Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

The Great Disaster

THEN SOMETHING HAPPENED THAT TOOK PEOPLE'S MINDS OFF mutiny. A man called Felice Orsini, in company with three others, had attempted to assassinate Napoleon III. We were horrified. Apparently the Emperor and Empress were in their carriage on the way to the opera when these men threw three bombs at the carriage. Although the Emperor and Empress were unhurt, ten people were killed and a hundred and fifty wounded. The men responsible were arrested; and the unfortunate fact was that Orsini had been living in England and the bombs had been made in our country, which drew us into it in a measure and I should have been more comfortable if they had been somewhere else, for the incident created a distinct coolness between us and the French, which was disappointing after all the efforts we had made to bring about friendly relations.

Orsini was a revolutionary and his great object was to bring Italy to revolt. In his opinion Napoleon was one of those who had helped to prevent it. Hence his desire to kill him.

It was a horrible incident to have taken place, just as we were about to celebrate the wedding. I was so relieved that the Emperor had survived this wicked attack, and sent dispatches congratulating him on his escape.

We could not however let all this prevent our going ahead with the preparations for Vicky's wedding, which was fixed for the twenty-fifth of January; and a week or so before that, members of Albert's family began to arrive at Buckingham Palace. It was very touching to see dear Uncle Leopold again. He had aged considerably. Aunt Louise's death had been a great blow to him, and before that there had been all the trouble about her father's fall from power. It was sad what the years could do. Albert's brother, Ernest, was present, as debonair as ever and Albert was delighted to see him. The bridegroom's parents were naturally among the guests. What a large gathering it was! I must say that, though I found the older German relations very pleasant, I did not greatly care for the younger men with their exaggerated mustaches and saber cuts on their faces of which they were so proud because they had received them in dueling. Honorable scars, they called them. I called them evidence of folly!

Poor Albert was torn between the delight of seeing his family and the prospect of losing Vicky, which was making him more and more depressed every day.

There was a state dinner party, which was a very grand affair; a gala performance of Macbeth was given at Her Majesty's Theater in honor of the wedding; and there was a grand ball.

And then the great day had come. I could not but be reminded of my own wedding day. So much had happened since that glorious day when Albert and I were married. I had grown so far from that frivolous, pleasure-loving girl who thought the height of bliss was to stay up dancing into the early hours of morning. Albert had taught me so much. What a lot I owed him. What a lot the country owed him. However could I have lived through those years without him! And now here I was, Queen of this beloved country, mother of nine children. No wonder I was overcome with emotion; it was happy emotion. Not so Albert's. He could not bear the thought of parting with his daughter.

I wrote a note to Vicky as soon as I awoke. I found such relief in writing; it was always so much easier to say what I had in my mind if I put it on paper. I told her how important marriage was; it was a holy and intimate union, and that I believed it meant more to women than to men.

Vicky came in while I was dressing; she kissed me with emotion and thanked me for my note. She gave me a brooch containing a lock of her hair, and said she hoped she would be worthy of me, which touched me deeply.

She wanted to be dressed in my room so that I could tell her if all was well. How enchanting she looked in her white silk gown trimmed with Honiton lace. Albert came in and Vicky was daguerreotyped with us. It was very moving and I could not keep still, and so it came out rather blurred. And then it was time to go.

When we left Buckingham Palace for St. James's, the streets were filled with cheering crowds. It was so like that other day eighteen years ago—and yet so different. Memories were certain to come on such a day. In Vicky's place I saw myself—a young and innocent girl, perhaps more innocent than Vicky. Young people were more advanced than they used to be, and I had led a very sheltered life. Oh yes, changes indeed. Lord Palmerston carried the Sword of State. I could not help being reminded of my poor dear Lord Melbourne who had been so proud of me on that day. I remembered how he had looked at me with tears in his eyes, and afterward he had said, “You did splendidly, Ma'am.” Such a wonderful comfort that had been to me.

And now it was Vicky's turn.

I was glad to see Mama there looking so splendid in violet-colored velvet trimmed with ermine, and white and violet silk. Trust Mama to wear royal colors! I could not help recalling how, at the time of my wedding, we had not been good friends. How everything had changed! Albert had taught me—and perhaps Mama as well—to be more tolerant, and how much happier we were now that we were good friends! Mama's great delight was in the children; she loved them dearly and when they were naughty she used to beg that they should not be punished because their crying hurt her so. How different she had been with her own daughter! I shall never forget the sudden sharp jab of the holly I had been forced to wear under my chin.

I kept Arthur and Leopold beside me. I had impressed on them the solemnity of the occasion and the necessity for good behavior. They were very impressed.

Then I saw Vicky come forward between Albert and Uncle Leopold, and Fritz looking pale and agitated but very tender.

It was moving to see those two dear young people now married, walking down the aisle to the strains of Mr. Mendelssohn's “Wedding March.”

