Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone

LORD PALMERSTON CAME DOWN TO WINDSOR TO SEE ME. I sensed a certain reproach in his manner. He was thinking that the period of mourning should be coming to an end. He was really rather insensitive. As if my mourning would ever end!

He told me that he was delighted with the popularity of the Princess of Wales. She and the Prince were cheered everywhere they went; and the people were pleased with the marriage.

“Princess Alexandra is a dear girl,” I said.

“She and the Prince make an excellent combination, Ma'am,” replied Palmerston. “It is a good thing that the Prince has no aversion to appearing in public.”

He gave me a sly look. I thought: I have never liked you, Lord Palmerston, but I know Albert thought you were a good politician and of course you are; but you are quite unlike Lord Melbourne. Oh, how I wished he were with me now—not the old man he had become but the Lord M I had known when I first came to the throne.

“The people like to see their Sovereign from time to time.”

“Lord Palmerston,” I retorted, “I have suffered the greatest blow that life could have dealt me.”

“The world knows it, Ma'am.”

Again that irony as though they knew, not because of Albert's saintly reputation, but because I forced the knowledge on them.

My manner turned especially cold and regal.

“I hope, Lord Palmerston that you have not brought bad news. Trouble never seems to be very far away.”

“It is life, Ma'am. But we have had this excellent wedding and we have the popularity of the young royal couple. That is something to rejoice in…particularly as Your Majesty has become such a recluse. The Prince is doing an excellent job. Let us be grateful for that. There is this matter of the throne of Greece.”

“Oh, is Duke Ernest being difficult again?”

“He is withdrawing from the contest. The next contender is a brother of the Princess of Wales.”

“Indeed!”

“It seems to me a good solution, Ma'am. Duke Ernest will remain in Saxe-Coburg and in due course it will be that duchy for Prince Alfred.”

“The eldest son of the Danish family will be the king of that country in due course.”

“Exactly, Ma'am. That is why it will not be the eldest son. It will be the next.”

“Is he not very young?”

“Royalty frequently has to shoulder burdens of state at an early age, as Your Majesty well knows.”

I sighed fleetingly thinking of that morning at Kensington Palace when I had awakened to find myself Queen.

“It seems that there is a universal agreement on this matter—which is a boon to us all,” said Lord Palmerston. “But alas I see trouble ahead in that affair of Schleswig-Holstein. Bismarck is intent on one thing: aggrandizement of Prussia.”

“I do not like what I hear of that man. The Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia find him somewhat distasteful.”

“Alas, Ma'am, there are times when sovereigns are obliged to endure statesmen whom they do not like.”

He gave me that half-mocking look. He knew very well how much I had disliked him until Albert had discovered how good he could be dealing with the Crimean War and the Mutiny. He would have heard that I had abhorred Sir Robert Peel in the beginning, even though in time he had become my very good friend.

“Let us hope that does not grow into real trouble,” I said coolly. “We can hope, Ma'am, but at the same time we must be prepared.”

I knew him well. He had come down for two main reasons: chiefly to warn me that I should show myself to the people who were getting a little irritated by my seclusion, and also to prepare me for trouble over those wretched Duchies of Schleswig and Holstein. Conflict between European states was always distressing, because I was related to so many heads of states and would find myself in the middle of warring relations, each trying to urge me to take their side. I did not relish that.

He left me with the wish that he would see me soon in London, to which I gave no definite reply, for I felt I could not face the people yet.

He said nothing about one other matter that was worrying me. Alfred, it seemed, was going the same way as Bertie. There was a scandal about his relations with a young woman whom he had met when stationed at Malta.

I wished to know more of this, but I found it very hard to discover the facts. Bertie, of course, considered it a natural occurrence—commonplace, in fact. All young men had these affairs. They passed. They were not of any real consequence. I mentioned the matter later to Lord Palmerston who shrugged it aside with equal nonchalance.

“There will always be these rumors about royalty, Ma'am. Do not concern yourself with them. The people are indulgent. In fact, they like their princes to be human.”

How blasé they were, these men! How different from that incomparable being!

IT WAS AUTUMN—and Albert had always said that was the best time for Balmoral. At first I wondered whether I could endure to be there, but I liked to do exactly what we had done in the past. It seemed that Albert's spirit was close to me in that dear country.

Alice and her husband were with us. More than anyone Alice understood my grief. She had always been so gentle—I think the best loved of all my daughters. She was not clever, like Vicky, but Vicky had often irritated me by the way in which she monopolized Albert. Alice had always been my girl. I was sorry in a way that she had married and wished, selfishly, that I could have kept her with me; but I often had to remind myself of my poor mad grandfather who had ruined the lives of his daughters because he loved them so much that he could not bear to part with them—and most of them had lived frustrated lives. I would never be like that. However it was a comfort to have Alice with me.

They had decided, all of them, to come to Scotland for a holiday.

I had talked with Vicky and Fritz who were uneasy about the rise of Bismarck. King William, under the spell of Bismarck, had disagreed with his parliament and offered to abdicate. If he had done so Vicky and Fritz would have been Queen and King; but after a while the King decided against that, kept the throne and made Bismarck his chief minister. Vicky and Fritz were so openly opposed to Bismarck, whom the people supported, that they became very unpopular throughout Prussia. Bismarck's slogan was “Blood and Iron,” which meant that his aim was to see Prussia the dominant power in Europe.

I had known for some time that this was going on and asked myself what Albert would have done. Prussia was pitting itself against Austria who was the leader of the German states. What Bismarck really wanted was a unification of all the German states, presumably led by Prussia— which meant Bismarck.

It was pleasant to think that Vicky could have a brief respite here in Scotland, but what a tragedy that Albert was not here to solve Prussia's problems.

We had left Vicky and Fritz with their children at Abergeldie. They would join us later at Balmoral; and one morning Alice came to me and said, “Let us go to Clova. You know how you love it, Mama.”

I smiled at her sadly. “So many memories, my love.”

“I know. But they are everywhere. Do come. It will do you so much good.”

“Very well. If you wish it.”

“Just Lenchen, you, and I, Mama.”

I nodded. “Tell Brown to make some of that broth of his. Your father used to say that he had rarely tasted anything as good as Brown's broth in the Highlands.”

It was rather a hazy morning when we set out. Old Smith was driving the carriage. He was getting rather old and had been in our service for thirty years. Brown said he was getting unfit to drive the carriage, but Albert had said that he was a good man and I like to keep about me the old servants of whom Albert had approved.

By about half-past twelve we had reached Altnagiuthasach and Brown set out the picnic in his usual efficient way, warming the broth and cooking the potatoes. He chided me in his bluff way for not eating enough. “You should eat something, woman. Ye've no more appetite than a wee birdie.” I took some more broth like an obedient child, and I could not help smiling because of the way he spoke to me. He did not think of me as the Queen. Alice and Lenchen were a little shocked—although after all this time they should have been used to it. I could not explain that it comforted me to be bullied a little. Moreover it showed Brown's concern for me, which was genuine—far more so than all the gracefully worded sympathy I received in London.

After the picnic had been cleared away, we rode, as we used to, up and over Capel Month. It was snowing a little and the view was magnificent. We had always paused at this spot with Albert so that he could point out the beauties of the scenery. He taught us to appreciate so much. The weather made progress rather slow, and the sun was beginning to set as we came to Loch Muick. I was very tired and sad and not at all sure whether it was good to revive so many memories of happier days.

Back at Altnagiuthasach we stopped and Brown made tea, which was warm and refreshing.

By this time it was dark and as we moved on it seemed to me that Smith was driving the carriage somewhat erratically. Brown was on the box behind and we had gone about two miles out of Altnagiuthasach when the carriage seemed to turn up on one side.

“What is happening?” I demanded.

“Oh Mama,” cried Alice, “I believe we are turning over.”

She was right. I am not sure what happened but the next moment, I found myself lying face downward on the ground. The carriage was lying on its side and the horses were down. It was frightening.

Then I heard Brown's voice, “The Lord Almighty have mercy on us. Who ever did see the like of this before?”

He came to me and lifted me up.

“I thought ye were all killed,” he said. “Are ye all right?”

I found I was not badly hurt though my face was scratched and my right thumb was throbbing painfully.

“Brown,” I said, “help the others.”

Poor Smith stood by, confused and helpless. Poor old man. Brown was right. He was past it.

Brown extricated Alice and Lenchen from the wreckage and though they were bruised and their clothes torn, they were not really hurt. Efficient Brown cut the traces and soon had the horses on their feet. I was greatly relieved to see that they were not harmed either.

