One of my ladies told me that Thomas Carlyle, who was apparently a highly respected writer, had lost his wife, so I sent him a note of condolence.
I read George Eliot's Mill on the Floss but the books I really found absorbing were those of Charles Dickens. I asked him to come to Buckingham Palace and I had a very interesting talk with him and afterward reproached myself afresh for having turned away from Albert's suggestion to ask that sort of person to Court. They were different from the people I normally met. They had ideas. I was not sure that I should want to be with them for long, but to meet them after having read their books and in some measure had a glimpse into their minds, was interesting to see what they were like.
I could lose myself in Mr. Dickens's books, and it was exciting to be in a world which was so different from the one in which I had always lived.
I asked Mr. Dickens to present me with copies of his books, which I should like him to sign for me. He expressed great pleasure in being asked to visit me; we talked about Little Nell and there were tears in our eyes. He was one of those warm, feeling men whom I liked instantly. So different from Mr. Gladstone.
I gave him a copy of Leaves from a Journal, and he begged me to inscribe it for him.
“From the humblest writer to the greatest,” I wrote.
* * *
IT WAS ABOUT this time that the Mordaunt case burst upon us.
Albert and I had always feared there would be trouble with Bertie. How right we had been!
I had always known that Bertie was living what is called “a double life.” It was wicked of him. He had a wife who was good, loved by the people and said to be one of the most beautiful women in the country; he had four lovely children; it seemed to me that Bertie had everything. And yet he must involve himself in scandal. And what a scandal!
I had known that Bertie was riding for a fall. I knew there were late nights, actresses, gambling, including all those activities that are certain to end in disaster sooner or later; and I knew that Alexandra loved him— in spite of everything. Of course, Albert would never have approved of the way in which they brought up their children. There was no discipline in the nurseries. The children screamed and shouted and climbed all over Bertie while Alexandra looked on, applauding. It was not what Albert would have wished. Even to Vicky, with whom he had always been extraordinarily lenient, he had been a little remote, to be revered.
I said again and again that there would be trouble with those children.
“You should remember your own childhood, Bertie,” I told him. And he replied with a smile, “Oh, I do, Mama. I do.” Which seemed somehow a criticism of Albert and me.
But this was terrible. I was stunned.
Bertie wrote to me, “An unfortunate contretemps has arisen.” He had received an order to appear in court.
Appear in court! The Prince of Wales! I had never heard such a thing.
I sent for him at once. He explained to me that Sir Charles Mordaunt was bringing a divorce suit against his wife, and he had letters to her that had been written by Bertie, and Bertie's name had been mentioned with the result that he was summoned to appear in court.
“You had better tell me all about it,” I said.
He was clearly worried. Poor Alexandra! I thought, and tried to imagine myself in a similar position. Impossible with Albert!
“I am innocent,” said Bertie.
I think I was unable to hide my disbelief.
“It is unfortunate that you have made people of shady reputation your friends,” I said.
“I tell you, Mama. I am innocent.”
I suppose in a family when one member is threatened the rest rally around even though they are not convinced of the accused one's innocence. But Bertie was so firm in his protestations that I felt I must believe him.
“But you know the woman,” I said.
“Of course. I knew them both.”
“And Sir Charles Mordaunt is naming you as corespondent.”
“No, no,” said Bertie quickly. “He is naming Frederick Johnstone and Lord Cole.”
“And where do you come in?”
“She mentioned my name and there are letters.”
“Letters!” I cried. “Do you remember how my Uncle George was in trouble over letters? You must have heard of that. Did you never think what harm letters can do?”
“I haven't your fondness for writing them, Mama, but occasionally I do find it necessary to take up my pen.”
“My letters,” I retorted, “could be read in any court of law without bringing disgrace on anyone, Bertie. This is shocking. For the first time I am glad dear Papa is not here. This would distress him so much.”
“I am innocent,” Bertie repeated.
“And what does Alexandra think?”
“She is very unhappy about it.”
“Poor girl. I never had to suffer that sort of thing.”
“Papa was a saint, of course,” said Bertie with a lift of his lips. “I fear, Mama, that I am not. But I am innocent in this case.”
“The heir to the throne summoned to a court of law!”
I showered him with questions and at length the story emerged. Lady Mordaunt had given birth to a child who was blind and she was very distressed. In fact, she was a hysterical woman at the best of times. She went into a frenzy and said it was her fault that the child was blind; she had sinned. She told Mordaunt that he was not the father of the child, but that Lord Cole was. She then burst out that she had been unfaithful with several men. She mentioned Frederick Johnstone and the Prince of Wales. Mordaunt searched her bureau and found bills that showed she had stayed at hotels with Cole and Johnstone… and there were letters from the Prince of Wales.
I was very upset. I wished Benjamin Disraeli would come to me. Etiquette forbade it. He was of the Opposition. I could have talked to him. How I should have been able to explain my feelings to Lord Melbourne! But all I had was Mr. Gladstone. How could one talk of such a matter to him? He would declaim and declaim and I should want to shout at him and order him out of my presence.
