The Queen's Husband

Chapter XXVI BERTIE’S PROGRESS

With Vicky married the pressing problem was the future of the Prince of Wales.

‘Ah,’ sighed Albert, ‘if only Bertie had half the brains of his sister!’

‘The trouble with Bertie is that he refuses to work,’ replied the Queen.

There were continual complaints from Mr Gibbs. Bertie would not ‘concentrate’. He seemed to ‘set up a resistance to work’. ‘Could do so much better,’ was the continual report.

Baron Stockmar, who was back in England, was consulted. People who would not work must be made to work, was his verdict, but it was not easy to whip a young man of almost seventeen into submission.

Perhaps it was time to change Bertie’s mode of education. He should no longer have a tutor but a Governor. A stern disciplinarian would be the best choice; someone who would stamp out the inherent frivolity of Bertie’s nature. A course of study should be planned for him which would give him no opportunity of wasting time.

Having mapped out a stringent course for the Prince to follow, Stockmar declared that he must return to Coburg. His health, which had always been one of his major concerns, and the care of which had given him great enjoyment, was failing fast and he felt he must go back to his family to be nursed.

When Bertie heard that the old man was going, he was wild with joy. His immediate reaction was to seize Alice and dance round the room with her.

‘You had better not let Papa see you do that,’ she warned.

‘What does it matter? Everything I do is wrong in Papa’s eyes, so this can’t be much worse than anything else.’

He would no longer have those cold eyes on him criticising everything he did, planning great working programmes (to complete which satisfactorily he would have to be a mathematician, theologian, historian and goodness knows what else), commenting on the way he did everything, discovering that he had a violent temper (what about Mama’s?) and that he was in every way an unsatisfactory person.

It was all really a waste of time because his parents knew that already. But lots of people did not think so. His sisters and brothers for instance; some of the members of the household too, and old Lord Palmerston had winked at him once when his mother was telling him how her eldest son had failed to do this or that; and he had heard the Prime Minister say that he was of the opinion that the Prince of Wales was a very intelligent young man.

But of course it was those in authority over him who counted and it was very pleasant to contemplate that the disagreeable old Baron was about to depart.

Bertie watched him go with great glee while his parents wept and embraced the old fellow and told him how they would miss him. He must write regularly, said Albert; which made Bertie groan inwardly for he realised that Stockmar could be a menace from afar. Still he could do less harm in Coburg than in Buckingham Palace and Bertie had learned to be grateful for small mercies.

His seventeenth birthday arrived. Surely a day for celebrations. But not for him, it seemed; there on the table was a long account of the changes which would be taking place in his life. Mr Gibbs was going and Colonel Bruce was replacing him. The Colonel was known as a martinet and Bertie would have to report to him before he even left the palace; it would be like being under military command without any of the fun of being in the Army.

The long list of requirements ended with the words: ‘Life is composed of duties. You will have to be taught what you may and may not do.’

Bertie was experienced enough to see that he was jumping out of an irritatingly restricting frying-pan into fire which was planned to envelope him like a straitjacket.

As if they had not enough to worry them without Bertie’s intransigence there was trouble as ever at home and abroad. When Orsini had attempted to assassinate the French Emperor and Empress and it was discovered that the grenades had been manufactured and the plot hatched in England, a great wave of hostility swept across France towards their new ally. To placate them Palmerston introduced a bill making it a felony to conspire to murder and on this the government was defeated and Lord Derby, with his henchman Mr Disraeli, returned to office. Orsini was executed in Paris but one of his confederates, tried in London, was acquitted. An uneasy situation prevailed between England and France which was so disappointing after the great friendship the Queen had felt for the charming little Emperor and his beautiful wife.

The Derby Ministry was of short duration. When they tried to introduce an amendment to the Reform Bill they were defeated. A new difficulty presented itself when both Lord John Russell and Lord Palmerston were contending for the premiership and the Queen had no alternative but to send for Lord Granville. Fortunately he was unable to form a ministry and very soon Lord Palmerston, having suceeded in doing so, was back at the helm.