“What do we do now?” I said. “Here we are stranded on a lonely mountain.”

“I'll send Smith back with the horses,” said Brown. “And they can send another carriage.”

“Do you think he'll be all right? He's very shaken. He is so… old.”

“He has to be all right. I'm not leaving ye here … you and the young women.”

I felt it was wonderful to have a strong man to take charge. Dear Brown! Albert had been right—as always—to see in him an excellent servant.

And so we waited. Brown found some claret, which was comforting; and Willem, Alice's black serving boy who had been on the box, held the lantern so that we were not completely in the dark.

So we waited and waited.

“Your father always said we must make the best of what cannot be altered,” I told the girls.

“How right he was!” said Alice.

“He was always right,” I said firmly. “Oh dear, how I should love to tell him of this.”

“He knows it,” said Lenchen.

“Yes,” agreed Alice. “I believe he was watching over us. We have all been so lucky.”

About half an hour later we heard the sound of horses' hooves. It was Kennedy, a very favorite groom of Albert's. He had thought we were late and had come to see what had happened to us. He had brought ponies for us. Gratefully we mounted them, for we should have been waiting by the roadside until ten o'clock for the carriage to come. John Brown walked, holding my pony and Alice's. I protested because the poor man had hurt his knee when he jumped out of the carriage. He silenced me. He was in charge and had no intention of letting me ride on the rough road for fear there would be another accident.

Dear good faithful servant!

We progressed for some time in this way and in due course met Smith with the carriage to take us back.

What a fuss there was when we arrived! Fritz and Vicky had heard and came over. Louis was waiting anxiously. Brown said I must go to bed at once and ordered soup and fish to be sent to my room. I was shocked to see my bruised face and my thumb was swollen to twice its size. It was not broken, though, which I felt it might be.

What a day that had been! But I was not sorry, for in spite of my bruises and painful thumb, I had had yet another example of what a good and faithful servant I had in John Brown.

I KNEW, OF course, that the trouble over Schleswig-Holstein had to erupt sooner or later.

A few weeks after the carriage accident, King Frederick of Denmark died and Alexandra's father became King. This was the signal for the trouble that had been threatening to break out. Both Germany and Denmark laid claims to the two Duchies, and with Bismarck at the head of affairs something was bound to happen.

There had been a conference in '52, under English guidance, when a compromise had been arranged and this was to preserve peace over this dangerous issue for eleven years, with the Danes holding the Duchies under German supervision.

Recently, as the time laid down at the conference was running out, Frederick of Denmark had laid claim to the Duchies and since his death, King Christian made it clear that he intended to carry on with Frederick's policy in this respect.

Now the Germans, with the help of Austria, were threatening to expel the Danes; the plan being that when the Danes were overcome, Germany and Austria should hold the territory until some plan was agreed on. There was another claimant. This was Duke Frederick of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg who was a German and claimed hereditary right to the Duchies. So there were three contestants—Prussia with Austria, Denmark, and Duke Frederick.

I could see a very embarrassing situation emerging. Naturally my sympathies were with the Germans. Albert had been a German and I felt that that was where his heart would have been; but on the other hand, Bertie had married into Denmark and his wife's own father was right in the center of the strife.

I was very upset when pleas for help came from Duke Frederick and Denmark. I was so deeply involved on all sides, for Duke Frederick was the husband of Feodore's daughter Adelaide and there was Bertie's wife— the daughter of the King of Denmark.

It was an impossible situation. If only Albert were here! He would be able to talk to them all, to make them see reason.

It was a war not only in Europe but within the family. They were all taking sides. There was Vicky hating Bismarck but certainly supporting Prussia; there was Feodore writing vehemently in support of her daughter's husband; and of course there was Alexandra who was fiercely for her father. She was expecting a baby and was very worried over the matter.

There were fierce arguments at the dinner table. I could see the family involved in such bitter quarrels that I forbade the subject of SchleswigHolstein to be mentioned at the table.

There was great excitement throughout the country. People were naturally on the side of Denmark. “Little Denmark” the Press called her; and an impression was given of a brave little country being threatened by bullies.

Moreover the Princess of Wales had won the hearts of the people and she and Bertie were appearing everywhere.

“We should be thankful to the Prince,” Palmerston had said slyly. “He is keeping the people aware of the monarchy.”

A dig at me, of course. But I would not be dictated to by an old man who dyed his whiskers and colored his cheeks and pranced about like a dandy at his time of life, even if he was Prime Minister.

Christmas came—a cheerless one, as all Christmases must now be, but this was an anxious one as well. The Schleswig-Holstein trouble hung over us all like a dark, dark cloud; and particularly over Alexandra, who was wan with anxiety. This was bad for her in her condition.

It was just after Christmas. Alexandra and Bertie were staying at Frogmore. I believed Bertie preferred it to Windsor and he was within reach of the castle. Bertie did not know the meaning of grief, and I was sure he had never appreciated his father. I knew that he lived a very merry existence and that he had taken a great fancy to the social side of his life. Lord Palmerston never failed to let me know this, and he applauded Bertie for it. There was a similarity between him and Bertie; they had both shrugged off Alfred's affair in Malta, and made light of it as though it was a cause for amusement rather than shame.

There were merry parties at Frogmore. I deplored this. How different the atmosphere there from that in the castle. Many of Bertie's friends were, in my opinion, raffish—the kind of whom Albert would never have approved.

Virginia Water was frozen over and I heard that Bertie and his friends organized skating parties. There were late nights, of course, and Alexandra should have been living quietly. The birth of the child was only two months away and the poor girl must be feeling exhausted, what with keeping up with Bertie and his exuberant friends, pregnancy, and all her anxieties about that wretched Schleswig-Holstein.

It happened during one of Bertie's skating parties. Alexandra had gone out with a few of her ladies to watch the skaters. I was glad to hear she was not so foolish as to try to skate. She had felt cold and had retired to the house. No sooner was she there than her pains started.

A messenger came over to the castle with the news, and I left for Frogmore immediately. I was glad to see that Dr. Brown was there for Albert had had a great regard for him.

Very soon after my arrival Dr. Brown came to me. I feared the worst, for Alexandra's child was not due for two months.

Dr. Brown said, “Your Majesty, I am happy to tell you that the Princess is well. She is exhausted but that can be remedied. The child is fragile, but he will live.”

“A son! A seven months' child. But the Princess is well.”

“I am happy to say so, Ma'am. The birth was quick. It was all over in an hour.”

“Thank God she was spared much suffering!” I said with feeling, thinking that there had been many times when I had been less fortunate.

“Your Majesty would like to see the child?”

Most babies were repulsive with their froglike faces—more like little old men about to leave the world than young things just born into it; and naturally this child, being premature, was even more ugly than most.

I went to see Alexandra. She looked frail but beautiful and she was very happy to have produced a son.

I kissed her tenderly. Poor child! She was learning something of the shadow side of marriage.

Later, when I saw Alexandra and Bertie together, I brought up what the child should be called.

Bertie said, “I want him to be called Victor.”

“Victor!” I cried. “There has never been a King Victor and don't forget this child is in line for the throne. He'll come immediately after you, Bertie.”

“Why should we go on in the same mould all the time,” said Bertie. “Don't you think, Mama, that a change is sometimes refreshing.”

I said, “I wish him to be called Albert.”

Bertie sighed.

“Albert Victor,” I went on. “He should be named after his grandfather. It will remind people of all that he did for the country. People are so ungrateful…so forgetful…”

Bertie looked stubborn. I think he resented his father. I suppose one does when one has done a person a great wrong. Perhaps Bertie could not forget that his misconduct had taken Albert to Cambridge, and so hastened his death. To have that on one's conscience must be terrible. One would not want to be reminded. But then sometimes I thought Bertie had no conscience.

Alexandra, the peacemaker by nature, said, “Albert Victor. I think that is rather good.”

I smiled warmly at her, the pretty creature.

“That,” I said firmly, “seems an admirable choice.”

Bertie was not inclined to argue. I believe he was anxious to get back to his merry friends.

In spite of his premature birth the baby progressed. He was christened in St. George's Chapel, and I planted a tree at Frogmore to commemorate the occasion.

THE SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN matter was getting really acute, Alexandra was in despair. Her father wrote to her begging her to get help from her new country. Vicky was writing, blaming Bertie and Alexandra for playing for the sympathy of the British public and working to get the Press on their side. I reproved Vicky for daring to dictate to me and a coolness sprang up between us. Alexandra was reproachful because we did not help Palmerston and Lord John hinted that I was showing favor to Prussia and it would not do. The government favored Denmark, and I said we must not become involved in war and if the cabinet decided on declaring it, I should feel impelled to dissolve parliament.

