—but I supposed it could not be postponed.
Alice was eager for it to take place. I could understand that. The poor child was in love. Perhaps she wanted to escape from this house of mourning. One could not expect the young to feel as I did.
Bertie was back. It would soon be his turn. Albert had said he needed marriage; and it seemed certain that Princess Alexandra, though not a great match, was very suitable in herself.
There could be no great celebrations, no rejoicing. When should we ever rejoice again? Alice should be married quietly at Osborne.
The dining room was made into a chapel. Bertie was back and was with us, trying to look sad when he caught my eye but I could see that he was rather pleased with himself. The prospect of marriage was by no means repulsive to him.
The Archbishop of York, who was to perform the ceremony, was a most sympathetic man. I felt especially drawn to him because three years before he had lost his wife. We talked of the deaths of our dear ones and how one went on mourning for the rest of one's life. I was very glad that he was officiating.
I wore my heavy black and my widow's cap and I thought how different it would have been if Albert had been alive. I could picture his leading his daughter to the altar.
How sad it was! How sad my life was going to be right to the end!
So Alice was married.
She and her bridegroom were having a short honeymoon at Ryde before they left England.
So now my little Alice had become the Princess of Hesse-Darmstadt and she would no longer be there to give me that very special loving attention.
I turned to Lenchen and Louise.
IN MAY I paid my first visit to Balmoral without Albert. I did not know how I should feel in that place that owed so much to him. There were too many memories. But I was given a warm welcome and sincere sympathy. Those good people accepted the fact that I was in mourning and some of them like Annie MacDonald, who acted as my personal maid there, and John Brown, the gillie who was taking on more and more important duties, rather hinted that I had to stop indulging in my grief and take an interest in life. The dear creatures, nothing on Earth would have made them say what they did not mean.
To my surprise I felt happier in Balmoral than I had anywhere else. I found Scotsmen and Scotswomen much less artificial than those people whom I met in the South. They were frank and spoke from the heart. I had long ago discovered this and made a point of choosing Scots for my servants at Balmoral—and they seemed to become my personal friends. They were much less courteous—indeed a little rough in their manners, but I liked that. John Brown especially appealed to me. He was the son of a farmer on the estate and had been an outdoor servant since 1849, but I soon recognized his worth and he was in constant attendance. Albert had approved of him so I knew my trust was not misplaced. All his brothers had been found posts about the household and I was beginning to look upon John Brown as my personal friend.
I had been delighted to hear that the trouble about the Trent had been satisfactorily concluded. The Americans, after receiving the courteous note drafted by Albert, had acceded to the request by the British government, which they would almost certainly not have been able to do without humiliation if that first somewhat bellicose note had been sent.
When Lord Palmerston brought me the news, I reminded him that this peaceful issue of the American quarrel was due to Albert's work. I told him how ill he had been, so feeble that he could scarcely hold a pen, when he had sat up writing.
Palmerston nodded in agreement.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “the tact and judgment and power of nice discrimination of the late Prince has always excited my constant and unbounded admiration.”
I smiled sadly. That was one of the occasions when I liked Lord Palmerston.
At Balmoral I laid the foundation stone of a cairn inscribed with the words:
To the beloved memory of Albert the Great, Prince Consort, raised by his brokenhearted widow.
The children were with me during the ceremony and their initials were carved on the stone.
I remembered so well Albert's delight when he had shown me his home; and I felt a desire to go there once more, to walk through the woods where I had walked with him, to see Rosenau and listen to the birds, and see the room where he had learned his lessons and fenced with Ernest.
It was agreed that a visit would be an excellent idea. The children thought it would help me, and Palmerston had hinted that my period of mourning should be coming to an end and that I should be showing myself to my subjects. How insensitive people were! Did they think my mourning would ever come to an end? The people wanted to see my grief, no doubt, but that was my private affair.
I took Lenchen and Louise with me. They were taking over Alice's place. They were good girls, both of them, and eager to help me forget my grief—an impossible task!