‘It is comforting to know that we have a strong man at the head of affairs,’ said the Queen.

But there was no real comfort.

Almost immediately after her marriage Vicky had become pregnant.

In the midst of all this political activity the Queen’s mind was constantly with her daughter. No sooner had she discovered that she was pregnant than she was writing long letters of advice. She commiserated with Vicky, saying that now that Vicky had actually experienced marriage they could talk frankly as two women. Vicky was very quick to experience the ‘shadow side’ of the relationship between the sexes. It was wonderful to have children, and although they were quite ugly at birth they quickly grew charming (she must tell Vicky the latest sayings of Baby Beatrice who was a great comfort to them just now) but at the actual birth human dignity was lost and women were more like cows or dogs and their poor nature became quite animal.

Stockmar wrote protesting that the Queen’s spate of letters was worrying the Princess. It was true that Vicky had a great deal to contend with. The schloss to which Fritz had taken her was very ancient, said to be haunted and bitterly cold; hot water had to be carried in buckets through draughty corridors to the bedrooms and was tepid by the time it reached them; there was some suspicion of the foreigner within their midst and although Fritz was kind and easy-going, Vicky missed home, particularly her father.

There was bickering between Victoria and Albert because of Stockmar’s criticisms and Victoria retaliated by saying that Stockmar was an interfering old man.

Three months after Vicky had left England Albert decided that he must see her and paid a visit to Berlin. He spent only three days with his daughter but it was comforting to see that she was well and as happy as she could be in the circumstances.

When he returned Victoria said that while she had been waiting for his return she had decided that next time she would accompany him. She was longing to see Vicky and she thought they might go again together in August.

This they did and it was wonderful to see the beloved child again. The Queen wanted to carry her daughter off for cosy chats about how she should look after herself and discussions on the baby’s arrival which were far from cosy.

‘How I wish I could be here when the baby is born!’ she cried. ‘It is a mother’s privilege to be with her daughter at such a time. Alas, I have to remember that I am the Queen.’

Vicky smiled in the old mischievous way and retorted: ‘Well, Mama, as Papa says, you are the last one to forget that.’

But it was different talking with a young married woman from talking with a daughter whom one felt one had always to correct.

Vicky confessed to her that she had always loved her dearly, but she had been very naughty at times and disobedient, she knew. She had been thinking since the parting that because of this her mother might not think she loved her as much as she did.

‘All children can be naughty,’ said the Queen fondly.

‘Then you understand, Mama?’

‘Perfectly!’ declared the Queen happily. ‘Perhaps I didn’t behave always as I should. That temper of mine would burst out. And I always felt that you children came between me and your father, and the greatest joy in my life was to be alone with him. You must understand that now that you have Fritz.’

Vicky said she could understand her mother’s feeling for dearest Papa. ‘Papa is an angel,’ she added.

Victoria wept with pleasure. It was wonderful to think that her daughter had such understanding.

She was eagerly looking forward to the birth of her grandchild, she said, but Vicky must do everything her mother said. She would send a list of instructions.

‘Oh, my darling,’ she cried, ‘how willingly would I bear your suffering for you.’

In January – a year after Vicky’s wedding – her child was born. The birth was protracted and Vicky suffered far more than her mother ever had. At one time her life and that of the child were in danger. Fortunately the Queen and Albert did not know of this until the danger had passed.

Then they heard that Vicky had a son; he was to be called Wilhelm.

Bertie’s worst fears were realised. He was practically Colonel Bruce’s prisoner. He could not leave his apartments without his Governor’s wanting to know where he was going and any sharp retort or the slightest protest would be reported to his parents. He must conform to the diet prepared for him; he was to have three meals a day at precisely the time laid down for them in the rules; and as Prince Albert did not believe in self-indulgence in any form, these meals must be light. Pudding might be served but it would be wiser not to take it or if the Prince of Wales did take it, it must be a small helping.

The Queen underlined this. She and his father had noticed that once or twice on holiday he had been sick through overeating, which should be a lesson to him.

