The Queen's Husband

Chapter XIX NAUGHTY BERTIE

Baron Stockmar disliked the Prince of Wales. The boy was as unlike his father as it was possible for any child to be. All that the Baron had admired in his protégé, Albert, was missing in Bertie. Albert was reserved, Bertie was loquacious. Bertie already showed signs of being a social success; he was charming the female servants – a very bad sign, noted the Baron. Bertie was gay, sunny-natured and enjoyed amusing people and being amused. In other words Bertie was frivolous. Although he was now learning moderately well he could not exactly be called academically bright. His brothers and sisters – with the exception of Vicky – were inclined to bestow on him that sort of hero worship which was not good for his character. Alfred and Alice were his constant companions. He was very chivalrous towards Alice and shielded her when they were in trouble; as for Alfred he was prepared to take any inferior role in their games just for the joy of serving Bertie.

Bertie would soon be ten years old and in Baron Stockmar’s view, he was proceeding at no small speed down the road to ruin.

Something must be done.

Once his mind had been made up, the Baron lost no time in offering his opinion to the Prince.

‘I am deeply concerned about the future of the Prince of Wales,’ said the Baron.

The Prince was all attention.

‘I am not very impressed by his character.’

‘He has always been a source of anxiety to me,’ agreed the Prince, ‘as he is to Victoria.’

‘We must think, my dear Prince,’ said Stockmar, ‘of that boy’s future. When he is of age he will take precedence over you. When I contemplate that I am truly grieved.’

The Prince’s emotions were such that he could not allow himself to examine them. They were at the root of his feelings for Bertie – and perhaps the Queen’s. This boy who had few good qualities according to his standards – and they had become the Queen’s – was already superior in rank to his father. Indeed he was second only to the Queen. There was in the Prince’s mind – although he could not examine this either – a certain pleasure that Bertie’s conduct should give them cause for criticism.

‘I am grieved too,’ said the Prince and added hastily: ‘I continually ask myself what can be done for his good.’

‘That is what we must consider. This man Birch for instance, is he the right tutor for the Prince of Wales?’

‘Bertie has learned a little since he came.’

‘A little! He should have learned a great deal.’

‘Bertie has never been studious.’

‘My dear Prince, if Bertie has decided he does not wish to study he must be made to change his mind.’

‘There were plenty of canings in the past.’

‘Perhaps there should have been more in the present.’

‘Mr Birch has been given a free hand. He believes that his method with Bertie will bring results and to a certain extent it has.’

‘To an infinitesimal extent,’ said the Baron. ‘And that is not good enough.’

The Prince agreed.

‘So,’ went on Stockmar, ‘what I propose is that we supplant Mr Birch. And I have not been idle. I think I have the man.’

‘My dear Baron, what should we do without you?’

Stockmar smiled complacently. ‘You know how close your affairs are to my heart. I think of you constantly even when I am racked with pain.’ The Baron whose illnesses were as important to him as his love of power digressed slightly to tell the Prince of his latest symptoms. Then he went on: ‘It is Frederick Gibbs, a barrister, who I think will fill the post admirably. He is a very serious man. That is what the Prince of Wales needs. There is too much unbridled laughter wherever he is.’

Albert was in complete agreement with the Baron as always.

So Mr Frederick Gibbs was summoned to the palace.

Bertie stood before his parents who were seated side by side on the sofa.

‘Bertie,’ said his mother, ‘your Papa and I have something to tell you.’

Bertie waited.

‘Your dear Papa and I are not satisfied with your progress.’ Bertie’s attention wandered. Another of the lectures, which he received from time to time, was clearly about to begin. He believed he knew how it would go. You must work harder; you must be more serious; life is not all play, and so on. And Mr Birch had promised him that they would go on an imaginary journey round the world; they would have the atlas out on the table and they would imagine they were with Sir Francis Drake. Mr Birch would play the part of Sir Francis and afterwards Bertie would play it with Alfred and Alice and even Helena and Louise could be shipmates.

As his mind wandered on delights to come he heard his mother say: ‘So Mr Gibbs will be taking the place of Mr Birch and Papa and I are sure that then we shall see some improvement.’

Bertie started and began to stammer. ‘Mr B … B … B …’

The Queen and the Prince exchanged glances. There you see, he stammers just as he used to!