Then back to Buckingham Palace, and we stepped through the celebrated window while below the crowds cheered wildly.

It was a wonderful day of mixed emotions. Later the young couple drove off to Windsor for a few days' honeymoon.

THE DAY FOR Vicky's departure was fast approaching. I was not looking forward to it because I knew how heartbreaking it was going to be to say goodbye to my daughter. I knew that at times I had wished she had not been a third party at those cozy dinners; but all the same she was my daughter; and the fact that she was now married seemed to bring her closer to me. I began to worry about the sort of life she would have in Prussia. She had been rather spoiled at home; I wondered whether her new family would be as doting as we—or rather Albert—had been.

The children wept bitterly and loudly when it was time to say goodbye and I tried to hold back my tears. Albert looked wan and ill and really heartbroken. He was going with them to Gravesend where they would embark. He must be with his daughter for as long as he possibly could.

As the carriage drove away it began to snow, and I watched the flakes through a blur of tears thinking how alarmingly quickly time passed, and that my little daughter was now a married woman.

When Albert came back from saying goodbye I could see he was really stricken.

I tried to comfort him, to tell him that I shared his sorrow; but he did not believe that. He would remember my petty jealousy of my daughter. He believed that the great sorrow was his. He would like to shut himself away to mourn, but I would not let him do that. He looked so ill I must share his sorrow.

I went to his room. He was at the table writing and I knew to whom. There were tears on his cheeks. I went to him and put my arms about him, and looking over his shoulder read:

My heart was full when you laid your head on my breast and gave vent to your tears. I am not of a demonstrative nature and therefore you can hardly know how dear you have always been to me and what a void you have left behind in my heart; yet not on my heart for there assuredly you will abide henceforth as you have done till now, but in my daily life which is ever more reminding my heart of your absence.

It was the letter a lover might have written, and Albert loved Vicky… deeply… perhaps more than he had ever loved anyone else.

I would not think of that. Vicky was gone; and Albert was my husband. I would comfort him. I would share his sorrow.

“Oh Albert,” I said, “let us comfort each other.”

And we clung together weeping.

I WAS WRITING to Vicky every day. I felt there was so much she ought to know. She wrote in return but not so frequently. She was romantic. No doubt she thought that marriage was all bliss; she would have to learn about the shadow side. I hoped she would not do that too soon.

I wanted confidences. I longed to help. I would have liked a detailed account of every day of her new life. How were they treating her, those Prussians? Did they appreciate the honor that had come to them through marriage with British royalty? Were they giving her the respect due to her?

Vicky wrote back a little guardedly. She loved Fritz and that made everything all right. She was not sure what the Prussians thought of her. They did think she was rather small.

“Small!” I cried in indignation. “She is taller than I, and I am not a dwarf!”

I did feel she needed to be warned. I wrote to her telling her that even the noblest men could be self-centered when it came to marriage. Women were expected to be submissive to them and sometimes that could be humiliating.

I was disturbed when I heard that Vicky was pregnant.

“It is far too early,” I said.

Albert was so disturbed that he went to Prussia at the end of May to assure himself that she was all right.

He came back less worried. Vicky was well and looking forward to the birth of the child, which was due in January.

In August, Albert and I visited her. It was five months before the child was due and Vicky appeared to be in good health. It was good to be with her again though I should have liked to be there with her alone so that we could have shared confidences. It must have been the one time in my life when I had not wished for Albert's company.

I told Vicky that I longed to be at her bedside when her child was born. I said, “It is a right which the humblest mother can claim.”

“But you, dearest Mama, are not the humblest mother. You are the Queen.”

I sighed and contented myself with giving Vicky advice, warning her—without alarming her unduly—of the ordeal that lay ahead. When I looked back over my own experiences I thought how humiliating it was. Why hadn't nature thought of a different way of reproducing the race? Why should there be times in a woman's life when she must feel like an animal…a cow for instance.

When we returned I continued to write to Vicky daily; Albert told me that I should not do so.

“Do you not see that you are tiring Vicky with this perpetual correspondence?” he asked. “She has enough to think of. She cannot answer your letters. She is being well cared for. She does not need your advice.”

“I suppose,” I retorted, “you want to be the only one who writes to Vicky.”

He sighed. “I have heard from Stockmar that if you go on writing these letters to our daughter, she will be ill. You must stop meddling with these trivialities.”

“It is a very sad thing,” I replied, “when one writes in spite of fatigue and trouble to be told that it bores the person to whom one writes.”

Albert assumed the patient manner and called me his dear child. “Vicky is trying to adjust to life in a country that is not of her birth. She is going through a difficult time. Please, my love, do try to understand.”

“Do you think I don't understand? Do you think my thoughts are not with her every hour of the day?”

And so it went on.

But, of course, I did write less frequently to Vicky; but that did not stop my worrying about her.

It was strange but I was closer to her now that she was absent than I had been when she was with me.