When he heard that his father was considering sending him to Oxford or Cambridge, he was delighted. He had heard of the freedom undergraduates experienced there, and it sounded very pleasant.

But how different was the reality. The Prince of Wales was not to attend lectures; he was not to mix with other undergraduates; Colonel Bruce would choose the people who were to visit him. He was not to smoke and he would have a private tutor.

‘Why do I have to go to Oxford?’ demanded Bertie. ‘It’s no different from being anywhere else.’

‘The only use of Oxford is that it is a place of study,’ said his father. ‘You seem to have the idea that you are going there to indulge in riotous living.’

The Dean of Christ Church, Henry Liddell, protested at the manner in which the Prince of Wales was being treated. If he were going to get the best from Oxford he should attend lectures, forget his rank and mingle freely with people of his own age.

Albert laughed this idea to scorn. ‘The man seems to forget that Bertie is going there to work.’

Oxford under the governorship of Colonel Bruce was a bore and Bertie longed to escape from it.

There was great excitement at Windsor. Vicky was coming home for a brief visit. The change in Albert was remarkable. He seemed ten years younger. As for the Queen, she was so delighted at the prospect of seeing her daughter that she had been in a good mood ever since she had known Vicky was on the way.

And there she was – looking a little older, a little more mature, Vicky the mother.

‘My dearest child!’

The tears, the embraces, the adoration for dearest Papa! Dear, dear Vicky, what a happy day that was, with the children all dancing round her and Alice trying to lure her sister away so that they could talk secrets.

Baby Beatrice, the darling, amused them all, because she was very bright and a little spoilt. Albert could only gaze fondly at his dearest daughter but there was no need for words to convey their feelings.

‘I hope I shall see Bertie,’ said Vicky.

‘Bertie is at Oxford,’ said the Queen, her face growing stern.

‘I am sure he will enjoy that.’

‘He is not going there to enjoy, my dear child,’ said Albert tenderly, ‘but to work. I hope he has realised that by now, for he had not when I last had news of him.’

‘Poor Bertie!’ said Vicky.

Later her father talked to her about Bertie. He was in despair, he said. The Prince of Wales grew more frivolous rather than less so and he thought that they would have to marry him early or there would be trouble. He did not wish to discuss this in front of the Queen who was apt to get over-excited about Bertie’s shortcomings, but he was an anxiety. If Vicky would keep her eyes open for a suitable wife for Bertie it would be interesting. If any visiting royalty came to Berlin she might have a chance of studying them. What Bertie needed was a serious young woman – a princess from the right Royal House, of course.

‘Your mother and I have discussed this with Uncle Leopold and he has given a list of Princesses who might be suitable. I must show it to you.’

Albert was delighted to be able to treat this beloved daughter as an adult. He smiled as she looked down at the paper he handed her.

‘Most of them are German, Papa,’ she said.

‘They are probably the best suited. German women and German men make the best spouses,’ he added smiling.

‘I have heard of this Danish Princess Alexandra. She is very beautiful.’

‘Uncle Leopold has put her right at the end of the list.’

‘Well naturally, Papa,’ said Vicky with a laugh. ‘She is not German.’

Albert said: ‘And you, my dearest child, will keep your eyes open for some beautiful suitable German Princess for your brother.’

Vicky promised that she would.

Vicky sought an opportunity to be alone with her mother.

‘Mama,’ she said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

The Queen smiled, ready for one of those cosy woman-to-woman talks which she enjoyed so much.

‘Come and sit beside me, my love. There, now we can be comfortable. My dearest child, you know you can tell me anything.’

‘I know, Mama, but it hurts me to tell you this.’

‘Vicky, dearest, what is it?’

‘It’s the baby. You heard what a bad time I had.’

‘Papa and I were almost frantic.’

‘I’m so glad you were not there. It was so long, Mama, and so … so …’

‘I know, my dearest. You can’t tell me anything about those horrors. Baby is my ninth child. To think I have endured that nine times!’

‘Wilhelm’s was a breech birth, Mama.’

‘My dear, dear child.’

