Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

by Jean Plaidy

  Naturally I did not want such a marriage, and as Alfred was so feckless I felt I must reason with him. His past would not bear too much scrutiny. I could think of several reasons why the marriage should not take place. The Russians were half oriental; they were self-indulgent; I did not have a great opinion of the Romanovs. There would be a marriage in the Greek Church. No. I was against the match.

  It seemed that the Russians were not too keen now either. There was a great deal of shilly-shallying, and I wondered if Alfred's pride would allow him to accept that. But he seemed to be unaware of it and he was pursuing marriage to Marie with a tenacity that I wished he would give to more worthy matters.

  At last, to my dismay, the engagement was official. I asked that Marie should visit me at Balmoral at which I had a most impolite reply from the Tsar to the effect that he had no intention of sending his daughter for my approval. The Tsarina then suggested that I meet the Princess at Cologne.

  “The impertinence!” I said. “Do they expect me to run after her!”

  I was furious when Alice wrote to me advising me—advising me!—to meet the Tsarina and her daughter at Cologne. “The Tsarina feels the heat more than you do, Mama, and traveling is so tiresome for her. It is meeting half-way, and that seems reasonable.”

  Reasonable! I thought. I picked up my pen and wrote to her:

  You have entirely taken the Russian side, and I do not think, dear child, that you should tell me—who have been nearly twenty years longer on the throne than the Emperor of Russia and am the Doyenne of Sovereigns and who am a reigning Sovereign which the Empress is not—what I ought to do. I do think I know that. How could I, who am not like any little Princess, be ready to run at the slightest call of the mighty Russians.

  Bertie and Alexander were, of course, in favor of the Russian marriage because Alexandra's sister Dagmar was married to the Tsarevitch. Bertie invited them to come to England, which they did. I found them very charming and I felt less animosity to the Russians after that. Alexandra's sister was a pleasant creature—not as beautiful as Alexandra, but the affection between them was strong, and I really became quite enchanted by them all.

  And when I did meet Princess Marie I found her warm and loving, and I saw no reason why—if she would learn our English ways—she should not make Alfred a good wife. Heaven knew he needed a steadying influence.

  I had a long talk with Alfred warning him of the duties and the responsibilities of marriage and expressed the fervent hope that he would change his life when he became a husband. But I did not believe he paid much attention.

  At length they were married in St. Petersburg. I sent my dear friend Dean Stanley to perform the wedding ceremony after the Anglican rite. It was by all means a glittering occasion.

  HOW FICKLE ARE the people! Those who had heralded Mr. Gladstone's ministry a few years before were now weary of him.

  He had realized the signs of weakness in the Liberal party and that it no longer possessed the power to carry on in government.

  He came to see me and delivered one of his harangues. I paid more attention this time because I realized he was thinking of relinquishing office. His Irish Universities Bill had been turned out and several Liberal candidates had been defeated in by-elections. Of course, he was a great reformer and although people clamor for this, when the reforms are brought in they see that they are not all they were made out to be.

  I was reading the accounts of Alfred's grand wedding when I had a telegram from Mr. Gladstone telling me that the Cabinet had decided to dissolve Parliament.

  There was an election. Mr. Gladstone retained his seat but it was a triumphant victory for the Tories.

  I waited impatiently for my new Prime Minister to call.

  He had aged a little. The sorrow he had suffered at the death of Mary Anne had affected him deeply. I saw this at once and when I held out my hand for him to kiss, I touched his head as he bent and said, “Dear Mr. Disraeli, this is indeed a happy moment.”

  “For me, Ma'am,” he replied, “it is the start of life again.”

  I knew what he meant. In his devotion to me, he could salve the grief he suffered at the death of Mary Anne.

  LIFE WAS MUCH happier for me now that I had my dear Mr. Disraeli as a constant visitor. Although we had kept in touch during his years in opposition, for we were both prolific letter writers, it was much more satisfying to see him in person.

  I had to admit that Mr. Gladstone was a man of high principle and he had worked hard for his country; but then so did Mr. Disraeli and he did it gracefully, so that it was a pleasure to be with him. He made state affairs a matter of interest and amusement, as Lord Melbourne used to. That was a much more effective way of dealing with them, for Mr. Gladstone's tedious speeches did have a tendency to send me to sleep.

  Mr. Disraeli was a great talker and his descriptions were so vivid. I felt I knew so much about him, his ambitions, his determination to “climb the greasy pole” as he expressed it, to the premiership. “And,” he said, “it is much harder, Ma'am, I do assure you, to stay at the top of it than climb it.” I was sure he was right.

  It was from him that I learned of Mr. Gladstone's peregrinations after dark through the streets of London. “His great desire, Ma'am, is to rescue ladies of easy virtue and bring them back to paths of righteousness.”

  I was incredulous. “Mr. Gladstone behaving so! I wonder what Mrs. Gladstone has to say.”

  “She is a most devoted wife. She believes unshakably in the virtue of her husband.”

  “Does she join him in this…er…work?”

  “Indeed, Ma'am, I believe they have ‘rescued’ one or two. It has been going on for years.”

  “It seems to me an odd occupation for such a man.”

