Victoria in the Wings

Coronation – and Freedom

THE CORONATION WAS fixed for 19 July, and as plans went forward the excitement arose.

An important event had taken place that May which in the minds of many predicted a peaceful reign for their new King. Napoleon died at St Helena of cancer in the stomach, and there was no longer any fear that he could escape and cause misery and suffering to thousands as he had from Elba. There was great security in the knowledge that he was dead.

The people felt that they could give themselves up to the pleasure of the grand ceremony and forget wars. It was sure to be a dramatic occasion. They could always trust old George to give them that; and what with the Queen’s saying she would be there and the King’s saying that on no account should she be, the whole thing would seem like something out of a comic opera.

Lady Conyngham was now constantly in the King’s company; she had a house in Marlborough Row and when she wished to ride used a carriage from the King’s stables; each day she dined with the King; her daughters were never far off; and the King treated them as though they were his own family, being far more gracious to them, it was noted, than he ever had been to his own daughter, the Princess Charlotte. They received handsome presents from him, and as it was a custom of his to walk through his apartments after dinner displaying the latest objets d’art he had acquired, he often did this with Lady Conyngham on one arm and one of her daughters on the other.

The story was told that on one occasion Lady Conyngham gave orders that all the candles in the saloon should be lighted – there were hundreds of them – and when the King entered and seemed a little startled by the brilliant light she said to him somewhat apologetically: ‘Sir, I told them to light the saloon as guests were coming.’ To which the King replied, taking her arm with the utmost devotion, ‘Thank you, my dear. You always do what is right. You cannot please me so much as by doing everything you please, everything to show that you are mistress here.’

Many people heard that and they said that they had not seen the King so deeply in love since the days of Maria Fitzherbert. And he was now a man of nearly sixty, though he did not look it in spite of his great bulk and his constant illnesses, for his charm – aided considerably by that unpowdered wig – helped him to throw off the years.

During the weeks which preceded the coronation the King was aware that his popularity was rising a little. He felt confidence in the future. Napoleon was dead, an era of peace lay ahead, the long-awaited crown was his, and the people were perhaps beginning to appreciate that he wished to serve them well. He had Lady Conyngham to be his constant companion, and he was in love – he could never be happy unless he was in love – so the future seemed fair but for one heavy cloud.

The Queen!

He could not get her out of his mind. What was that dreadful woman planning to do to ruin his coronation.

That was something he would not know until the day.

On the evening of 18 July the King drove to the Speaker’s House in readiness for the next day’s ceremony. He retired to his room early and sat at his window looking out on the river flowing peacefully by.

‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured, ‘I shall be crowned King.’ And he thought of those days when he had been the young Prince Charming and people had said how different his reign would be from that of his father, and had longed impatiently for him to ascend the throne. That was before they had learned to hate him, in the days when he had been a handsome and romantic figure, when he had courted Maria Fitzherbert and secretly married her in the drawing-room of her house in Park Street.

And now here he was an old man, worn out by excesses and a hundred aches and pains, tormented by ailments which were a mystery to him. All this time he had waited for the crown and now that it had come to him, did he greatly want it? There would not be much difference between being a King or Regent and it was ten years ago that he had assumed that title and the responsibilities which went with it.

But tomorrow he must recapture the glory of his youth. He must charm his people with the ease which he had in the past. It was not so easy when one was almost sixty; when one’s limbs were swollen, one’s girth uncontrollable and one’s subjects had been making sly jokes at one’s expense for thirty years, so that they had built up an image of him which they could not admire. How did they see him? An ageing voluptuary? No doubt they were right. Perhaps he had pandered to his sensual appetites and it was certain that they had been prodigious. Everything would have been different if he could have openly married Maria; he had always believed that. If she had not clung to her religion … if …

But what was the use?

He was nearly sixty and tomorrow he would be crowned King of England. He had to forget the past and look to the future – what there was left of it. Sometimes he thought there was not much.

He smiled suddenly. Tomorrow he would put on his coronation robes; he would play his part magnificently in the Abbey ceremony. He was a great actor, and he performed the parts he assigned to himself with as much verve now as he had at twenty.

Tomorrow at least his people should not be disappointed in him.

Nor were they. He might be old, fat and ill; but he was magnificent. Nothing could detract from his dignity and in every word and gesture his charm was evident. He even looked handsome.

From the moment the women with the herbs – following the old custom of strewing them along the route the King would take – appeared, all the spectators knew that with George IV as the central actor the play was going to be a grand one.

Of course he looked splendid; of course he looked all that a King should look; and of course his coronation was a superb glittering colourful spectacle.

But the Queen had made up her mind to share it. She had no sense of propriety, no decorum; she was all that the King was not; but one thing they shared and that was determination: his that she should not share in the coronation, hers that she should.

While the King was making his way from the Speaker’s House to the Abbey the Queen left Brandenburg House for the same destination.