I was amazed how strongly I could feel. I was trying to think all the time of what Albert would have done; and because Albert was not there, to act on my own initiative. I knew he would have been on the side of Prussia and would have fought hard against allowing England to go to war with Germany.

Meanwhile the Prussians had gone into action; they were invading Schleswig-Holstein and Fritz was with the army fighting against Alexandra's father.

Rarely had I felt so frustrated and miserable. The Crimean War had been much worse; we were fighting in that and our men were dying; but at least the family had been at one. There had not been this terrible disunity.

The Prussians with their allies, the Austrians, were having success after success. Palmerston pointed out that they were determined on conquest and, he thought, not only of the two Duchies in question. If some effort was not made, they would soon take Denmark itself. Since the rise of Bismarck, this had been their aim.

Lord John said it was what Bismarck meant by Blood and Iron. He wanted a Europe under German domination. He must be shown that Britain would not countenance that.

Lord Palmerston said, “I have told the Austrian ambassador that if the Austrian fleet goes into the Baltic, they will find the British fleet meeting them there.”

“This is almost like an act of war,” I cried.

“Necessary, Ma'am,” said Palmerston. “And in the name of the government I must ask Your Majesty not to show preference for the Prussians.”

I stared at him in dismay. How dared he tell me what I must or must not do—that gouty old man and Lord John with him! They should have retired long ago. They were two dreadful old men. And here they were, reproaching me, telling me what I ought to think, what I ought to do for the sake of the country!

“The Prince Consort was of the opinion that we should keep out of war unless it was of the absolute necessity to make it. He would never have agreed to make war on the Germans.”

“The Prince was a German, Your Majesty,” replied Palmerston. “He was naturally devoted to his own country. But we, Ma'am, are English… and equally devoted to ours.”

The insolence! None but Palmerston would dare!

“War never did anyone any good.”

“It seems to be doing something for the Prussians. They will have Schleswig-Holstein—and Denmark, too, if they are allowed to. We cannot stop their taking the Duchies, Ma'am, and there are some who say they have a claim to them; but they must not be allowed to walk into Denmark.”

I was glad when they left. I had really felt very angry. But I had impressed on them that if they decided to declare war I should dissolve Parliament.

Palmerston did not want to go to war. He was wise enough to know the folly of that. But his sympathies were with Denmark.

“We want more than sympathy,” said Alexandra pathetically.

But we were not in a position to give more. Palmerston would send the fleet to the Baltic, much as he had sent out his gunboats, and that would prevent Prussia's invasion of Denmark, for no country would seek confrontation with the British fleet. Palmerston had hoped Napoleon would intervene. After all, geographically he was nearer to the area than we were. If Napoleon had gone in to help Denmark, we might have done so. I was glad he did not, for that would have meant our fighting against Vicky and Fritz.

What a dreadful state of affairs!

The matter was settled by April. The war was over. Prussia had taken Schleswig-Holstein. Alexandra was very unhappy and Bertie was sympathetic to her. Vicky and Fritz were triumphant; and once again I had to admit that Palmerston's methods had kept us out of war in spite of the exhortations of my family on all sides and the thoughtless urgings of the Press and people.

True, all along I had asked myself: What would Albert have done? But I had acted without his advice. I felt a certain gratification; and it was possible that my grief had lifted a little.

THERE WERE CONTINUAL complaints about my seclusion. I could not bear to be in London. In the winter I was at Osborne and in summer in Scotland. Palmerston was constantly telling me of the people's discontent, and what great good luck it was that the Prince of Wales was so socially inclined.

I said I thought the Prince led rather a rackety life at which the Prime Minister smiled as though it was a very laudable thing to do.

He came down to Osborne with a piece of paper on one occasion. This, he said, had been attached to the gates of Buckingham Palace and he thought he ought to show it to me.

He smirked as he handed it to me.

“These Premises to be let or sold in consequence of the late Occupants declining business.”

“What impertinence!” I said.

“It shows what the people are thinking, Ma'am. We should always be grateful when they let us know what is in their minds.”

“Don't they understand?”

“Oh yes, Ma'am. They understand Your Majesty needs a period of mourning. What they are hinting is that it is of rather long duration. It is not wise for sovereigns to hide too long from the public. However, as I have said, we are fortunate in the Prince of Wales who is doing Your Majesty such a service.”

I could imagine them—Bertie and Alexandra—riding through the streets and all the gossip about Bertie's flamboyant life, which seemed to please the people. It was ironic when one thought how suspicious they had been of Albert who had done so much good for them with so little appreciation. But Bertie with his card parties and his fast friends…oh, he was a hero! And there was Alexandra, now sad and claiming their sympathy because we had failed to come to her family's aid and had allowed the Prussians—always hated—to take Schleswig-Holstein.

Uncle Leopold wrote. He seemed to know everything that was going on, and he had heard of the popularity of the Prince and Princess of Wales.

“It would seem that you have abdicated and handed over the crown to Bertie.”

That disturbed me. What would Albert have said? He had always believed that Bertie would be incapable of ruling unless he changed considerably. And had Bertie changed? He was still as unlike Albert as he had ever been, and he had more opportunity now of showing that dissimilarity. No. The last thing Albert would have wished was for Bertie to take my place.

I went to London. I rode through the streets in an open carriage. The people turned out in their multitudes to see the sad bereaved Queen who could not forget her husband.

The cheers were deafening.

Palmerston was delighted. “Your subjects have had the chance to show their love and loyalty, Ma'am,” he said.

I was gratified. They had reminded me that I was the Queen. No one—not even Bertie and Alexandra—had had a welcome like that.

“Your Majesty must give your subjects further opportunities of expressing their love for you,” went on Palmerston.

Must I? Nobody said must to the Queen. I had no intention of coming out of my seclusion.

WHILE I WAS at Osborne, Dr. Jenner said I was not taking enough exercise. I told him that I had no heart for such things. Everywhere I went I was reminded of the Prince Consort. Of course, I was reminded of him in the house as well—but I just had no inclination to walk or ride.

Then one day Dr. Jenner came to me and told me he had taken a step of which he hoped I would approve. He had consulted with the Princess Alice who had begged him to go ahead as she thought it an excellent idea; he had also consulted Sir Charles Phipps.

I wondered what he was talking about. Sir Charles Phipps was the Keeper of the Privy Purse. It was all rather mysterious and he was so long in coming to the point.

“Your Majesty may not be pleased. If so, that can easily be rectified.”

“Do please tell me what this is all about.”

“We have taken the liberty of bringing one of your Scottish servants to Osborne, Ma'am. He looked after you so well in Scotland and Your Majesty was always so pleased with his service. We thought it could be to Your Majesty's benefit.”

“One of my servants from Scotland!”

“John Brown, Your Majesty. He was so pleased to come. If you do not wish him to be here, he can be sent back at once.”

I was smiling. John Brown…in Osborne! I laughed. “I am pleased to have him here. Yes…very pleased. I was just wondering how John Brown would feel about being here.”

“John Brown is pleased to be where Your Majesty is, Ma'am.”

I felt very emotional. These dear good people were so concerned for my welfare.

I FELT SO much better now that John Brown was in attendance. He took care of me. He would lift me up and carry me if the occasion arose and without so much as a by your leave. He would put my cloak on for me and pin the brooch which held it. I was most amused one day when he pricked my chin. He said in a loud hectoring voice: “Hoots! Can ye no hold up yer head?” If he did not like what I was wearing, he would say, “What's that ye've got on?” It was so original, so outspoken. It was John Brown. But he was my good and faithful servant. If ever I was in danger he would be there to look after me.

I wrote to Uncle Leopold about him. “He is such a comfort. He is devoted to me, so simple, so intelligent, so unlike an ordinary servant.”

He was no longer merely a gillie. I wanted him to be my personal servant. They did not know what to call him in the household and he became known as the Queen's Highland Servant.

I put up his wages and said I wished him to wait on me at all times. He used to come to me after breakfast and luncheon to get his orders and everything was always properly done; he was so quiet—taciturn almost— and had such a good memory. He was devoted, attached, and clever; and I felt his only object in life was serving me; and indeed, at this time, feeling the lack of Albert, I wanted more than anything to be taken care of.

He was a very good-looking man and I had a weakness for goodlooking men. They attracted me very much. Brown had a strong body, long legs, curly hair, and the bluest of eyes. I noticed most of all that he had a firm chin. I always noticed people's chins. Perhaps because I had a very weak one myself. It used to bother me when I was quite young and I was constantly examining mine in a mirror. Lehzen used to say, “You should not admire yourself so often, dearest. You are always peering into the looking glass.” I explained that I was not admiring but deploring. “You see, Lehzen,” I said, “I have hardly any chin at all.” Lehzen retorted, “Nonsense. You have as good a chin as anyone else.” But I knew that was not so. And one of the first things I noticed about John Brown was his chin.