In January, there was news from Prussia. Vicky had a son—Wilhelm—and hers had been a long and difficult labor.

I wrote to her at once: “My precious darling, you suffered much more than I ever did. How I wish I could have lightened your burden.”

I felt moved and angry that women should have to suffer so much.

WE WERE SUDDENLY in the middle of a ministerial crisis due to the reverberations of the Orsini affair. This was because it was proved without doubt that the conspirators had actually hatched their plot in England. The French Foreign Minister, Walewski, sent a strongly worded note to Lord Palmerston demanding that foreigners rebelling against their own countries should not be given refuge in England. Palmerston's response was to introduce a rather weak Bill making conspiracy to murder an offense.

Palmerston was still an unpopular politician at this time and his enemies—those who sought his post—saw a good excuse for getting rid of him. I thought it was a good Bill but the verdict was that Palmerston was weakly giving way to his old friend Napoleon; and the Bill was defeated. Palmerston resigned, and I had no alternative but to summon Lord Derby, who was able to form a ministry.

It was all very disturbing. Moreover we were anxious about Bertie. He was not doing as well under Mr. Gibbs as he had under Mr. Birch. The Press was always eager for stories of him; he was a favorite with them and there were hints that Albert and I were cruel to him. Why was the Prince of Wales not seen more in public? was continually asked. On the rare occasions when he had appeared he had won the people's hearts. Let them see more of him.

Albert said that public approval would go to Bertie's head and make him more impossible than he already was.

We decided—or rather Albert did in consultation with Stockmar— that Bertie should have a governor instead of a tutor. The governor's rule was to be strict and Bertie would not be able to leave the house without reporting to him. Colonel Bruce had been chosen because he was a man who was firm and would enforce the laws.

Then it was thought that he should have a spell at Oxford or Cambridge. The Dean of Christ Church wanted Bertie to take up residence in the college but Albert would not hear of that. It would give him too much liberty. He should be in a private house with his governor watching every movement.

Bertie disliked learning. I had to have a little sympathy with him. After all, when I had been young I had made excuses to escape from my books. It was something Albert could not understand. I feared my son was not unlike me. Perhaps he had inherited his unsatisfactory traits from me—certainly they did not come from Albert.

There were other anxieties, too. We were constantly concerned that Leopold would fall and hurt himself and start to bleed. Alfred had expressed a wish to go into the Navy and then was heartbroken because it meant parting with Bertie.

Children were a mixed blessing.

Then I heard that Vicky was proposing to pay us a visit.

It was wonderful to see Albert's joy. He had been looking quite ill lately, and I was really worried about his health. He suffered a lot of pain from rheumatism and that gave him a drawn look; he caught cold very easily and that was not good. I told him he worked too hard. We should take more holidays; he needed the sea breezes of Osborne or the clean mountain air of Balmoral.

But he looked almost his old self when he greeted Vicky. She was different, grown up, a wife and a mother. There was an air of worldliness about her; she had lost that beautiful innocence; she had already undergone the dreadful ordeal of childbirth and had suffered greatly because of it—more than I ever had. Poor Vicky!

Naturally I wanted to be alone with her, to have some of those little talks that can only take place between women; I wanted to know all the details of that terrible ordeal.

Vicky had something on her mind, and it came out when she was with us both.

“Papa, Mama,” she said, “there is something I have to tell you.”

“My darling…,” began Albert alarmed.

“Tell us, Vicky dearest,” I said. “It is about little Wilhelm.”

We waited in trepidation.

“Oh he is…very well. Otherwise…he is a perfect child…It is just…,” She bit her lips and looked from one of us to the other. “It is just that…well, it was a difficult birth. I don't know whether they told you how difficult. They thought I was going to die.”

A look of anguish crossed Albert's face. I felt as he did. But she was here, she was with us. So it had not happened.

“You see a difficult birth…a breech birth…His arm was dislocated when he was delivered.”

“You mean he has…a deformity?” I asked.

“It is just his arm,” she said.

“Can nothing be done?” asked Albert. “We have had the best doctors and…nothing…But he is a perfect child in every other way.”

I went to her and put my arms around her. Albert was staring straight ahead. I knew he was not thinking of little Wilhelm's arm but of his adored Vicky, who might not have come through her ordeal.

HOW ALBERT ENJOYED those tête-à-têtes with Vicky. Sometimes I felt I was a little de trop and he would rather have had her entirely to himself. But that was nonsense of course. She was my daughter as well as his and I was the one who had suffered to bring her into the world. She was very sweet and loving to us both, more so with me than she had been at home. I thought: Being away has made her appreciate me more.

Albert loved to talk to her confidentially—as though she were adult, which of course she was now. We told her of our worries about Bertie.

“Dear Bertie,” she said, “he is all right at heart, you know.”

“He is lazy,” said Albert. “He does not realize his responsibilities.”

“He will manage when he has to bear them.” She gave me a loving look. “It is not going to be for years and years.”