Albert foresaw something like this, I told myself. But there was no comfort in that. Albert was not here to advise me. And what could we do? There was nothing for it. Even royalty had to obey the courts of law and Bertie had been subpoenaed to appear in court.
I was very sorry for him. He was easy-going. That was the flaw in his character, but perhaps I was comparing him with the incomparable Albert, which was not fair. But Bertie was as he was, and he was my son. He had declared his innocence and I was sure he was speaking the truth. I thought of all the cruel things that had been said about Albert, all the calumnies which had been directed at Brown and myself.
I thought of Bertie as a little boy and how sometimes I had thought Albert too harsh with him; I remembered the tears when he had been beaten and how I had tried not to think of it. I remembered storms that had blown up between Albert and me because I thought Albert was too harsh with Bertie, too soft with Vicky.
I sat down and wrote to Bertie. I said I believed in him, but there were always people to attack us, but that he must stand up and come through this ordeal. He must know that his mother stood with him.
Bertie came to see me. He was so soft and gentle and grateful. He opened out and said that he was afraid at times he was a little indiscreet. He had written letters to Lady Mordaunt but they were quite innocuous. He had never been her lover; but he had known of her relationships with Cole and Johnstone. She was their affair, not his.
I said, “If you are innocent, people will realize it. Innocence is the best defense a person can have.”
“Mordaunt has got Sergeant Ballantine to act for him. He is rather a terror.”
“Stand up and tell the truth, Bertie, and you will be a match for anyone.”
He embraced me. Oddly enough he seemed closer to me than he ever had.
Public interest was great. The papers were full of the case. I knew that this was a very serious matter for whatever the verdict Ber
tie would be thought guilty. People took a delight in condemning others—especially those in high places.
I heard an account of the proceedings. Bertie went into the box and answered the probing questions put to him by Sergeant Ballantine; he did it with calm and honesty, I believe; he admitted that he knew Lady Mordaunt and had been a friend of hers before marriage.
“Has there been any improper or criminal act between you and Lady Mordaunt?”
It was the vital question and Bertie answered with great firmness, “There was not.”
Bertie was exonerated. Moreover it was proved that Lady Mordaunt was insane and the case was dismissed.
What a piece of luck for Bertie. I did hope it would be a lesson to him for the future.
I wondered what Vicky, Alice, and Lenchen were hearing of it.
I felt compelled to write to Vicky for I felt sure that her opinion of Bertie was very low already, and that she was convinced of his guilt.
“I do not doubt his innocence,” I wrote, “and his appearance in court did good, but it was painful and lowering. The heir to the throne should never have come into close contact with such people. I hope this will teach him a lesson. I shall use it as an example to remind him of what can happen, when the need arises. Believe me, children are a terrible anxiety and the sorrow they cause is far greater than the pleasure they give.”
How true that was!
But I was thankful that Bertie had emerged from a very delicate situation—not unscathed, for although his evidence had been accepted and Lady Mordaunt was proved to be mad, these matters always leave a smear.
* * *
JUST AS I was recovering from the shock of the Mordaunt case, trouble blew up in Europe. Lord Clarendon, on whose judgment I had relied so much, died, and Lord Granville took his place. Granville was a good man but I did not think he matched Lord Clarendon; and at this time we needed the very best of men at the Foreign Office. Conflict had been brewing for some time between France and Germany. I wrote to the rulers of both countries urging caution, but my entreaties were ignored and in July of that year Napoleon declared war. I thought that was unnecessary folly and when I heard that he wanted to destroy the independence of Belgium, I was firmly on the side of Germany.
Belgium was especially dear to me. How thankful I was that Uncle Leopold had not to suffer this threat to his kingdom. In spite of the fact that I did not like Bismarck my links with Germany were strong. It was almost a family affair. On the other hand I had friendship with Napoleon. Bertie was especially fond of him. So …we were about to be torn apart again. Oh, the stupidity of war and the men who insist on making it.
Vicky's husband and Alice's were both deeply involved and were actually fighting the French. I sent hospital stores to Alice at Darmstadt and I watched the progress of the war with great horror.
It was soon clear that the French were no match for the Germans who were overrunning France. I wrote to Vicky and Fritz, begging them to use their influence to stop the bombardment of Paris. To Bismarck's fury they asked for this not to be done and he complained bitterly of petticoat sentimentality hampering German progress.
I thought: A little more petticoat government and perhaps countries would not so easily become involved in wars that bring bereavement and tragedy to so many families.
The Emperor had surrendered at Sedan and Paris fell into the hands of the Germans. The war was over.
I was sorry for Napoleon and Eugénie and hated to see them so humbled. I had quite liked the Emperor; he had been a charming guest and Eugénie was very attractive.
Now they were outcasts with nowhere to go. Eugénie appealed to me and I offered her refuge in England. She came to Chichester. Napoleon was a prisoner of the Germans and they held him for some months, but when he was free he came to join Eugénie at Chichester.
Although I did disapprove of his policies and my sympathies were with the Germans—for most of my family were in that country and through Albert and my mother my ties with them were strong—I did not forget that Napoleon and Eugénie had been my friends.