I told him this one day. I said, “People with strong chins have great determination.”

He looked at me then and said with that frank honest manner of his, “Ye seem to manage very well, woman, without much of a one.” How very amusing! He made me laugh as I had not laughed since Albert died. So it had certainly done a great deal of good to bring John Brown south.

About this time Bertie and Alexandra went for a tour of the Continent. Naturally Alexandra wished to see her family. They had risen a great deal since we had first decided on Alexandra for Bertie. Alexandra's father had become King of Denmark and her brother King of Greece—and now her younger sister, Dagmar, was to marry the heir of Russia.

Well, they were a pleasant family—although I did not think much of the mother—and they were very fond of each other. The mother was too managing and it was disgraceful that she should paint her cheeks. However, I was glad for Alexandra's sake that they were no longer so poor and insignificant. She had suffered so much over that wretched SchleswigHolstein affair.

But it was tricky visiting so soon after the war. I was against it, but Alexandra was so eager to see her family. Bertie, who had been firmly for Denmark, I supposed because of his wife, made some very indiscreet remarks there about Prussia, which I was sure Vicky would hear of—and then there would be more of her vehement letters.

It was unthinkable that, at such a time, the Prince of Wales should visit Denmark and leave out Prussia. I sent orders that he was to leave at once for Stockholm, where he could take a short holiday incognito—as I did not want Vicky to know that he had gone to Denmark before going to her—and go from Stockholm to Prussia.

They acted most irresponsibly. Instead of passing through Sweden incognito, Bertie and Alexandra were entertained in the palace by the royal family; and worst of all, while they visited that Court, they had left the baby—whom we called Eddy—with King Christian and Queen Louise in Denmark.

I wrote furiously: Little Eddy was in line for the throne; he was his father's heir and his father was mine. If they did not return to Eddy at once, I should send someone to bring him to Windsor. Eddy's place, if not with his parents, was with me.

They returned immediately to Denmark and then the royal yacht took them into Kiel Harbor, where there was more trouble because Alexandra begged Bertie not to allow the Prussian flag to be flown.

I gathered that relations between Bertie and Vicky were cool. Their meeting was brief, which was diplomatic for Bertie and Alexandra had been so firmly against Prussia and had made their attitude known. They could not go to Berlin therefore and I knew they had only gone to Prussia because I had insisted that they should. The visit should never have been made at that time.

When they returned home, Alexandra was pregnant. Poor girl, I thought. It was not so long since she had given birth to Eddy. I wondered if she was going to prove as fertile as I had been. Children were all very well and one must have them—particularly if one was a queen—but the method! It made me quite nauseated to contemplate it. I was glad it was no longer possible for me to have children. But I could feel very sorry for Alexandra.

In due course the child was born. They called him George. Two sons! Alexandra was to be congratulated; and this time the little boy did not appear prematurely and he seemed healthier than his brother.

Alexandra was delighted with her children. She was a good mother, far more interested in them than I had been in mine. I often wondered about her life with Bertie. She seemed very fond of him, but I was sure that it was not in his nature to be a faithful husband. How sorry I was for that! It made me more than ever grateful for having had such a saintly man for my husband. Perhaps the children compensated her for having a really rather unreliable husband. I hoped so.

IT WAS NECESSARY for me to take a trip to Coburg for a statue of Albert was to be unveiled, and of course I must be the one to do it.

Traveling without Albert was a dreary business. It seemed that wherever I turned there was something to remind me.

All the children were with me. I had insisted on that.

“This is a memorial to your father,” I had said. “You must all be there.”

We were welcomed by Ernest and Alexandrina. How he had aged! I imagined he was still living an immoral life. Those sort of people do not change. I felt a resentment against fate for taking Albert and leaving him. He was older; he had suffered from a disgusting illness; he had led an irregular life—and he was the one to remain while Albert was taken!

He seemed fairly emotional when he talked of Albert, but I did not believe his grief went very deep.

Unveiling the statue was a very moving moment for me, revealing that dear face and remembering the time when he had been at this place with me. I showed the children all those spots that had been dear to him—his schoolroom, the sword marks on the wall, where he had fenced with Ernest, the forests he had loved, dear Rosenau.

Lenchen was very close to me at this time. She had taken Alice's place. She was a dear, good girl, with none of Vicky's cleverness, of course, and none of the arrogance that went with it.

It was while we were in Germany that we met Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg—a grand title for a man of very little means. He was young and handsome and managed to charm Lenchen, and she him. I liked to see young people happy together; they reminded me of Albert and myself. Before the visit was over it was obvious that my little Lenchen was going to be very unhappy if she said goodbye finally to her handsome Christian—and there was no doubt that he felt the same about her.

It would be said that he was not a very suitable match for a daughter of the Queen of England, for he was without hope of inheritance, being the younger brother of Duke Frederick, who had been one of the contestants in the struggle for Schleswig-Holstein; and his family had lost their estates when the Prussians were victorious.

However, they were touchingly in love and when Albert had married me he had very little. The Press had stressed that, Heaven knew, causing such anguish to my dear one. I should not stand in the way of love. If Lenchen and Christian could be happy together, then together they should be.

Nothing could be done about it immediately, of course; but when we left Germany, Lenchen was betrothed.

I could not leave the Continent without seeing Uncle Leopold. Poor Uncle Leopold! What a travesty of that handsome man I had known when a child. It was many years now since he had seemed to me the most wonderful being in the world; but I should never forget that he had been as a father to me. I had listened to him intently; I had believed that every word he uttered was divine wisdom. I should always love him. He was old and bent now. Worn out with physical pain and mental anguish, he said. He had lost so many loved ones. Charlotte, Louise, and now Albert. We were able to talk of our grief and mingle our tears when we recalled Albert.

Uncle Leopold reminded me that when he had lost Charlotte he had devoted all his care and attention to me. He had planned for us, schemed for us, dreamed for us; and it was the greatest joy of his life when we were married.

He told me of his ailments in detail. He had always loved to talk of them and I did wonder how one who had suffered from so many could have lived for so long. Sometimes the thought came to me that he had enjoyed his ill health—as Stockmar had done. I believed that their ailments had, at the beginning, been the bond between them.

But he could not even now prevent himself from meddling. He talked a great deal about Bertie. I think he would have liked to advise Bertie, but Bertie was not the sort to listen to advice.

“I hear that he is very popular,” said Uncle Leopold. “The people like Alexandra, too.”

“Oh yes, she is good-looking and they like that… and there was all that hysteria about little Denmark.”

“It was unfortunate for Christian that as soon as he came to the throne it should have happened. We shall have the Prussians sweeping across Europe. All the little kingdoms will go. That is what Bismarck is after.”

“He is an odious man. Vicky abhors him. I am afraid her lot is not an easy one. It should have been so different. Albert always wanted her to be Queen of Prussia. He would have been able to advise her and Fritz how to deal with that upstart Bismarck.”

“He certainly is making his mark on Europe,” said Uncle Leopold. “Each day I wonder what he will do next.”

“He has accused Vicky of being pro-English,” I said indignantly. “Did you ever hear such impertinence! Of course she remembers the country of her birth.”

“Men like that are a menace to the world. I wanted to talk to you about matters nearer at home for you. The English are a very personal people. To continue to love people, they must see them.”

I sighed. It was the old complaint.

“Dear Uncle, I believe you do not understand my feelings.”

“I do. I do. I loved him myself. I have felt the deepest grief.”

“It is not the same,” I said sharply. “He was my husband. We were hardly separated for twenty years… day and night…”

“I know, I know. But you are the Queen. Unless you want to hand over the crown to Bertie, you must show that you have some regard for your position.”

“Regard for my position! Do you think I ever forget?”

“I don't think so. But the people might. Bertie and Alexandra are constantly before the public in every imaginable way. The people must not forget that the Queen wears the crown.”

“I rode through the streets in my open carriage. You should have seen the people. I was greeted with far more enthusiasm than Bertie ever had.”

“I know it, and it bears out what I have said. You must try to emerge… gradually if you wish. But it is never wise to go against the wishes of the people.”

I looked at him fondly. Dear interfering Uncle Leopold; he was so pathetic with his built-up shoes to give him height, the color in his cheeks, faintly but appreciably artificial, and that wig of luxuriant curls, which was too young for his wrinkled face.