I wanted to see Uncle Leopold so that we could mourn together. Somber in my widow's weeds I arrived at his Palace of Laeken. I threw my arms around him and burst into weeping; he wept with me.
I said to him, “Here, Uncle, you see the most desolate creature in the world.”
“I suffer with you,” he told me. “I share your grief.”
We talked for a long time about our sainted angel.
“At least,” said Uncle Leopold, “you had twenty years of felicity with him. I lost my Charlotte very early and now Louise is gone.”
I knew he had suffered too, but nothing could really compare with the loss of Albert.
Uncle Leopold was very bent. I thought his wig was too luxuriant to match the rest of him. He told me he suffered greatly. His rheumatism plagued him, and he had so many ailments that when one subsided a little there was another to take its place.
He told me he had a surprise for me. Prince Christian of Denmark and his family were coming tomorrow, and he trusted I would allow him to present them to me. “They are such a simple, pleasant family,” he said. “They are having a little holiday in Belgium. It would have been discourteous not to ask them.”
“I suppose they have their daughter with them?” I asked.
“Why yes, they have. I should like you to meet her. She is a beautiful, charming girl with exquisite manners and such good taste.”
I did understand, of course. Uncle Leopold had arranged this. A Danish marriage would be good for Belgium. Some of the European States were getting uneasy about the intentions of Prussia. A certain BismarckSchönhausen was making his presence felt throughout the continent. His plan was the aggrandizement of Prussia, which he wanted to see equal with Austria. He had visited London and talked to Lord Palmerston and Mr. Disraeli, who thought he was a man who would have to be watched.
When such situations arose it made an awkwardness for me because I was related to the heads of so many countries. There was Vicky who had become a Prussian and now Uncle Leopold was regarding Bismarck with suspicion.
There was no doubt that Uncle Leopold wanted the Danish alliance. He mentioned to me that Albert had been in favor of it for it had been brought forward before this calamitous event that had robbed the world of its greatest man and the only one who made life agreeable for me.
I was feeling overwrought. My talks with Uncle Leopold had brought back my grief in full spate. I was living it all again, that day when he had looked at me with those dear haggard eyes and told me he must go to Cambridge and I had tried to dissuade him. Oh, if only he had listened to me!
I wept and sat in my room thinking about it.
Lenc
hen came to me and said, “Mama, they have arrived. Alexandra is lovely and they are all very nice.”
“My dear child, I cannot join them.”
“Oh but Mama, they are all waiting for you.”
“My dear, I cannot do it. You must understand that my loss is too recent. I cannot receive them. I do not want to eat. The thought of food nauseates me.”
“But, Mama, Uncle Leopold has arranged it so wonderfully.”
I shook my head.
I could not join them. I just sat in my room. The luncheon must proceed without me.
I sat there brooding and after an hour or so there was a gentle tap on my door. I did not answer it. I had no wish to see anyone. The door opened slightly and a face appeared. It was Walburga Paget—a girl I had always liked very much. She was very beautiful and I was susceptible to good looks.
“Your Majesty, may I come in?”
“Yes do, Wally.”
She ran to me and knelt beside me lifting her eyes to my face. I saw that they were full of tears. “Dear child!” I murmured.
“Oh, Your Majesty, how you have suffered!”
I nodded.
“I thought of you so much, but there is nothing I can say. No one can say anything that is adequate. No one can understand your terrible suffering.”
I stroked her beautiful hair.
“He was the most wonderful of men,” she said.
“They don't appreciate him, Wally… none of them. They talk… but they forget.”
“Your Majesty will never forget.”
“Never!” I said vehemently. “My dear child, it is good of you to come and see me.”
“I wanted to ever since I heard you were here.”
“You came with Prince Christian and his family?”
“Yes, they are very agreeable.”
“So I have heard.”
“Your Majesty, I believe it was his wish that there should be a match between the Prince of Wales and Alexandra.”
“He had it in mind. He had so much in mind.”
“He would wish you to be happy about this match. He would wish you to see the Princess.”
Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria Page 51