“Bertie is responsible now … as Prince of Wales,” said Albert. “He will not study.”

“Some very good kings have been poor scholars,” Vicky reminded him.

It was pleasant to hear her putting in a good word for Bertie.

“You always overshadowed him, my dearest child,” said Albert. “Compared with you…”

“He could do many things that I could not. He's at the university now and that must be quite a change for him. I must see him before I go. I shall go down and surprise him.”

“I am sure it will be the most pleasant surprise imaginable,” said Albert.

She did go and according to her it was a most enjoyable visit. According to Mrs. Bruce, the wife of the formidable Colonel, it brought out yet another deplorable trait in Bertie's character for with Vicky was one of the ladies she had brought with her from Prussia, one of her dearest friends, Lady Walburga Paget, who was a very attractive young woman.

Mrs. Bruce had seen something quite subversive in Bertie's behavior toward Lady Walburga. He had been flirtatious and frivolous. Certain traits hitherto only suspected had been proved.

Bertie was too fond of the opposite sex. Bertie would have to be watched even more closely.

THIS LED TO further discussions on Bertie. “He should be married,” said Albert.

“It would be the best thing possible,” I agreed.

“As a matter of fact,” said Albert, “I have already given some thought to the matter.” Albert could always be trusted to see ahead of everyone. “I have consulted with Uncle Leopold and Stockmar and have, as a matter of fact, a list of princesses one of whom might be suitable for Bertie.”

“A list!” cried Vicky. “Oh, do let me see it, Papa.”

“By all means,” said Albert, and he produced the list.

Vicky looked at it and smiled.

“You will know some of them,” said Albert.

“Yes, I have met a few.”

“You must watch for us, Vicky,” went on Albert. “Report to us. See if you can select a bride for Bertie. If you approve I shall feel much happier.”

“I see,” said Vicky, “that Alexandra of Denmark is on the list.”

“She is the last one—I imagine an afterthought of Uncle Leopold.”

“Well, of course,” said Vicky, “she is Danish. The others are all German and in Uncle Leopold's and Stockmar's eyes, the fact that the others are Germans puts them ahead.”

We laughed with her. “You sound as though you know this Alexandra.”

“I have met her. She is exceptionally beautiful. Very pleasant … unspoilt.”

“Well,” said Albert, “let's keep her on the list.”

“Let me have it,” said Vicky. “I will spy out the land.”

“You realize this is a very serious matter, my dearest,” Albert warned her.

“I do indeed. A marriage always is and the marriage of the Prince of Wales especially so.”

Albert was very sad when Vicky went back, but there were repeated pledges to meet again very soon. Fortunately she was not so very far away from us and frequent visits were a possibility.

“That makes the situation just tolerable,” said Albert.

Meanwhile there were the usual crises. There was a general election with the result that Lord Palmerston was Prime Minister for a second time. The Whigs had now become the Liberals and his government consisted of various elements—people calling themselves Whigs, radicals, Peelites, and followers of Palmerston—all united under the name of Liberal.

Mr. Gladstone joined their party and became Chancellor of the Exchequer in the government.

Palmerston was as energetic as ever. I heard he would sit listening to debates looking so serene that he might have been asleep; but when he spoke he would show that he had not missed a single relevant point.

He had quite a liking for Bertie, and I was sure he was one of those who thought we were too severe with him. It was he who suggested that Bertie should visit Canada and America as representative of the country.

Albert was taken aback. The idea seemed incongruous.

“Not so,” said Palmerston with that slightly amused look he always seemed to bestow on Albert. “I think they will like him.”

Disbelieving, we agreed. Albert said his governor, Colonel Bruce, should go with him so that he should continue with his studies.

“There will be no time for that with the program I have prepared for him,” said the merry Pam. “The Duke of Newcastle will accompany him and the Prince will be very busy. There is no point in making such a journey just to study. That could be done at home.”

Albert and I agreed at last, providing Colonel Bruce accompanied him.

That tour was a revelation. Bertie, it seemed, was a good ambassador. Lord Palmerston came to us rubbing his hands with glee. This visit has done diplomatic relations more good than a hundred conferences. They loved the Prince. Everyone wanted to talk to him. He had a smile for everyone. He has a flair for making speeches. The women adored him.

Of course we were delighted to hear of Bertie's success. Colonel Bruce reported that the Prince's fondness for the opposite sex appeared to have increased rather than diminished. He feared the worst. The Duke of Newcastle had other views. He said the Prince was charming and had delighted all who met him; he had done a great job for the country.

Albert said, “There must have been an improvement as we are getting praise from every quarter. We owe all this to Colonel Bruce. I think he should be given some honor for the work he has done.”

“I will speak to Lord Palmerston,” I told him.

I was quite surprised at Lord Palmerston's reaction.

“Colonel Bruce, Your Majesty! This was not Colonel Bruce's doing. It was the Prince's. The success of the tour is entirely due to him.”