I kissed him tenderly.

I did not know then that would be the last time I was to see him.

THAT OCTOBER I suffered a shock. Lord Palmerston died. I had never liked him and I had always had the impression that he was laughing at me. Lord Melbourne had been a little like that, but he had smiled tenderly, whereas Lord Palmerston had been amused in a ridiculing sort of way.

By a strange coincidence Lord Palmerston died at Brocket Hall, the same house in which Lord Melbourne had died. Of course Palmerston had married Lord Melbourne's sister and the house became hers, so that was understandable—but I still thought it odd.

When people die one remembers the good things about them. There could not have been two men less alike than Albert and Lord Palmerston; and that speaks for itself. Palmerston had few of Albert's good qualities. He had been a rake and a dandy; but he had also been a good politician. Someone said of him that he had the great gift of judging the mood of the House and adjusting his utterances to it, which was one of the reasons why he had almost invariably carried opinion with him; he had been honest in politics and would not diverge from what he believed to be good for the country; he had the two most important assets for a politician: Courage and Confidence.

He was, therefore, a loss to the nation. I hated death; I hated a change of scene. Little things could change here and there almost unnoticed— and then suddenly the entire picture was different.

I thought of all the tussles we had had and I smiled at them now. He had been so outspoken and he had shown clearly that while he respected the crown, he saw those who wore it as frail human beings—which common sense told me was true. So when I heard of his death I was sad and I remembered not the irritation he had given me but his masterly conduct of the country in times of crisis.

We should miss Lord Palmerston.

It was only two months later when I was shattered by news of another death. This touched me more closely. It was hard to imagine a world that did not contain Uncle Leopold.

I had to shut myself away. I had to be alone to think back on all those happy times of my childhood. The visits to Claremont; the joy of seeing him. I remembered sitting on his knee and looking up into his beautiful face, for when he was young he was extremely handsome. I remembered how he had taught me to be good and prepare myself for a great destiny. It was he who had found Albert for me and brought us together.

He had been part of my life and now he was gone.

There had been little differences. After all I had my storms even with Albert. But how much he had meant to me when I was a child…and after.

He had expressed a wish to be buried at Windsor. I knew how close he felt to this country and that it had been his great ambition to rule it… with Charlotte; and although that had been denied him, his love for England had not changed.

I set about planning the ceremonial funeral that we would give him at Windsor; but when I was in the midst of my plans, I heard that the Belgian government refused to send his body to England. He was the King of the Belgians, they said; and therefore he must be buried in Belgium.

I was very angry.

“Was there nothing we could do?” I demanded.

Nothing, said Lord John. Leopold had been King of the Belgians, and they would have him interred in Belgium.

So Uncle Leopold did not come to England.

Lenchen and Louise tried to comfort me. Brown was scornful, implying that it was no matter over which to lose any sleep.

“He's gone and that's an end of it,” he said.

“It is because they are Catholics,” I explained. “I think that is the main objection.”

“Catholics are nasty beggars,” said John Brown.

“Oh Brown,” I said with a little laugh, “you are incorrigible.”

“I'm here to look after you, woman,” he said, “and blubbering over a grave is nae good for ye health.”

What a man! My spirits were lifted just to listen to his quaint way of expressing himself and his good, honest, frank way of doing it.

ON THE DEATH of Palmerston, I had called in Lord John, who had gone into the House of Lords as Earl Russell, and asked him to take Palmerston's place. My dear friend Lord Clarendon was given the post of Foreign Secretary, which Russell had hitherto held; and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, William Gladstone, became Leader of the House.

That year Alfred was coming of age and Lenchen's marriage was taking place. They would need grants and I was very eager that there should not be unpleasantness in Parliament about this.

Lord John urged me to come to London to open Parliament; and I felt that, in the circumstances, although it was five years since I had done so, I must give way on this occasion.

So I agreed to on condition that the ceremony should be performed without the usual fanfare of trumpets and gilded trappings, which normally accompanied it. The state carriage was replaced by another of more modern style although it was drawn by eight cream-colored horses. And I did not wish to wear the robes of state, but had them laid on a chair beside me. I was dressed in black with the type of cap that is always associated with Mary Stuart; my garments being brightened by the Ribbon of the Garter.

The people greeted me with warmth and it was clear that they were pleased to see me. I acknowledged their greetings rather solemnly because I wanted them to realize that I was still in mourning.

I was glad when there was no haggling about the allowances, and rather surprised that not a voice was raised in opposition. Helena was granted a dowry of £30,000 and an annuity of £6,000; and Alfred was to have a yearly sum of £15,000, which would be raised to £25,000 on his marriage.

This was very gratifying.

Later I went to Aldershot to review the troops.

I was pleased to hear that Mary of Cambridge had become engaged to the Duke of Teck. This gave me gratification because Mary was no longer young and she was too large to be really attractive. Moreover the Duke of Teck was connected with the Saxe-Coburg family, so I heartily approved of the match.

I attended Mary's wedding at Kew, dressed in deepest black in case anyone should think I had forgotten Albert; and a month later my dear Lenchen was married at Windsor

I WAS VERY alarmed by the conflict growing between Prussia and Austria. Having taken Schleswig-Holstein, they were now quarreling over the spoils. I understood what they wanted. It was the unification of German States, and the question was who should be at the head of them. Bismarck was determined that it should be Prussia, and he had not talked of Blood and Iron for nothing.

The struggle cut through the family. The Crown Prince naturally stood with Prussia, but Alice's Louis and my poor blind Cousin George of Hanover were for Austria. The idea of having two sons-in-law fighting against each other was abhorrent to me.

I knew that Albert would have wanted to see Prussia dominant; but the situation had changed since Albert's death, and I wondered what his feelings would be now. His hope had been that Vicky would one day be Queen of Prussia, and if Prussia succeeded it would mean that Vicky and Fritz would be two of the most powerful sovereigns in Europe. But what of Alice and Louis? What of poor blind George?

I begged Lord Russell to do everything possible to prevent war. I offered to act as mediator between the two states. Bismarck was almost contemptuous in his refusal. What an odious man! It was an unhappy day when he rose to power.

Not only was there all this trouble abroad, but domestic difficulties arose. Lord Russell told me that he thought the government might be defeated over the Bill they had recently introduced. I knew that we needed this matter of the extended franchise settled, and that it had been going on for a long time.

Lord Russell said, “Your Majesty's government thinks you should remain at Windsor instead of going to Balmoral this spring, for if a ministerial crisis arose, you should be on the spot.”

I refused, and really I believed I was far more worried about what was happening on the Continent than at home.

The Reform Bill was in committee when the storm broke and war between Prussia and Austria broke out. Almost immediately Lord Russell sent his resignation to Balmoral.

I was very annoyed. I wrote to him that in the present state of Europe, I thought it was apathetic of the government to abandon their posts in consequence of a defeat on detail in a matter which demanded concessions on both sides. I asked him to reconsider their decision.

Lord Russell was adamant. I retorted that his withdrawal was betrayal; and I stayed on at Balmoral.

Lord Derby then accepted office and Benjamin Disraeli was the Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House. But it was the war in Europe that gave me sleepless nights. I wrote to Alice telling her to send her children to me because I had a terrible feeling that HesseDarmstadt was not going to stand out against the Prussians. I sent linen for the wounded. It was a dreadful feeling to be supporting Fritz's enemies, but his enemies were my beloved daughter and her husband. Strife in the family is like Civil War—the most heartrending conflict of them all.

The Prussians overran Hanover, depriving poor George of his throne. He took refuge in Paris with his family. At least his life was saved.

Then … the war was over. In seven weeks. Prussia was victorious. Bismarck was getting his wish. Prussia's grasp of the Imperial Crown of Germany was in sight.

And the price: Hanover, part of the British Crown, was ours no longer. The First George had brought it to us, and I should have been its Queen but for the Salic Law. Now that had passed out of our hands. Poor Louis had lost much of his territory and was greatly reduced in power— as were the smaller German States.

They would soon all be under one rule—that of the all-powerful Prussia. It had been a time of distress and I was glad to stay in Balmoral to discuss an account of Albert's early life, which was to be published. I was helping to compile this with my secretary, General Grey; and although I wept bitterly over the letters—of which it mainly consisted—I could absorb myself completely and it was almost like having Albert with me.

When the book appeared it was a great success; and I decided that there should be a biography of Albert and for this I called in Sir Theodore Martin; and he set to work.

I was so engrossed in the work and the company of these men who seemed to have a special understanding of Albert that I decided to publish some writings of my own. I had always kept an account of day-to-day happenings and I went through some of them. It was amazing how those words brought back memories of the bygone days, so that I felt I was living them again.