‘His arm was dislocated as he was delivered.’

The Queen stared in horror.

‘It has made a slight deformity. Apart from that he is a very healthy child.’

‘Can nothing be done?’

‘The doctors say no.’

‘So he will go through life with this … deformity.’

Vicky nodded. ‘It may be so.’

‘Oh, my darling! And you have only just told me.’

‘I wanted to tell you myself, Mama. I didn’t want to write it. But you must not fret. In every other way he is perfect.’

The Queen nodded.

Vicky said she must see Bertie so she arranged to visit him at the university. She took Lady Walburga Paget with her. Wally, as this lady was called, was the sister of the Countess Hohenthal, Vicky’s lady-in-waiting; Wally was young, vivacious and very beautiful, and Vicky had found her friendship of great help in the gloomy haunted schloss.

Bertie’s delight in seeing his sister and her very charming friend was obvious. He sat laughing and chatting with them and paying great attention to Wally, much to her and Vicky’s amusement.

They were having a very merry time until Mrs Bruce, the Colonel’s wife, came in and found them together. Her frigid manner showed her disapproval and when Vicky and Wally had left she told the Prince of Wales that she would have to report the matter to her husband who would no doubt wish to inform Her Majesty and His Highness Prince Albert what had happened.

‘Good God!’ cried the Prince, and the expression made Mrs Bruce wince, ‘can’t I see my own sister?’

Mrs Bruce had made a very alarming discovery. The Prince of Wales was not only lazy, unable to concentrate and below normal intelligence, but he was also fond of women.

When this was reported to Albert he was deeply concerned. It was something he had always suspected. Bertie’s free and easy manner, so different from his father’s, was a pointer. Albert too had noticed the manner in which some of the ladies of the household regarded Bertie.

A new danger was in sight.

They must be doubly watchful.

The manner in which the Prince of Wales was being treated was beginning to be one of the main topics in the press. He was not given the dignity due to his rank, it was said. He was treated like a schoolboy. The people wanted to see more of him. They had liked what they had seen.

It was decided that he should visit Rome. He was excited at the prospect until he learned what he might have suspected. A plan was laid out for him. Italian lessons in the morning, reading from eleven until twelve; after the midday meal he could visit art galleries and study architecture, then French lessons from five until six. It was inconceivable that he should have the evenings to himself. They were to be given over to private study, reading and music.

‘Why should I go to Rome to do all that?’ demanded the Prince. ‘It’s almost exactly what I do at home.’

He then went to Edinburgh University because, as the Queen said, the Scots would expect the Prince to have some education in their country. While there he had quarters in Holyrood House with the omnipresent Colonel preventing him enjoying life.

Once he tried protesting to the Queen. The result of this was the rejoinder: ‘But, Bertie, your father has arranged this. Therefore everything he has ordered is for your good.’

What could he do? He could only endure until he was of an age to go his own way. And then? His eyes sparkled at the prospect.

Perhaps, said Albert, it would be a good idea, as some of Her Majesty’s ministers seemed to think, if Bertie went to Canada and America. Bertie was nothing loth. There might be an opportunity of eluding his jailors there.

The Duke of Newcastle was to accompany him and here Bertie saw his chance.

They had a big schedule of public engagements, said the Duke. And when Bruce – now promoted to General – talked of lessons and the routine which had to be followed, the Duke cried: ‘Impossible! There’s no time for that.’

So Bertie attended all kinds of ceremonies; he was the centre of attraction at parades and levees given in his honour. On one occasion he had to make a speech. The Duke wrote it for him but when he gave it he ignored what had been written and said freely what came into his mind. It was a success. Bertie had discovered that he had a flair for making speeches, receiving attention, giving it – in fact after years of failure the ugly duckling had turned into a swan; he had become the perfect Prince of Wales.

Bertie was enjoying himself. Every time General Bruce approached him he would wave his hand and say, ‘No time. Too many engagements!’ and delightedly charm everyone with whom he came into contact.

The Duke of Newcastle was enthusiastic.