“The Prince Consort thinks it is due to the discipline Colonel Bruce has imposed on him that he has improved sufficiently to behave as he did. We thought that the Order of the Bath…”

Lord Palmerston raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.

“I like people who do good work to be rewarded,” I said.

“As I do, Ma'am. It is the Prince who should be rewarded. This is his triumph. I do not think Your Majesty's government would consider giving rewards where they are not earned. No, Ma'am, I do not think it would bestow an order on the colonel.”

There were times when Lord Palmerston could be almost insolent, but in a light-hearted, amused sort of way, so that it was difficult to take offense.

“Your Majesty must be feeling very proud of the Prince,” he went on. “I am glad he did well.”

“In spite of Bruce,” he said softly.

And I could see that look in his eyes. I knew he would be stubborn. There would be no order for Colonel Bruce. I could imagine his having the temerity to go to the country on such a matter.

I felt only mildly put out. Albert felt it more keenly. But I was glad that Bertie had achieved his success alone.

BERTIE'S TRIUMPH WAS short-lived. He was soon in trouble again. He had no doubt enjoyed too much freedom on his tour and did not relish settling down to work.

He was caught in an escapade that greatly disturbed Albert. He had actually escaped from the colonel and decided he would go to stay with some friends he had made when he was at Oxford.

This meant that first he would come to London and from there go to Oxford. Fortunately the plan was discovered. Colonel Bruce telegraphed to the Palace and when Bertie arrived in London a carriage was waiting to conduct him to the Palace.

Poor Albert was so distressed. Bertie was too old to be beaten now, but Albert was determined that drastic measures should be adopted.

There were conferences and a great deal of thought was given to the matter. In due course we decided that he should not return to Cambridge.

He should have a spell of discipline with the army in Ireland.

He was sent to Curragh Camp.

VICKY PAID US a second visit—this time with Fritz. We talked not only about a princess for Bertie but a husband for Alice. Dear placid Alice! I should hate to lose her but I knew I should have to do so. That was the way of the world. Vicky at least was happy with Fritz, although I believed she was not so much at ease with her Prussian relations.

I felt very well that autumn. Balmoral was a delight and it was always a great joy to escape to it. But I was worried about Albert's health. He would drive himself even when he was feeling ill. But he was better at Balmoral than anywhere else, I believed, and that made the place especially important to me.

I loved the Highland gatherings on Deeside, and that year I invited two hundred guests to join us. Uncle Leopold visited us and with him came Prince Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt and his brother. I was very interested to see that Prince Louis and Alice were quite interested in each other.

Vicky wrote that she was pregnant again. Mama and I were in agreement that it was too soon.

“Oh dear,” I sighed. “I hope she is not going to follow my example. Nine times I underwent that ordeal!”

Albert was delighted, although of course worried for Vicky.

“You will never understand what these ordeals are for women,” I told him irritably.

I was irritable because I was worried—about Vicky's pregnancy, Alice's prospects of marriage, Bertie's troubles, and most of all Albert's health.

It was a great relief to us when Vicky was safely delivered of a little girl. Charlotte, they called her. Albert said we must go to see her.

“I have a great desire to see Germany once more,” he said solemnly.

We took Alice with us. She was such a dear good girl, always so calm and helpful—an ideal daughter. I should miss her when she married.

Vicky was well and I thought the children were enchanting. Little Wilhelm's deformity was cleverly hidden and he was such a pretty child, sturdy and beautifully fair and very intelligent. The baby was delightful having passed out of the froggy stage.

Vicky seemed to be happy, and of course Albert was delighted to be in his homeland again. We visited Rosenau and he enjoyed telling Alice about his childhood. He was very sad though, because his stepmother— of whom he had been very fond—had died recently.

“Well,” said Albert philosophically, “it is something we all come to in time.”

We met Duke Ernest and Alexandrina. Albert wanted to be alone quite a lot with Ernest. Sometimes, looking back, I feel that Albert had a premonition and wanted to relive every moment of his childhood.

A terrible incident happened that might have killed him. I was glad I did not hear of it until it was over. I was not with him at the time; he was driving in an open carriage drawn by four horses when they bolted. The coachman could do nothing and the horses went galloping off heading straight for a level crossing. Albert, always cool-headed, saw that action could not be delayed and he jumped out of the rapidly moving carriage just before it crashed into the barrier; the coachman was pinned down and unable to move and Albert lay unconscious on the ground. Fortunately two of the horses had released themselves and came back to the stables—so help reached the spot in time.

I had been out, and when I came in was immediately told what had happened. In panic I rushed up to Albert's bedroom. His face was bruised and he was in bed looking very shocked.

Stockmar, with whom we had had a reunion in Saxe-Coburg, was by good luck, with us; he had immediately taken care of Albert and he told me that he was not as badly hurt as he had at first feared. The coachman was more seriously injured and one of the horses had to be shot.