Early in the following year my Leaves from a Journal of Our Life in the Highlands from 1848 to 1861 appeared. It was a great success. Of course it was very simply written and from the heart, and I think people began to realize then my devotion to Albert, and to understand why I felt the need to shut myself away and mourn.

I was getting to know Benjamin Disraeli, and I found him a very interesting man. Albert had not liked him very much. He was sure he dyed his hair. Perhaps he did but he was certainly most gracious in his manners, and what a respect he had for Albert! This made me warm to him and I found that I could talk to him easily. He was extremely clever; he was an author of some note and because I myself liked to write that was an added interest we had in each other.

He gave me a copy of his novel Sybil and I was very touched to see that it was dedicated to The Perfect Wife.

I said, “You had the perfect wife, Mr. Disraeli. I had the perfect husband.”

He looked at me with great emotion and replied, “It is the greatest good fortune, Ma'am, to find the perfect partner; and those to whom this falls are indeed to be envied.”

I could talk about Albert to him; he responded glowingly. He had always had the greatest respect for Albert, he told me. He had always seen him as the great statesman.

When Leaves from a Journal was published he came to congratulate me. “I know how we authors feel when we see our work in print,” he said.

I laughed and replied that I was not an author in the sense that he was, but he thrust that aside and said that Leaves would live as long as literature lasted.

“I shall never forget the dedication: ‘To the dear memory of him who made the life of the writer bright and happy, these simple records are gratefully inscribed.' ”

“You remember it perfectly, Mr. Disraeli.”

“Ma'am, such words are not easily forgotten.”

I felt my spirits lifted; and my thoughts went back to those days when Lord Melbourne had made me so happy.

I believed I was going to find great comfort in Mr. Disraeli.

IT WAS HARDLY to be expected that the people would allow me to rest in peace. It was difficult for them to understand how helpful John Brown was to me with his blunt manners and wonderful fidelity. They must besmirch everything that was good. I would never forget what they had said of Albert; now they turned their attention to John Brown, and it was their aim to hurt me through that excellent creature.

There was even a rumor that I had married him! But that was so absurd that I could only dismiss it as ridiculous. Memories of long ago came back to me. Ascot and that insidious and wicked murmur of “Mrs. Melbourne,” simply because a beautiful friendship had existed between us. Now they were turning their crude thoughts to John Brown…and me! They seemed to have forgotten that I was the Queen.

I tried to think what Lord Melbourne would have said if he could have heard these rumors. Or Lord Palmerston even. They were ridiculous, too absurd—and yet they persisted.

“Mrs. John Brown,” they were calling me. How dared they. And they were so blatant. Punch had published an imaginary Court Circular headed Balmoral.

“Mr. John Brown walked on the slopes. He partook of a haggis. In the evening Mr. John Brown was pleased to listen to a bagpipe.”

A scurrilous paper called the Tomahawk was publishing pieces that were all insolent and defamatory. There was one cartoon with a caption: “Where is Britannia?” The robes of state were depicted draped over a throne with a crown perched precariously on the top of them, and obviously in a position soon to topple over, which I presumed was meant to be significant. “It is so much more exhausting to entertain people of one's own rank than gillies and servants!” was printed below it.

How dared they! Had they no sympathy for bereavement? They were the victims of their own depraved minds.

It was amazing how little details seeped out to the Press. I had always known that John Brown liked what he called “a wee dram,” which meant that he was rather partial to Scotch whiskey; and naturally there were occasions when he did not realize how much he had taken. Then he would be in a state which he described as “a wee touch of the bashful,” I rarely saw him when he was thus, for he would always keep away from me then and confess to me next day that he had been “bashful” on the previous night.

I found this rather endearing and so honest.

There was another matter that caused a great deal of trouble. Prince Christian, who was staying with us, was apt to sit up late; he would sit smoking and talking until the early hours of the morning. John Brown mentioned to me that this kept him up late and I asked my equerry, Lord Charles Fitzroy, to drop a hint to Prince Christian that the smoking room should be closed at midnight.

This leaked out. Servants will talk. It caused a great deal of amusement. Royalty must bow to the wishes of Mr. John Brown. Why? Because Mrs. John Brown said it should be so.

There was one cartoon entitled “A Brown Study,” published in the obnoxious Tomahawk. It depicted John Brown, sprawling close to the throne with his back to it, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Bertie came to see me one evening. Brown barred his way and said, “Ye canna see the Queen now. She's resting.”

Bertie hated Brown in any case, and he was furious.

“The Prince of Wales will see the Queen,” he said.

“It's your eldest,” called Brown. “I've told him ye're too tired to see him the night.”

“Thank you, Brown,” I said.

I could imagine Bertie's fury, but I would not have him rude to Brown.

The following morning Bertie came to me waving a paper in his hand. I knew at once that it was “A Brown Study.”

“This is disgraceful, Mama,” he said.

“I ignore such scurrilous nonsense.”

“It is an attack on you…on the crown. It should be considered. Mama, Brown must go. He was abominably rude to me. He was rude to Christian. He is quite impossible. It is all becoming a laughing stock.”

“He is my servant, Bertie. I will choose my own servants.”

“He is no ordinary servant.”

“You are right,” I retorted. “Indeed he is not. He understands me as some of my family fail to, or perhaps do not take the trouble to.”

“We are all concerned.”

“I think, Bertie, that the family is more concerned about you than about me. I am sure Alexandra is quite sad about the manner in which you carry women.”

“Oh Mama!”

“You were always a trial to us, Bertie. Your beloved Papa had many an anxious hour worrying about you. Why, at the end of his life he went to Cambridge in that dreadful weather…I often think of what might have happened if he had not gone.”

It was the sure way to subdue Bertie. He lifted his shoulders and after a while took his leave.

I was annoyed with him and that wretched Tomahawk. How dared they print such libelous nonsense when all I wanted was the comfort of a good and faithful servant

ALEXANDRA WAS PREGNANT again. Really, it seemed as though she was going to have one child after another, as I had done. It would have been so much better for her not to have them so close. She was a very good mother—adored by her boys. She was very fond of her family and took their troubles to heart. I shall never forget how almost demented she was at the time of the Schleswig-Holstein affair. Now her sister, Dagmar, had had a disappointment. Her fiancé, Nicholas of Russia—a marriage that would have brought much glory to the Danish family—had died of tuberculosis; but Nicholas had a brother, Alexander, and Dagmar was to have him instead. I shuddered and pictured myself losing Albert and having to take Ernest in his place. It was rather absurd to say that she found she loved Alexander after all, but it was what they always said in such cases.

Now Dagmar was to go to Russia, and Bertie and Alexandra wanted to go to the wedding.

As Alexandra was pregnant and her first child had been born prematurely, the doctors said she was unfit to go. She was very upset but I forbade it. Bertie, however, was eager to go. I was very sad for Alexandra. How different Albert would have been! He had hated to be separated from me and would not have wanted the superficial glitter of such occasions. Not so Bertie. I told him that as Alexandra could not go he had a very good excuse for not going either. Bertie was sly. He went to the Prime Minister to ask his advice, and both Derby and Disraeli thought that Bertie should go since the Russians could believe that the absence of both Bertie and Alexandra could be construed as an insult.

So Bertie went, and I insisted that he call in at Prussia either on his way out or on his return. He was reluctant to do this. Vicky was so censorious, he said. She thought he was her little brother still.

He went to Paris as well. He was very fond of Paris and had always maintained a friendship with the Emperor with whom he was a great favorite since he had, so disloyally, told him that he wished he were his father. Vicky wrote that there were rumors throughout the Continent about his behavior. He was very popular, there was not a doubt of that, but he was very much given to entertaining and being entertained by people of not the finest character—and particularly women.

I expected such letters from Vicky, but when I heard from Alice that there was scandal about Bertie I felt it was really grave.

If only Albert were here! I thought. I tried to imagine what he would have done. It was different now. Bertie was no longer a boy; he was in fact building up his own Court—men like himself, fond of gaiety and reckless living. Of course he was popular, far more than Albert had ever been—even at the time of the Great Exhibition. The government seemed to approve of him too. They called him a good ambassador; and if I raised any objections to his behavior, I was met by oblique references to my own seclusion.

We were very anxious about Alexandra because she now began to suffer from pains in her limbs that mystified the doctors. She could scarcely walk. Eventually they diagnosed rheumatism. This was very worrying as she was about to have a child.