She did not notice that the cheers for her were less fervent than usual. She had believed that when she rode out the crowd would follow her to the Abbey and force an entrance with her, if need be. But she did not know the English. They reviled the King; he was an old roué; he had behaved badly to Mrs Fitzherbert; his debts were enormous; he lived in extravagant splendour while there was great poverty in the country. But this was his coronation and he was playing his part with a flair that they admired. He might be an indifferent ruler; but he was a superb actor and today’s affair was a pageant. They were not going to have it spoilt, and the Queen was wrong to try and force herself where she was not wanted.

That was the verdict of most of the crowd. They were not looking for trouble today, but spectacle. They had come to cheer the King not to boo him. Whoever heard of a king being booed during his coronation when they were all going to get drunk in the taverns shortly drinking his health.

So Caroline rode through silent streets to present herself at the Abbey and be refused admittance – on orders of His Majesty. Nothing deterred she presented herself at another door, only to be once more prevented from entering.

In her tawdry finery she looked vulgar, decided the people. How different from their glorious King who at this moment, under the canopy of State, was receiving the orb and sceptre.

‘Go home,’ shouted a voice; and others took up the strain.

Caroline was bewildered. It was the first time she had received such treatment from the people.

She could not storm the Abbey; she would only wait disconsolate; and at last she gave the order to drive her back to Brandenburg House.

The King was pleased with his people and they were not ill-pleased with him. Today they had not failed him but had helped to drive the wretched Caroline away from the Abbey.

He was benign and regal and his charm was touching said all who beheld it. He presided with kingly dignity over the coronation banquet and when the long exhausting day was over he was cheered on his way to Carlton House.

The cheers of his people were the sweetest music in his ears.

He would have a portrait painted of himself in his coronation garments; it would serve to remind him of this triumphant day.

King George IV! An old man, he thought; and who is there to follow me but Frederick who is even more ill than I and may not live much longer; or William who is getting old, too; and then that precocious infant at Kensington Palace. But he should not misjudge the child; it was the mother who irritated him, not the little girl.

But who knew, there might be someone to displace her yet. Adelaide might bear a child. He himself might become the father of one if he could rid himself of that woman.

But what was he thinking of? He was too old now. He did not want to go through the ridiculous farce of marriage, even if he could … and then find he could not get a child.

He was content with dear, delightful, not exactly intellectual, Lady Conyngham with her beautiful motherly bosom and her handsome looks. She reminded him very often of Maria – but without Maria’s temper.

Ah Maria, he thought, what are you thinking on this day?

He could not know. And did it matter?

He was tired; he wished to rest. He would send for them to get him to bed.

It had been an exhausting day.

The King decided a few days after his coronation that he would visit different parts of his realm so that he might have the experience of speaking personally with his subjects. His intention was to go first to Ireland, and preparations were immediately begun.

People continued to discuss the coronation, the splendour of which would be talked of for months to come; those who had not witnessed it listened to accounts of it in the taverns and wherever people congregated. The manager of Drury Lane decided that instead of a new play he would put on the Pageant of the Coronation which should be like the real thing in every detail.

It seemed to be an excellent idea and when the curtain rose on the Abbey scene there was a hushed silence in the house and everyone joined in the ceremony, cheering and calling God Save the King.

No play could succeed as this spectacle did, and the theatre was crowded night after night.

The Queen heard of what was going on and thought that if she attended no one would be able to ignore her this time.

So she dressed herself in odd vulgar clothes – too short in the skirt, too low in the neck, with the feather and diamond headdress waving over her wig – and appeared in the royal box.

She had been ill for some time, refusing to be treated by doctors and successfully hiding her affliction, dosing herself with laudanum which brought her the solace of sleep; but as the time had gone on she had found it necessary to increase the doses and thus caused alarm to some of her ladies. They had found it useless to dissuade her. She had to give herself relief from pain; she had to be able to feel alive – and mischievous again; she had to paint her face more brightly with rouge and plaster it with white lead to get the startling contrast.

She would laugh as she did so and say to her most intimate lady-in-waiting, ‘Now my love, what would they think of me if they saw me without my warpaint, eh? They’d think I’d come from the grave instead of from Brandenburg House. We don’t want to give the good people a shock or His High and Mighty Majesty so much pleasure, do we?’

They, who knew how ill she was, were anxious for her. In her way she had been a good mistress. Kind, friendly – in fact over-familiar calling them ‘my love’ and ‘my dear’ in front of the lower servants. But if they were in trouble she would be the first to help; and in spite of her eccentricities, which at times seemed to border on insanity, they were fond of her.

Painted and glittering with jewels, the plumes waving in her hair, she set out for Drury Lane.

She was going to win back the popularity she had lost. The King had won the battle of the coronation; it was after all his coronation, though she ought to have shared it with him; but he was their King and she but the Queen Consort. She granted that. It was for this reason that the people had been lukewarm to her; it was because he was after all the King that they had not forced an entrance for her into the Abbey.