I was horrified. How easy it was for disaster to overtake us! I thanked God that Albert was safe.

He made a quick recovery and we were able to go to Rosenau for his birthday, which was a great pleasure.

Albert and Stockmar spent a great deal of time together; I laughed at them and said they discussed their ailments as fervently as generals planned strategy in a major war.

Albert looked at me rather sadly. He said, “Dearest child, I hope you will be happy.”

Which was odd, and later made me feel that he knew.

WE HAD ANOTHER visit from Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt. I had decided that I wanted him for Alice. She quite clearly liked him. I had noticed that she had had one or two intimate chats with Vicky who would give her a little initiation into the demands of married life; and still Alice seemed prepared to undertake it; she must have been really taken with Louis! I wondered if Vicky had shown her one of my letters to her which I had sent soon after the birth of William.

I had written:

The despising of our poor degraded sex—for what else is it, as we poor creatures are born for man's pleasure and amusement—is a little in all clever men's natures. Dear Papa even is not quite exempt, though he would not admit it…

Well, perhaps we know these things and still we go into them just as my dear Alice was preparing to do.

I prevailed on Albert to sound Louis out and it appeared that the young man was eager for the match.

“He is sensible and intelligent,” I said. “He is very easy to get along with. He is almost like one of the family already. I rather like that weather-beaten face of his. I like handsome looks and I am glad if they are there, but I do not make them a condition.”

Albert gave me one of those tender exasperated looks and he said he supposed there would be no objections on either side to the match.

That evening there were several people present, but I saw Louis and Alice talking very seriously together.

I went over to them and Alice whispered, “Mama, Louis has asked me to marry him. May I have your blessing?”

I smiled at her tenderly and murmured that this was hardly the place. We would meet later.

Albert was with me when I sent for Alice and Louis to come to us. We all embraced and we told the happy couple how delighted we were.

That was a very happy evening.

I SHALL NEVER forget that March. Mama had not been well. She had had a very unpleasant abscess under her arm and Sir James thought she would not be better until it was removed.

This had been done and we thought she was recovering when we heard that she had a very bad cold. Sir James came to tell us that he was very worried about her.

Albert and I immediately went to Frogmore.

Mama was not in bed but lying on a sofa rather elaborately dressed in a beautiful negligee. I felt relieved because she looked so well; then I realized that I had thought this because the blinds were drawn.

“Albert and I came at once when we heard,” I said, and I knelt down, taking her hand and kissing it.

Mama looked at me vaguely. I glanced at Albert who laid his hand on my shoulder, and the appalling truth struck me that Mama did not know who I was.

Albert put his arm round me.

“We will stay here for the night,” he said.

Sleep was impossible. I knew that she was dying, and I felt a terrible sick remorse. Pictures from the past kept coming into my mind. I could not rest.

Very early the next morning—it was not yet four o'clock—I rose and went into her room.

She was lying very still. Her eyes were open but she did not see me.

In the morning I was at her bedside, but it was all over. She had gone.

Albert comforted me. “These things must come to pass, my love,” he said.

I clung to him. He understood my remorse. I was very depressed. I read my journals—all the hard things I had written about Mama. How tragic… that rift between us! All Mama had tried to do was protect me. Lehzen and I had said cruel things about her, but all she wanted was the best for me. Albert had made me understand.

I wanted to explain to Mama, to tell her that I did not mean the cruel things I had written. I wanted her to know …

I would not go out. I would see no one. I was sunk in melancholy.

Albert reasoned with me. People were talking. I was acting strangely. Because of my grandfather I must never act in a manner that could be called strange. People were only waiting to start rumors, to say wicked, untruthful things about me.

I must stop grieving. I had been wrong, but I recognized my fault and was sorry for it. Those about me had been to blame. I had been only a child.

So he talked to me and he made me see everything in a reasonable light.

I must stop mourning for Mama.

I began to go out again. I was laughing once more. I was quite merry in fact. I began to see things differently. After all, Mama had not become perfect just because she was dead. She had endeavored to bring herself into prominence; she had been rude to Uncle William and unkind to Aunt Adelaide.

I must be sensible. Whatever I had done wrong I was sorry for. I had been young and innocent. All the same, I wished that I had been able to explain certain things to Mama.

BERTIE HAD LEFT Ireland and was back at Cambridge. Vicky's efforts to find a princess for him had not met with any success, and our thoughts were turning more and more to Princess Alexandra of Denmark. The Danish royal family was rather insignificant and very low down the list, but Vicky wrote that Alexandra herself was far the most beautiful of the princesses.

“In that case,” I said, “we shall tell Bertie nothing about her. Let him remain in ignorance of her existence until we find someone more suitable.”

It was unfortunate that Albert's brother, Ernest who was very much against an alliance between us and Denmark—as no doubt all the German relations were—wrote to Bertie advising him against the marriage. As it was the first Bertie had heard of it, he was most intrigued.