Poor things! They were so grateful. How are the mighty fallen! I thought. A lesson to us all.
* * *
IT WAS A very sad day for me when I heard that poor Lehzen had died. Memories came flooding back and I felt a twinge of conscience. We had been very close and in my young days she had been the most important person in my life. My dear Daisy! And I had called her “Mother” on some occasions. And then… she had gone and I hardly saw her again. Albert had made me see that he and she could not be under the same roof. I had to make a choice and of course it must be Albert. I thought of us—dressing the dolls together, doing our reading; she had guarded me like a watchdog and would have given her life for me if necessary.
How sad that it had to be as it was!
I mourned her and regretted that she had passed so completely out of my life, but I had never forgotten her. Dear Lehzen!
But she had been happy in her last years. She had loved her nieces and nephews and no doubt planned for them as she had once for me.
I hoped she had been happy and not thought too often and too sadly of the days at Kensington Palace.
Gladstone and his ministers were in a state of tension over what was happening on the Continent. The German States were united under one great Empire. This had been proclaimed to the world in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles—stressing German supremacy over the French. It was a typical Bismarck gesture to hold the ceremony there. So now, instead of several small states, there was one Empire, a formidable power astride the Continent. Moreover, at the same time, France had become a republic.
Mr. Gladstone came to see me and standing before me—I would not invite him to sit down and he could not do so until I did—declaimed at length on the dangerous situation. A king had been deposed. All royalty must regard that with apprehension. It was very necessary for all sovereigns to have the people behind them.
The burden of this harangue was that the people's approval was not won by monarchs who shut themselves away. At the moment even the popularity of the Prince of Wales had foundered. The Mordaunt case had done him no good and whatever the verdict of the court there would be some mischief-makers who would try to make him seem guilty.
I told him to consult Dr. Jenner who had insisted that I needed quiet and rest.
“It was hard work that killed the Prince Consort,” I said. “He never spared himself. If he had he would be here today.”
Mr. Gladstone went on with his speech about the dangers following the new state of affairs in Europe.
My mind wandered. Poor Mrs. Gladstone, I thought. How does she endure the man?
* * *
I THINK ALEXANDRA was very sad at that time. She must have been very disillusioned about Bertie. I wondered what she thought of the Mordaunt case. But by this time she would have learned what he was like. Poor Alexandra. She had lost her baby, little Alexander. She consulted me about having a stained-glass window put into the church at Sandringham as a memorial. I thought it an excellent idea, and I think it cheered her considerably to talk about it with me.
Her rheumatic pains were troubling her again. When I thought of that bright and pretty girl I had first seen and how feeling she had been putting on a black dress to show she understood my mourning, I was saddened. She was beautiful—nothing could alter that; but she had lost her gaiety.
Perhaps I should speak to Bertie. Perhaps not. Speaking to Bertie had never done any good.
When we were at Balmoral, Louise had become very friendly with the Argylls and particularly with the Duke's son and heir, the Marquess of Lorne. I was rather taken aback when Louise told me that Lorne wanted to marry her.
A commoner! I thought. That was not really very suitable.
“My dear child,” I said, “what do you feel?”
“I love him, Mama. I want to marry him. I hope you will give us your blessing.”
What could I do? The dear child was radiant.
; “My dearest,” I said, “I hope you will be happy.”
She threw her arms about me. “Dear good Mama,” she said.
I was certainly happy to see her happy, but I did remind her that it was very rare for royal girls to marry commoners.
“I know, Mama. The last time was when Henry the Eighth's sister Mary married the Duke of Suffolk.”
“I believe,” I said, with an attempt at severity, “she married him first and asked permission afterward.”
“Well, Mama that was the safest way with Henry the Eighth. You are not a tyrant but the dearest sweetest Mama in the world.”
I felt very emotional. I thought: They are all going…every one of them. There is only Beatrice left now. I could not bear to part with her.
I saw no reason why the marriage should be delayed, so it took place in March of the following year. I led the procession up the nave wearing rubies and diamonds and a dress of black satin covered in jet to remind everyone that I was still in mourning.
As on all such occasions I thought of Albert and pictured him standing beside me, and melancholy set in after the ceremony.
I was getting old; my children were growing up. Only Baby Beatrice left to me now!
I hoped she would never leave me.
* * *
MR. GLADSTONE'S WORDS had some effect on me and although I had no intention of coming entirely out of seclusion, I did open St. Thomas's Hospital and the Albert Hall.
I attended the Opening of Parliament wearing an ermine-trimmed dress that was in a way a sort of half-mourning; and I had a new crown that brightened up my appearance considerably.
Of course there was murmuring about that. Louise's dowry and Arthur's annuity would be discussed during this session and some of the papers pointed out that this may have been the explanation of my appearance and that I was preparing the way for when I came with my begging bowl. What with sly hints about the Mordaunt case and the dissatisfaction with my quiet life, the family prestige was very low at that time. Again and again Mr. Gladstone pointed out the dangers, particularly in view of what had happened in France; and when fifty-four votes were cast against Arthur's annuity that was a shock.
Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria Page 58