His father was frowning at him. ‘Good Baron Stockmar and I have worked out a course of lessons for you. If you do not already know why great care must be given to your education Mr Gibbs will explain to you. It will be necessary for you to work hard now. The time for play is over.’

‘But Mr Birch … he … he is not going away?’

‘Oh, Bertie,’ said the Queen, ‘don’t you ever listen? Papa has just been explaining. You should be thankful to have such a good kind Papa who has your welfare so much at heart.’

‘But … I love … Mr Birch. Mr Birch is a good man …’

Bertie’s lips trembled. How could he explain to the cold man who was his father, to the bland obtuse woman who was his mother, what Mr Birch meant to him?

‘Yes, we know that Mr Birch is a good man. Papa would not have chosen him as your tutor if he had not been. But a good man is not always the best tutor.’

Bertie could not speak. He was not afraid of his parents at that moment. He was only conscious of his misery.

‘I think,’ said the Queen severely, ‘that you had better go to your room, Bertie, and Papa and I will see you later when you have controlled yourself.’

As Bertie went they looked at each other and sighed.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the Queen, ‘it is certainly time there was more discipline.’

‘One can trust the dear Baron to find the right solution,’ said the Prince.

Meanwhile Bertie was lying on his bed, shaking with sobs. Suddenly he stopped and raising himself started to pummel his pillows furiously … As he did so he thought of his father’s cold, unloving face.

When Mr Birch retired for the night he found a rather ill-spelt note on his pillow with a tin soldier impeccably dressed in the uniform of the pre-revolutionary French Army. Bertie wanted Mr Birch to have his best soldier. Bertie was very, very sad because they were going to send Mr Birch away.

Mr Birch read the letter and put it carefully away with the soldier.

So he was to be dismissed. His rule had been too lenient. His efforts were appreciated, his scholarship was not in question, but the Prince of Wales had an unfortunate nature.

He wanted to protest. The Prince of Wales is a normal boy. He wants love and understanding. It is true he is not as clever as his elder sister, but he has gifts which she lacks. He may not be intellectual, but he is kind-hearted, fond of fun. He has an ability to make himself loved which should not be warped by severity.

But how could one explain? The Queen and the Prince might know how to govern a country (through their Ministers) but they did not know how to bring up a child.

They were a wretched three weeks while Mr Gibbs was taking over from Mr Birch. Bertie was very unhappy, he cried himself to sleep every night; he left notes on Mr Birch’s pillow; and he hated Mr Gibbs, who soon made his views known, which were identical with those of the Prince and Stockmar.

The Baron had interviewed Mr Gibbs in the presence of Albert. They enumerated Bertie’s weaknesses. His temper was fierce and ungovernable; he was lazy; he was frivolous; he would at moments stutter, although recently this was less pronounced; when addressed he was inclined to hang his head and look at his feet. It was the Baron’s opinion that the cure for these faults was in renewed work and constant applications of the cane. The Baron did not criticise Mr Birch, who was a very learned gentleman, but his methods had been too mild – all very well when dealing with a clever child like the Princess Royal perhaps, but for such a miscreant as the Prince of Wales they were doomed to failure.

Mr Birch departed and the Prince of Wales watched him go, as well as his tears and a window steamed by his breath would let him.

Mr Birch had told him that the time would pass and he would soon escape from the schoolroom altogether; that was one of the great consolations of life. Nothing lasted for ever.

The carriage had gone. Desolation remained. Bertie was convulsed by his sobbing in which Alfred joined, for he too had loved Mr Birch and the fact that Bertie was broken-hearted meant that Alfred must be too.

Mr Gibbs’ first task was to explain to the Prince the awful task ahead of him. It must be work, work, work, because one day when some dire event should fall – the death of his mother – he would be the King. Bertie was a little bewildered. His mother was the Queen but his terrifying father was not the King. He couldn’t understand it.

His mother was the less terrifying of the trio which consisted of father, mother and Mr Gibbs. In fact there were times when she was quite different. When she laughed and showed her gums he forgot about her being on their side. And she could play games too, and when they did play it was fun. Then Papa would come and look on and spoil it, it was true, because he would say they weren’t doing something as it should be done, and then he for one would forget his lines simply because Papa was there.