Albert was very annoyed with Ernest and wrote reprimanding him.

We discussed it together. Bertie had met the Princess of Meiningen and the daughter of Prince Albrecht of Prussia and had not been in the least attracted by them. The daughter of Frederick of the Netherlands was too ugly. Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt had a sister, but Alice was to marry into that house and we did not want two connections with it.

It really did seem as though Alexandra of Denmark was the only one; and as there were reports of her dazzling beauty it was very likely that Bertie would have no objection to her.

Winter had come. Albert was suffering from a cold; his rheumatism was especially painful and he could not sleep at night.

Then on a gloomy November day the blow fell. I did not know at the time because Albert kept it from me. I should never have known if I had not gone through his papers afterward and found the letter from Stockmar.

All I knew was that he had become withdrawn, deep in thought, very melancholy and uneasy.

I knew that he was brooding on something and I asked him what was wrong.

“Oh nothing… nothing that need concern you, my dear child.”

I presumed that he was merely not feeling well, and I urged him to rest and above all not go out in the bad weather.

A few days later he said he must go to Cambridge. He wanted to see Bertie.

“Not in this weather,” I said. “Bertie can wait.”

“I would rather go today,” he replied. “No, Albert. Not in this weather, and you know you are not well.”

“I shall be there and back in a very short time.”

“I am going to forbid it,” I said.

“No, my love, this is something I must do. I am going to Cambridge.”

The firmness of his tone told me that I could not stop him, and against my wishes, he went.

When he returned he was cold and shivering. Then I did insist that he go to bed at once, and this time he did not protest.

I sat by his bed scolding him for disobeying my wishes. And just to see Bertie! It was senseless. How was Bertie?

Bertie was well. They had talked. “As if that could not have waited!” I said.

He smiled at me and shook his head, and I dropped the matter because I could see how tired he was.

Albert rallied a little the next day. I was delighted. He would throw off this cold; we would find something which would alleviate his rheumatism. He would be well again.

In the midst of this a crisis arose that threatened to be of international importance. A war had been raging in America between the north and the south, and the people of the south had sent two envoys to us to plead their cause. These two men, Mason and Slidell, were sailing in the Trent, which was an English ship. The ship was boarded by the enemies of the south and the envoys were taken off. This could not be allowed. No one must interfere with British ships on the high seas; any who did must be made aware of the might of Britain. It looked as though the Americans would be fighting us as well as each other.

There was a demand from the British government that the envoys must be released at once or our ambassador would be recalled from Washington. The government was ready to take firm action and I was behind them. Lord John Russell sent me a draft of the ultimatum he had decided to send.

I shall never forget the sight of Albert in his padded dressing gown with the scarlet velvet collar and the fierce determination on his poor wan face.

“This will not do,” he said.

“Albert,” I chided, “you will go back to bed at once. You are not well enough to concern yourself in these matters.”

“This is a very dangerous situation,” he replied. “This cannot be sent…as it is.”

“But it is what we mean. We cannot allow these…ruffians…to board our ships.”

“These are special circumstances. We do not want war with America. We need peace… peace in this country.”

“Of course we need peace, but we are not going to allow these people to dictate to us on land or sea.”

“It is a matter of wording the ultimatum. I am sure the Americans do not want war with us. They have enough to do fighting each other. But you must see that to receive a note like this would give them no alternative. It needs to be redrafted.”

“You had better tell Russell that. No …you had not. You had better get to bed and rest.”

“I cannot rest. I shall redraft this. I think we can avoid an ugly situation.”

“Dear Albert, you are ill.”

He lighted the little green lamp on his desk and sat down to work.

When he had finished writing he leaned his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands.

“Victoria…my love,” he said, “I feel so weak. It is an effort to hold a pen.”

“I told you you should not have done this. You will not listen to me.”

He smiled at me wanly.

I knew later that Albert's action then saved us from a very awkward situation that could have resulted in war. The affair of the Trent has consequently become one of those incidents that are hardly ever referred to in history books and Albert's part in it is forgotten by most; but it is just another example of the good Albert did for this country.

The next day he was very ill indeed, and Sir James came to me and said he would like a second opinion.

Dr. Baly, who worked in conjunction with Sir James and of whom Albert had a high opinion, had recently been killed in a railway accident; and ever since the Flora Hastings affair I suspected that Sir James did not have a great deal of confidence in himself.

“Do you think the Prince is very ill then?” I demanded anxiously. “I should like to call in a second opinion,” he replied. “Well do so,” I told him.

He did, that day, and I was alarmed to see that the man he had called was Dr. William Jenner, a man who specialized in fevers—especially typhoid.

Dr. Jenner examined Albert and I waited fearfully for the verdict.

“The Prince does not have typhoid fever—” said Dr. Jenner.

“Thank God!” I cried.

“At the moment…,” went on Dr. Jenner. “But, Ma'am, I cannot hide from you the fact that there is a possibility he might be affected. We must be prepared.”