  “It is a dangerous one.” He looked at me slyly. “People are apt to misconstrue.”

  “I cannot believe Mr. Gladstone would ever be anything but virtuous. Oh dear, poor Mrs. Gladstone!”

  Mr. Disraeli had a wonderful effect on me. I felt better than I had since Albert's death. I felt more alive. I felt younger, even attractive, not as a queen but as a woman.

  I believe that in a way he was in love with me. People do not always understand these things. They think that love must be a physical thing. Far from it. I was never what is called “physical” in that respect. I did not need that sort of contact; my emotions were of the spirit. I had heard that he had written of me that now that Mary Anne was dead, I was the only person in the world left to him to love. He was completely devoted to me; our meetings brought as much joy to him as they did to me. I knew that he called me “The Faerie Queen.” I thought that was rather charming and I was grateful to him.

  People said rather crudely that “he had got the length of my foot” and knew how to be sympathetic and that his sympathy might be expressed with his tongue in his cheek.

  I knew these things were said, but I did not care. People always tried to spoil things that were beautiful and my relationship with him was beautiful. We were a joy and comfort to each other and what more could one ask of any relationship?

  We agreed on so many things and when I was incensed by something and he did not agree with my views, he had such a comical way of raising his eyebrows and saying in a mock serious way “Dear Madam,” which always amused me and made me reconsider my opinions.

  We discussed Mr. Gladstone at great length. He was concerned about religion. He had defended Roman Catholicism and then published an Expostulation against the Catholic claims. He was a strange man—subversive, in a way. There was this obsession with religion and the nightly wanderings.

  I would not say this to anyone else but Mr. Disraeli, but what if Mr. Gladstone were in secret a Catholic… and a libertine?

  Mr. Disraeli just looked at me and said in his mock-severe voice, “Dear Madam,” which of course made me laugh.

  The troubles between the family and John Brown continued. They were all against him. They could not understand that in his honest Highland way he
was no respecter of persons. I had quickly realized this and so had Albert, and we had told each other that loyalty and honesty came before lip service.

  Two courtiers who held service in the household had threatened to resign because they could not accept the privileges accorded to Brown. Bertie said he would not go to Abergeldie because Brown was given shooting rights, which ruined the sport for him. Someone said, “Brown is a coarse animal.”

  They were all trying to rid me of the very best servant I had, one whose loyalty to me was never in question.

  The company Bertie was keeping was causing scandal everywhere. I had my anxieties over Alfred. Vicky was arrogant. I believe she thought the wife of the Crown Prince—one day to be Empress—was more important than the Queen of England; Alice—even Alice—had ceased to be the placid girl who had meant so much to me; Leopold frequently suffered from hemorrhages, which were a constant anxiety; and I was terrified that Beatrice was going to fall in love and I found myself restricting her, keeping her from social activities, trying to arrange that she did not meet people outside the family. I thought often of my mad grandfather, George III, who had spoiled the lives of his daughters. I must remember that. Yet how could I bear to lose Beatrice!

  There was always the danger of offending the public, and it seemed that feelings against royalty were always simmering and ready to boil over.

  Charles Greville's Memoirs were published and widely read. I thought them amusing at first but then I began to see how dangerous they were. He exposed too much and although he recorded actual events he did exaggerate them. His observations were quite cynical and no one was spared. This sort of thing did no good to the established State.

  Mr. Disraeli was not very pleased at the publication. He said the book was a social outrage and that Greville was full of vanity. Someone else commented that it was like Judas writing the lives of the apostles—which I thought a rather witty and apt remark. I think it was Lord John Manners who said this.

  But as I read on and saw how my poor uncles were pilloried, I realized how dangerous the book was.

  Greville had been Clerk of the Council in Ordinary from '21 until '60 and had died in '65 and these Memoirs of the reigns of George IV and William IV were edited by a Henry Reeve; and when objection to their publication was raised, this man Reeve remarked that my behavior would seem very good when set against that of my uncles. I had been fond of both Uncle George and Uncle William and I deplored this publication, which, in any case, could do no good to the monarchy.

  There was another unpleasant incident that had set the people against us—though I cannot think why we were to blame in any way, but people are quite illogical.

  Our yacht the Alberta collided with another ship when we were crossing to Osborne. Three people were drowned and I was most distressed. The case was brought to court and the mob surrounded the courthouse screaming threats against our captain. It was most unfortunate; and the case dragged on and on, and our enemies in the Press made the most of it. One would have thought that I had deliberately set out to collide with the other boat, which was in our way, and cared nothing that lives were lost as long as I could pursue my pleasure. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and no one could have been more unhappy than I was that lives had been lost.

  Then we had the dangerous Aylesford affair—another scandal involving Bertie. What a genius he had for getting himself into these scrapes. It was just as Albert had feared.

  Disraeli had a great interest in India. “One day I am going to make you Empress of India, Ma'am,” he said.

  I smiled at him. He really did care for me so much.

  He thought it would be a good idea if Bertie was sent to India.

  “A very good background for his particular sort of mischief, I imagine,” I said.

  “Dear Madam!”

  I smiled at him. “Well, you know Bertie has a habit of falling into mischief…”

  “He is a good ambassador. The people like him.”