‘Your Royal Highness knows just how to get along with people. This is good for our relations with these countries. Her Majesty will be grateful to you.’

Bertie glowed and prepared to spray his charm over the Americans as he had over the Canadians. This was even easier. They could not have enough of him.

A magnificent ball was given for him to which three thousand people were invited. Three thousand! There were many more than that number eager to see the Prince of Wales. They crowded into the ballroom in such numbers that the floor gave way. But it was all part of the pattern. Beautiful women thought Bertie ‘cute’ and wanted to dance and talk with him. The Duke thought that the Prince of Wales should not be persecuted in this way. ‘Oh, I like this kind of persecution,’ said Bertie.

General Bruce was fuming. If he had ever had a doubt that the morals of the Prince of Wales might be a little lax he was certain now.

After this there would have to be even stricter vigilance.

The Queen and Albert were delighted with the reports of Bertie’s tour.

‘It seems that for once he has done rather well,’ said Victoria.

‘We have General Bruce to thank for that,’ replied Albert.

‘Do you think we should reward him in some way?’

Albert thought it would be an excellent idea.

‘The Order of the Bath for Services to the Crown, perhaps,’ said the Queen. ‘I will speak to Lord Palmerston about it.’

When Palmerston called she broached the subject.

‘The North American tour has really been a great success.’

Palmerston agreed that it had been a spectacular success. ‘His Royal Highness’s talents are coming to light,’ he added.

‘We have to thank General Bruce for this. And the Prince and I thought that we should like to show our gratitude with some reward … say the Order of the Bath, for instance.’

‘But Your Majesty is forgetting that this is not Bruce’s triumph. It was the Prince of Wales they liked, not the General.’

‘Bertie did what he was told.’

‘Your Majesty will know that there are ways of doing what one is told. It was not what was done but the manner of doing it. No, it is not Bruce to whom we should be grateful but to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.’

‘I like to see services rewarded,’ said the Queen severely.

‘And I can happily say that I am in agreement with Your Majesty. And like Your Majesty I do not care to see rewards given where they are not merited. I hope to have the pleasure of congratulating His Royal Highness on the service he has done to his country but I do not think Your Majesty’s Government would agree to bestow the Order on Bruce.’

‘I shall expect a report on this,’ said the Queen shortly.

Palmerston bowed.

He was laughing to himself as he left her. The Order of the Bath for that old spoilsport! Not if he knew it! He chuckled to think of Bertie’s escape from the ridiculous restrictions they placed on him.

And, he said to himself, no ribbon for Bruce.

The Queen should have known that Lord Palmerston always had his own way.

So General Bruce was not rewarded for his services in North America.

Life at Cambridge, whither the Prince of Wales was sent after his return, seemed more than ever intolerable after the freedom he had enjoyed on his tour. He was getting so tired of General Bruce that on one or two occasions, he couldn’t resist telling him what he thought of him. The Prince’s outbursts of temper were reported in detail to his parents.

Was there no escape? Only time could release him and he longed for the day when he would be independent.

One day he was so bored with the hours of study, so weary of his jailors that he seized an opportunity and left the house.

He had no idea where he was going, but decided that he would first go to London. Then perhaps he could go to stay with someone who would keep him hidden. When he was at Oxford he had been allowed to hunt and had there become friendly with two young men, members of the Oxfordshire Hunt, Frederick Johnstone and Henry Chaplin. They would be at Oxford. He might telegraph them and go there. They could keep him hidden. What a lark! And it would serve them all right.

These two young men had told him how the press laughed at the way he was being brought up. The press was on his side. He believed the people would be. This would show them.

When he arrived at the station two men came towards him; they stood on either side of him.

‘The carriage is waiting, Your Highness,’ they said.

‘Carriage?’ he stammered. ‘What carriage?’

‘General Bruce telegraphed the palace from Cambridge, Your Highness.’

There was the royal carriage. What could he do but get in and be driven to Buckingham Palace?

There he had to face his parents. It was the old question: Whatever can we do with Bertie?

At length they decided to send him to the Curragh Camp in Ireland.