So when he was walking with Mama in the grounds of Buckingham Palace and Papa wasn’t there, which seemed to make her more friendly, he asked: ‘Mama, why are you the Queen?’

She always liked to talk about the family. ‘Well, my Grandpapa was George III and he had several sons. The eldest of these was my uncle George who was George IV. He had a daughter, Charlotte, who would have been Queen but she died, so when George IV died his brother William IV was King. William had no heir so the next son was my father and as he had no children but me, I was the Queen.’

Bertie nodded gravely.

‘And,’ went on Mama, ‘your dear Papa and I married and you are our eldest son. So one day you will be King. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes. It was what I thought but …’

‘Well tell me, Bertie, if there is something you don’t understand.’

‘Can you and Papa make the next sovereign?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Can you say who it will be?’

‘It is not for anyone to say. It is the next in line of succession.’

‘Oh, I thought that it would be Vicky who was Queen and not me the King.’

‘No. If there is a boy, it is the boy.’

‘But I thought as you and Papa love Vicky so much you would want her to be Queen.’

Victoria was a little startled. She looked sharply at Bertie but that was true bewilderment she saw in his eyes and she felt her conscience vaguely disturbed.

Her impulse was to tell him that parents loved all their children equally if they were good, but that was not true and she was too honest to deceive herself.

All the same she would have liked to have embraced Bertie and to tell him that she wanted to love him; but Albert would say that was bad for him. He must be aware of his responsibilities and severity would make him so.

Bertie was behaving badly. He refused to do his sums; he was disobedient; he was caught putting his tongue out at Mr Gibbs’ back and he was inciting Alfred to behave as badly. His temper was in constant evidence; he called Mr Gibbs objectional names; he once threw stones at him.

All this was reported to Albert and Stockmar who congratulated themselves on having installed Mr Gibbs in time.

One could only get the attention of the Prince of Wales by story telling and play acting. For instance when Mr Gibbs had told the story of Robert the Bruce both Bertie and Alfred had sat listening entranced. Why could he not show the same interest in his studies?

When they did amateur theatricals Bertie was again amenable. He could learn his part as well as anyone, but when the children performed before their parents the Princess Royal so outshone him that he became rather sullen. The Princess, being so much bigger than her brother, played the masculine parts to perfection. ‘How well Vicky looks in her costume,’ the Queen was heard to say. ‘Poor Bertie’s swamped in his.’

Mr Gibbs must bring all possible accounts of Bertie’s shortcomings to Stockmar and his father. The remedy, said the Baron, was harder work and more canings.

The younger children copied Bertie. He was an evil example. Even Vicky was not always a paragon.

But as the Queen said to Albert: ‘Vicky was charmingly naughty.’ She repeated the latest account of Vicky’s charming naughtiness, when she was confined to her room in disgrace.

Albert, not feeling very well, had summoned a Windsor physician who was highly thought of in the neighbourhood instead of calling on Sir James Clark or one of the royal doctors. He was a Mr Brown and the Queen and Albert addressed him as Brown. The Princess Royal imitated her parents and referred to him as ‘Brown’ at which the Queen reprimanded her. He was Mr Brown, an eminent doctor, and the children must call him by his proper name.

Vicky, very conscious of her rank, which was partly due to her doting parents, addressed the doctor once more as ‘Brown’. After he had left the Queen sent for her to tell her that this was very rude and she had already been told that she must call him Mr Brown. But the Princess Royal persisted in dropping the Mr, at which the queen said that if it happened again she would be sent to bed immediately. Mr Brown came again and Vicky said defiantly, ‘Good morning, Brown.’ Then watching her mother’s expression, she curtsied and went on: ‘Good night, Brown, for I am now going to bed.’

So Vicky spent the rest of the day in disgrace and the Queen and Albert laughed uproariously about her charming naughtiness.

Meanwhile Bertie’s conduct did not improve.

‘The children are a great anxiety,’ said the Queen, ‘particularly Bertie who continues to plague his tutors and worry his father.’

Vicky’s punishment for her charming misdeeds was always to be sent to bed. She didn’t mind in the least. It was pleasant to be alone in her room with her books. She could read and then astonish them all with her cleverness. So they doted on her more and more.