  “He is too fond of fast women and gambling.”

  “The people often like their heroes to have feet of clay. It makes them feel so much more like heroes themselves. I think the Prince will do very well.”

  At length I decided that if the Prime Minister thought it advisable, it must be right.

  Bertie was delighted; Alexandra less so, for she was not to go with him.

  It was while he was in India that the trouble blew up. It was like the Mordaunt case all over again—with variations, of course. But Bertie being what he is, perhaps that was to be expected.

  Dizzy, as he was universally called—and I found myself thinking of him thus for Mr. Disraeli was too remote an appellation for such a friend—came to see me.

  “I'm afraid, Ma'am, that a little contretemps has blown up in the circle of the Prince of Wales.”

  “Oh dear… not women again!”

  “One woman, Ma'am.”

  “Do please explain. I must hear the worst.”

  “It is Lord Aylesford. His wife is threatening to divorce him.”

  “Oh no… not Bertie!”

  “Not exactly, Ma'am. I must give you the details as they have been given to me. Perhaps you did not know that Lord Aylesford is one of the Prince's greatest friends.”

  “I know very well. I was against his going on tour with the Prince, but I was overruled. He is a gambling, sporty type.”

  “Exactly so, Ma'am, and a member of the circle that is close to the Prince. I think he is considered to be a very amusing fellow.”

  “And Aylesford's wife?”

  “She was also on good terms with the Prince.”

  “I feared that.”

  “It is not on the Prince's account that Aylesford is threatening divorce. Lord Blandford is the man in the case. While Aylesford was in India, Lady Aylesford set up house with Blandford. News of this reached Aylesford and he left for home—rather against the Prince's wishes for he liked Aylesford's company a good deal. The Prince despised Blandford and made some comments about him that were brought to the notice of Blandford's younger brother—Lord Randolph Churchill.”

  “I never liked the man.”

  “A fiery-tempered young fellow. He was furious that his brother should have been slandered, he said. Particularly…”

  “Particularly?” I insisted.

  “By the Prince. I believe he recalled the Mordaunt scandal and er…”

  “Other scandals. You must tell me the truth you know, Mr. Disraeli.”

  “Exactly, Ma'am. Your Majesty is too wise and the situation too delicate for us to mince our words. The fact is that Churchill says he wants the divorce stopped. He is a hot-headed idiot, as indiscreet as a man can be. He wants the Prince to stop the divorce. He says that he must use his influence with Aylesford and stop him proceeding further.”

  “But why draw in the Prince?”

  “Churchill resents what the Prince said about his brother. He says the Churchill family honor is at stake. He is a wild, impetuous young man, capable of any folly in the heat of anger; the sort who can do a great deal of harm. He has already sought an interview with the Princess of Wales.”

  “Surely not! Oh, my poor Alexandra! It is bad enough for her to know of the Prince's… activities… but to be drawn into this!”

  “It was a ridiculous thing to do, but then Churchill is ridiculous.”

  “Why go to the Princess?”

  “He wants her to impress on the Prince that he must forbid Aylesford to start divorce proceedings.”

  “But what has the Prince to do with this?”

  “Ma'am, according to Churchill, the Prince has written letters to Lady Aylesford. When Aylesford threatened divorce, she gave these letters to Blandford. They are now in Churchill's possession and if Aylesford goes through with the divorce, the letters written by the Prince will be handed to the Press.”

  “This is terrible.”

  “I fear it is a little unpleasant.”

  “It reminds me of my Uncle G
eorge. He was always in difficulties with women and there were letters.”

  “It may well be that the letters are quite innocent.”

  I looked at him helplessly. “Churchill says that if these letters are published the Prince will never be able to sit on the throne.”

  I felt limp with exhaustion. If only Albert were here. He would know what to do. But if he were, how unhappy he would be! Perhaps I should be glad that he was not here…to suffer this.

  What an unpleasant situation! Churchill was adamant. I had never liked him. I would never receive him at Court—not him nor his American wife.

  I knew it was useless to rage against them and I knew, too, however innocent Bertie's part in all this—and I could hardly believe it was—the Press and public would make him appear guilty—and that was just as bad as though he were.

  What fools young men were, writing letters to women! One would have thought that they would have learned from the example of others— but they never seemed to.

  I was comforted to have Disraeli there. I felt that if anyone could bring us out of this unsavory matter, he could.

  “Will you leave this to me, Ma'am?” he asked.

  “Most willingly, my dear friend,” I told him.

  How clever he was! I know that he worked indefatigably for my good. He told me that he had approached Lord Hardwicke and impressed on him the danger of the situation and Lord Hardwicke had seen the point and promised to do what he could.

  I am sure it was due to Disraeli's efforts that we came out of that as well as we did. Between them Lord Hardwicke and Mr. Disraeli managed to get Lord Aylesford to stop proceedings; and by the time Bertie came home, the matter was settled.

  But as Disraeli said, there would have been rumors of the affair and it would be as well for Churchill to make an apology to the Prince.

  At first Churchill refused to do this, but when his family and friends pointed out that he would be ruined at Court if he did not, he complied.