A terrible fear took possession of me. Typhoid! The dreaded disease! How many people had died of it. But not Albert … no! That must not be.

But Albert grew worse. It was no use hiding our eyes to the fact. He could not rest. He said he would sleep in a separate bed.

“No, no,” I cried. “I do not mind your being restless. I do not want to sleep. I want to watch over you all the time.”

He smiled at me wanly. I believe Albert knew. He had known for some time.

I tried to weep but tears would not come. He saw that and did his best to comfort me.

“You will be all right, little one,” he said. “You love life. I never did … as you did. It is only the thought of leaving those I love that hurts me.”

Albert rallied a little and after that our hopes soared. He said he wanted to hear some music, and I sent Alice into the next room telling her to leave the door open and play. She played “Eine Feste Burg ist Unser Gott”; and he smiled.

“Dear Alice,” he murmured. “Does Vicky know … about me?”

“I haven't told her you are ill. In her condition… she would be so upset.”

Vicky was expecting another child. I thought, if he does not recover, this will kill her. And even in that moment I felt the twinges of jealousy because he cared so much for her.

He was in such pain that I begged the doctors to do something for him. They gave him an opiate and he fell into a peaceful slumber. I sat by his bed watching his dear face. How he had changed since that day when we stood side by side at the altar!

He had a good night's sleep on account of the opiates, and the next day he seemed better. He asked Alice to read to him. She brought Silas Marner and sat there, but his attention strayed and he said he did not care for the book.

He was tossing and turning and I did not know what to do. For five nights I had scarcely slept. Albert was taking opiates; it was the only way he could rest. He was speaking mostly in German now and I believed that some of the time he thought he was a child again.

I felt as if my heart was breaking. I would look my fears in the face. I turned from Dr. Jenner to Sir James, because he wanted all the time to soothe me and to pretend that Albert would recover.

But at last Dr. Jenner told me. Albert was suffering from gastric fever…bowel fever. I knew what that meant, though he would not use the dreaded word Typhoid.

I sat by Albert's bed. He knew I was there for he kept murmuring: “Gutes Frauchen.”

Jenner wanted to call in more opinions. There was Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Holland. I was afraid that so many doctors would alarm Albert and bring home to him the seriousness of his case.

Albert said, “If Stockmar were here…”

I believed that, too. There was magic in the old man that perhaps we created, but what did that matter? It was there for us both.

I wanted to blame someone. So I blamed Stockmar for leaving us. If he were here Albert would recover.

I sat by the bed. Albert liked to lean his head on my shoulder. He said, “It is comfortable like this, my dearest child.”

He was worrying about Vicky again. “Does she know now?”

“I have sent word to her that you are ill.”

“You should have told her I was dying.”

“No,” I said fiercely. “No.”

That evening he asked me to come to his room after I had had dinner. Dinner! As if I cared for dinner!

I went to him. The doctor met me at the door.

“Your Majesty should not stay long. The Prince should rest.”

“Albert … my dearest Albert.”

He smiled at me.

“I must not stay.”

“It is the only time you can see me,” he said.

“It is the doctors. They tell me you must rest.”

I kissed his forehead and left him.

The next day Alice sent a message to Cambridge for Bertie to come.

She had not told him how ill his father was and Bertie seemed to think it was some minor indisposition. He was soon sobered.

Albert was passing into what they called the crisis.

All through the night we watched and waited. The doctors said there were grounds for hoping he would recover. That was six in the morning. I went to the Blue Room. In the light of the burned-out candles the doctor looked serious. Albert lay in bed, his beautiful eyes wide open, but he did not seem to see what was there. He looked surprisingly young.

I went to his bedside and looked down at him.

All the children came in—except Beatrice—and kissed his hand. He was breathing heavily. He could not speak but his lips formed the words, “Who is that?”

I cried, “It is your little wife.”

I could not bear to stay there for I was facing the truth now. This dreadful tragedy was upon me. I hurried out of the room, the sobs shaking my body.

In a short while Alice was calling me back.

I knelt by his bed. Alice was on the other side; Bertie and Helena were at the foot of the bed. I was aware of others in the room.

His lips moved. “Gutes Frauchen.”

I felt I could bear no more. He had been holding my hand and I felt his grip slacken. I stood up and kissed his forehead.

“Oh my dear…my darling,” I whispered.

And it was all over. Albert was dead.

WE WERE IN mourning. The whole world should be mourning for the passing of Albert.

I was stunned. I could not believe this had happened. He was gone. How could I live without him? I had the children. They rallied round. Even Baby Beatrice tried to comfort me. Dear Alice was so gentle, so loving. What could she do for me? No one could do anything any more. He was gone. He had been my life and my life was now over.

I had no wish to see anyone, to go anywhere; I just wanted to be alone with my overwhelming grief.

Albert, the beloved, the saint, that most incomparable of men was gone forever.