Never mind. The coronation was over. Now they would be sorry for her. The first skirmish would be in the Drury Lane where they would cheer her and feel it was a shame that a queen had to witness a mock coronation from a box in a theatre when she had been excluded from her own in the Abbey.

When she entered the theatre the people rose and cheered her. Grinning wildly, bowing so vigorously that the feathers were in danger of being dislodged, she responded to the greeting and the pageant began. Before it was half way through, the effects of the mild dose of laudanum she had taken to enable her to visit the theatre began to decline, and her lady-in-waiting looked at her in some alarm.

‘I think … I should leave the box … for a moment,’ she said faintly.

She sent one of her attendants to tell the manager not to interrupt the show simply because she wished to slip out for a few moments.

So she left the box while the stage coronation continued; and after more sips of the laudanum she was able to return. But not all the artificial colour on her face could disguise the fact that she was ill.

As the audience sang the national anthem, glancing up at her box, she bowed but was forced to grip the front of the box as she did so.

Wildly they cheered her, and she tried to respond; but she could only murmur: ‘Get me to the carriage.’

‘The Queen is ill,’ it was whispered. ‘The trouble has been too much for her.’

She was led out to her carriage and was swiftly driven home. Her ladies took off the clothes that were always too tight for her gross body; they lifted off her wig; they removed the rouge and lead from her face and revealed a tired old woman with the marks of a ravaging disease clearly defined.

Lying in her bed she said in an almost jaunty way: ‘Something tells me I shall never get up again.’

The King on his way to Ireland for the first State visit of his reign was aboard the royal yacht at Holyhead when the news was brought to him.

The Queen had died less than a fortnight after that visit to the theatre.

Free! he thought. At last! For twenty-six years he had been bound to that loathsome creature and now he was free! Never again would she have the power to plague him. Never again need he wonder what she would do next.

He stood on the deck of the Royal Sovereign and savoured the breezes from the sea.

For years he had been in the thrall of his father and almost immediately he had been tied to that woman. This was his first real taste of freedom. He was King, the ruler of his country, and best of all he was a free man. No longer need he be tormented by the most vulgar woman in the world to whom ironically he, the most exquisite gentleman, had been married.

Free … at fifty-nine. It would soon be his sixtieth birthday.

Too late, he thought sadly. Ah, too late.

But was it? He had overcome his melancholy. I’m free, he kept telling himself. She can plague me no longer. There was no need to look for evidence for divorce. Fate had stepped in with the most final of all separations, the most conclusive of all divorces.

‘Your Majesty will wish there to be a period of mourning?’ he was asked.

He was not going to pretend. Some might have expected him to play the part of bereaved husband but he was too good an actor for that. It would be a part which no one would believe in. So since it would be ridiculous to play the mournful widower, he would be the widower who was too honest to pretend to anything but the relief Caroline’s death had brought him.

The Court might have six weeks mourning. That would be expected; but it would be foolish to make it longer; as for him, he was on a State voyage; he was going to visit his Irish subjects; he wanted them to like him. They would not care for a miserable man.

He remembered how he had always loved the Irish. He hoped they would remember it now. His greatest friend had been Richard Brinsley Sheridan who had died some four or five years ago – a witty Irishman if ever there was one. Why even his present dearest friends the Conynghams were Irish. He anticipated a happy time.

And how could it be otherwise? If he exerted all his prodigious charm they could not fail to succumb; he was already rehearsing what he would say to them. ‘I feel I have come among my own people,’ he murmured.

He dressed with the utmost care in blue – blue neckcloth, blue breeches, blue coat – all of course of the most exquisite cut, and blue was the colour which suited him perhaps best of all. The only contrasting colour was the yellow of his coat buttons – quite dashing while they detracted not in the least from his general air of elegance.

He would speak to them from the heart as though the words came naturally. They would never guess what careful thought he had given to them. If his English subjects rejected him, that should not be the case with his Irish ones.

He was not disappointed. His emotional approach, his sentimental words were exactly what fitted the occasion best. Crowds had come to cheer him and escort his carriage to the Lodge in Phoenix Park.

There he addressed the multitude – a grand, imposing and decidedly regal figure.

‘This is one of the happiest days I have ever known. My heart has always been Irish. I have always loved Ireland and now I know that my Irish subjects love me.’

He was going to drink their health, he told them, as he hoped they would drink his. It would be in Irish whiskey punch.

How they cheered! How they loved him! He had the gift of words. He must have kissed the blarney stone. He knew exactly how to win their hearts.

A real fellow of a King, they said.

And so began his first State visit. Nothing could have been more successful. They loved their King; he loved his subjects. It was so long since he had heard such cheers.

A beloved monarch. A free man. If he had been twenty years younger how happy he would have been! But even in the midst of his triumphs a voice within him kept reminding him, ‘Too late. It has come too late.’