When her child was born she was very ill indeed. Bertie was away and the doctors, fearing she was going to die, sent for her parents. I hurried from Windsor to Marlborough House and when I arrived there, I found Alexandra's mother at her bedside and was told that her father would come as soon as he could.

I was rather annoyed. My permission had not been asked; but when I saw the tenderness between Queen Louise and her daughter, I softened. I was so fond of Alexandra and she told me it had done her so much good to see her mother and she was feeling better every instant since her arrival.

I then told Louise how glad I was that she had come, and how dearly I loved my daughter-in-law. And because she knew I was speaking the truth, we liked each other a little better.

Alexandra had given birth to a little girl—Louise, Victoria, Alexandra; I was so relieved that she had come through that ordeal; but she was still in pain.

The doctors said she had rheumatic fever and that and the pregnancy had impaired her health considerably. She hobbled about on sticks, poor child, and still suffered a lot of pain. I told Bertie that it was due to the life they led and that Alexandra needed more peace. “Your Papa and I liked nothing better than to be alone, to read to each other and play duets. That was so restful. Papa did not care for dancing—ever—and he would not have been so foolish as to gamble.”

“It is impossible for everyone to be like Papa,” he said.

“That is true,” I retorted. “Least of all, it seems, you, Bertie. You are his son. You should be proud of that and try to be like him.”

Bertie had a way of appearing to listen when I guessed his thoughts were far away.

In time, Alexandra improved a little, but she walked with a limp. She was so pretty and dressed so charmingly and had such a natural air of elegance that nothing could deter from her attractiveness. Some of the ladies copied her walk. They thought it was very charming.

They called it the Alexandra Limp.

THERE WAS FURTHER trouble in Europe.

Although I was still on very friendly terms with Louis Napoleon, I did wonder what he was secretly planning. Napoleon's family were natural fighters; and he was hinting that owing to the new Prussian supremacy in Europe his frontiers were threatened by the Duchy of Luxembourg, which the Prussians were fortifying right on his border. He was in conference with the King of Holland suggesting that the Duchy should now be part of France—or Belgium might have it if they gave him a strip of territory in exchange for it.

Prussia, flushed with victory, was not in the mood to agree.

We must keep the peace, I declared.

As a result there was a meeting in London and it was decided that the independence of Luxembourg should be guaranteed and the fortress dismantled.

Napoleon was then a little cool toward me. He wanted territory and he thought that, in my efforts to avert war by calling a conference, I had thwarted him.

I was appearing in public a little more at this time. I had laid the foundations of the Albert Hall, which was to be built in honor of Albert; that ceremony had been very moving. But I had to do it for it would not have been seemly for anyone else to.

There were still scurrilous comments about my relationship with John Brown and I was not going to let myself be persuaded to send him back to Scotland, which I think some of them would have liked.

I had given way to pleadings for me to review the troops in Hyde Park. I would ride in my carriage, and naturally John Brown would be on the box. In view of all the publicity John Brown had received, the crowd would, no doubt, turn out to see him and me together.

Lord Derby called on me and told me that it would be unwise for John Brown to be present.

“But why?” I demanded. “His place is there. He is my Highland servant.”

“Ma'am, as you know there have been a number of scurrilous cartoons and articles in the papers.”

“Destined to destroy the character of a good and honest man …and their Queen. I know. I have no respect for such people. They should be punished severely.”

“There has to be freedom of the Press, Your Majesty, and sometimes that can be unfortunate. But I think it would be wise in the circumstances if John Brown did not appear at the review.”

But I was not going to give way. That would be weakness and I should despise myself if I did. My relationship with John Brown was that of a queen and her servant—a respected servant, it was true, but nevertheless a servant. And I would not give way to sensation-seeking scandalmongers.

I said firmly, “John Brown shall go to the review.”

But it came about in a strange way that he did not.

A few years before, Napoleon had persuaded the Austrian Emperor's brother, the Archduke Maximilian, to accept the Imperial Crown of Mexico, which the French were setting up in that republic. There was a close connection between the Archduke and myself because he had married Charlotte, Uncle Leopold's daughter, so it was another of those family affairs. The Mexicans, however, would not accept the Archduke as their Emperor and Napoleon was asked to withdraw his troops and the Archduke to resign his title. Charlotte came to Europe to rally help for her husband; but meanwhile the Mexicans restored the republic and the Archduke was shot by order of a court-martial.

I was very angry with Napoleon who had set up the Archduke and failed to support him. But the fact of the Archduke's assassination meant that the Court was in mourning, and there was no review in Hyde Park. I think Lord Derby was secretly relieved. He had been afraid that if John Brown had gone to the review the mob might have become dangerous.

While all this was happening, Napoleon was holding a great exhibition in Paris and heads of various states were invited there—Bertie among them.

Bertie was his usual gregarious self and his visit was considered to be a great success. When he was there he met the Sultan of Turkey and invited him to pay a visit to England sometime, to which invitation the Sultan responded with alacrity, and decided to come immediately.

I was not at all pleased because I could not remain in retirement while such visitors were in the country.

Alice and Louis were with me. Poor darlings, they were very sad, and still resentful over the Prussian War—such a disaster for them. However, I was glad to have Alice with me; she understood me better than any of the others did.

“The Prince of Wales invited the Sultan,” I said. “He is Bertie's responsibility and he must do the honors.”

That would be an excellent idea, said Lord Derby; but there would be occasions when it would be necessary for me to be present. We did not want to offend the Sultan.

So Bertie did the entertaining and, knowing Bertie, I hoped it was not too disreputable.

I went to Osborne and received the visitors there. The Sultan was charming, and as I had been warned that I must be friendly toward him, I offered to bestow the Order of the Garter upon him.

He was delighted when Bertie explained what a great honor it was and told him that it was rarely bestowed. Bertie's sense of the theatrical prevailed and it was decided that the Sultan should receive the Order on board the royal yacht.

Alice and her husband naturally must be present on such an occasion. It was July but the sea was choppy and it soon became clear that the Sultan was not feeling very well. Bertie said that perhaps it had not been such a good idea to have the presentation at sea—even so close to land and in July—and it would be as well to proceed as quickly as possible with the ceremony.

I had John Brown with me. He stood close beside me as always with that amused expression on his rugged honest face, which suggested that if anyone attacked me it would be the worse for them. I had often reproached him, told him I was in no danger, and that although I appreciated his care, on some occasions it was not necessary to show such bellicosity.

Bertie was right. We must get on with the ceremony as quickly as possible before the Sultan was ill.

I held out my hand for the ribbon—and then it became quite farcical. The first equerry turned to the second and said in a loud whisper, “The ribbon.” The second equerry whispered back in agitation that he thought the first equerry had it. I could see that someone had forgotten to bring it.

Prince Louis was standing close to me, and he was wearing the ribbon I had bestowed on him. Then I heard John Brown, “Stop mithering. Ye've nae brought the ribbon. This one will have to do.”

I saw his strong hand stretching out to take the ribbon Louis was wearing.

“Give him this one,” said Brown to me. “He'll nae ken the difference.”

I hesitated for half a second. Then I took it and gave it to the Sultan. Poor man, he was feeling too queasy to notice the little hitch.

I almost laughed aloud…something I rarely did then; and whenever I did it was usually due to something John Brown had said or done.

And so thanks to the ingenuity of my Highland servant, that little matter was satisfactorily concluded.

LORD DERBY WAS getting very old and I had noticed for some time that he was looking far from well, so I was not surprised when he came to me and told me he could no longer continue.

I understood perfectly, I said. The office of Prime Minister was scarcely a rest cure. He told me that he thought I should send for Benjamin Disraeli.

I did so with pleasure. So Mr. Disraeli came to Osborne to kiss my hand in the formal way and take on the Premiership. I felt an immediate response to him. There was something in his manner that appealed to me; he behaved as though he were spellbound, enchanted, not only by my position but by me personally. He was so gracious that he made me feel young again.

I knew certain things about him because I had made it my business to find out. I could not help comparing him with Lord Melbourne. Lord Melbourne had been an exceptionally handsome man and that had made him immediately attractive to me. I am afraid that in those days I was rather frivolous and impressed by a little wickedness. That was before Albert had changed me.

Benjamin Disraeli was different. One could scarcely call him handsome. His skin was sallow, his eyes heavy-lidded, his nose prominent. I had always thought big noses were a sign of strength until Lord Melbourne had assured me that they were not. Disraeli had rather greasy hair that some said was dyed. What was so attractive about him was his manner, his way of expressing himself. He knew how to use words; he was gallant. Perhaps that was it. He made me feel that I was attractive, which I fear at that time of my life I was not. He knew just how to say the words that would make me feel that I was rather clever as well as attractive. It was a gift and Benjamin Disraeli certainly had it.

He was a good deal older than I. He had been born in '04—so that would make him some fifteen years my senior. He told me later that he was the second child of Isaac d'Israeli—Jewish, of course, and in comfortable circumstances—whose father had been an Italian Jew who had owned a prosperous business making straw bonnets. He said his family had been expelled from Spain by the Inquisition in 1492.

All this he told me as though he were unfolding a dramatic story; and I must confess I found it enthralling.

His father Isaac was, he told me, a Voltairean Freethinker, and he broke with Judaism, which meant that all his children were baptized into the Church of England.

“It was important to me, Ma'am,” he said, “though I did not realize it at the time. If I had remained a Jew, I could not have become a Member of Parliament at the time when I took my seat. It was not until '58, when I had been a Member for more than twenty years, that Jews were permitted into the House.”

That was what made conversation with him so absorbing. He introduced facts like that in such a way that one remembered them.

“I have always been impatient, Ma'am. I did not want to wait for fortune to come to me. I wanted to reach out and snatch it. When I was twenty years old I was appalled by my lack of success. I constantly reminded myself that Pitt was Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four. ‘And where is Disraeli?’ I would demand of myself. ‘Nowhere.’ ”

“But your success was inevitable, Mr. Disraeli,” I said.

“Your Majesty is gracious. I tried to make a fortune on the Stock Exchange and all went well for a time. Then I tried publishing a newspaper. That was a disaster. Then I decided to be a novelist. Vivian Grey, my first, had a fair success. But I offended a lot of people with that book.”

“People are always ready to be offended. I think they were probably jealous of your success.”

That was how our conversation ran. It was so much more interesting than that of most of my Prime Ministers had been. It reminded me so much of the chats I had with Lord Melbourne.

I knew Disraeli had mistresses before his marriage; but, of course, we did not discuss that side of his life, though he did tell me about his friendship with Wyndham Lewis and how when he had been his protégé, he had become friendly with Wyndham Lewis's wife.

“It was not love at first sight,” he said, “but it grew to deep love. Mary Anne once said that although I married her for her money, now I would marry her for love.”

“And did you marry her for her money, Mr. Disraeli?”

“I confess I considered her fortune.”

“Oh, how mercenary!” I found myself laughing. Since Albert's death I laughed so rarely. John Brown could make me smile; but I was actually laughing with Mr. Disraeli.

He loved to talk of Mary Anne and I began to feel that I knew her well. He told me how devoted she was and how she sat up when he was late at the House and had a cold supper waiting for him, no matter what time he came in.

They were friends as well as lovers.

“I understand so well,” I said sadly.

“Ma'am we have had something very rare in common—a happy marriage.”

How right he was!

He gave me a copy of Sybil, which I thought was very good indeed. I gave him a signed copy of Leaves.

He was constantly referring to me as a fellow author, which I had to admit I quite liked. I looked forward to his visits. It was like going back in time. I was remembering more and more of the days when I used to anticipate Lord Melbourne's visits with such pleasure. Now I looked forward to those of Benjamin Disraeli.

A certain savor had returned to life. I would not admit it but in my heart I knew it was there.

SUCH A HAPPY state of affairs could not be expected to last. William Gladstone—whom I could not like—was making a great deal of fuss about the disestablishment of the Irish Church. The government was against the measure and was heavily defeated by a majority of sixty-five.

I was at Windsor and when Disraeli called on me I was delighted as ever to see him, not realizing what news he brought.

He quickly told me how things had gone in the Commons. “And, Ma'am,” he added, “I have no alternative but to offer Your Majesty my resignation.”

“Resignation!” I cried. “Does that mean I shall have that dreadful man Gladstone here lecturing me?”

Disraeli lifted his shoulders and looked woeful.

“What is this nonsense about the Irish Church?” I demanded. “The Church throughout the Kingdom is associated with the Crown.”

“Mr. Gladstone thinks otherwise, Ma'am. And so do others since we have been so heavily defeated.”

“If I accept your resignation,” I said, “I shall be compelled to give your office to Mr. Gladstone and then the government would bring in the disestablishment. I think people should have plenty of time to think about such a step. No measure should be rushed through the House, which is what would happen if you resigned and I called in Gladstone.”

“Your Majesty could, of course, refuse to accept my resignation and dissolve Parliament.”

“That is what I will do. It will be some time before there can be an election and your government will remain in office until there is one.”

“That means, Ma'am, that I remain in office and we go to the country… say in six months' time.”

I had to be content with that. Six months is a long time in politics, and one never knows what will happen to affect fickle public opinion; and there was a possibility that in six months' time the government might be returned.

Mr. Disraeli had somehow persuaded me that it might be a good idea to show myself a little. I had not held a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace since Albert died, but I decided to, and later I reviewed twenty thousand volunteers at Windsor Park and a few days later gave a party in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

But I did not wish people to think that I was ready to undertake a round of engagements. In August I paid a visit to Switzerland, and to emphasize the fact that I wanted no fuss I traveled as the Duchess of Kent. Napoleon was most courteous and offered me his imperial train for my journey through France and in Paris I had a meeting with the Empress Eugénie. In Lucerne, however, I rented a villa near the lake, and there I enjoyed a very private holiday, which was very pleasant.

All the same I was glad to return to Balmoral; and it was particularly interesting to go back because I had asked Brown to look out for a little house for me…a simple homely little house. Balmoral was really a castle, and what I wanted was a house where I could live with the utmost simplicity.

I could trust Brown to choose the right place. With great sensitivity he had selected a spot that had particularly impressed Albert. It was Glassalt Shiel, which meant Darkness and Sorrow. How better interpret my mood! It was set among wildly beautiful scenery of almost forbidding grandeur where the Glassalt Burn tumbled down the mountainside into Loch Muick.

I called it my Widow's House for it was the only one that had not had the touch of Albert's hand. Osborne and Balmoral were his creations. Not so Glassalt Shiel.

Louise was with me and accompanied by one of the ladies—I think it was Jane Churchill—we set out for the place. The air was clear with a touch of frost—chilly for the first of October. We stopped for tea at Birkhill and John Grant joined us there with Arthur who had come from Geneva and had arrived in Ballater only a few hours before. Arthur got into the carriage with us and Grant joined Brown on the box.

I was so excited when we arrived at Glassalt Shiel. There were lights in the house as we were expected and the servants wanted to give us a good welcome.

It was such a compact little house and there seemed plenty of room in it for it was much bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. There was one staircase leading to the upper floor where there were several bedrooms—enough to accommodate the servants. On the ground floor were my sitting room, bedroom and the maids' room; and on the other side of the hall the dining room, a kitchen, steward's room, store closet, and another room for the menservants to sleep in. There were good stables and keeper's cottage where the gillies slept.

After we had dined Brown came in unceremoniously and announced that everyone was ready for the housewarming, implying that I should join them, which I did.

Our meal had been cleared away and the dining room was ready. There were nineteen of us altogether. Two of the men played the bagpipes and the rest began to dance reels. Brown said it would not be right if I did not dance with them. So I complied. How strange to dance again! I enjoyed it, remembering how excited I used to be about balls when I was very young—before Albert taught me that dancing was a useless and frivolous occupation.

So I danced the reels and these honest Scots saw nothing unusual in their Queen dancing with them.

When the first reel was over, Brown brought in what he called “Whiskey toddy.”

I declined but Brown was quite indignant. “Come on, woman,” he said, “you mun drink to the fire kindling.”

So I drank a little and Grant made a speech in which he called upon God to see that “our royal mistress, our good Queen, should live long to reign over us.”

They cheered me and drank my health in whiskey toddy and they all became very merry indeed.

I retired to my room soon after eleven o'clock, but I believe they continued with the dancing and singing until the early morning.

I lay in bed thinking of the past and dear Albert who would have loved this place. I believed he was watching over me and that he would bless my little Widow's House.

And with that comforting thought I slept.

I was still in Scotland when the election took place. Disraeli's government was defeated and the Liberals came in with a majority of one hundred and twenty-eight.

And so, I thought, that odious Mr. Gladstone will now be my Prime Minister.

I RECEIVED HIM coolly. The man irritated me. He talked in an authoritative way as though addressing a public meeting. His vehemence was overwhelming; it came out in a steady flow of forceful language. He was the sort of man who had no doubt that his ideas were the right ones, and one had the impression that he was determined to carry them out.

That he was a good man, I knew, for I made it my business to discover all I could about my Prime Ministers, I had so much to do with them that it was necessary for me to have a full acquaintance with their past as well as their present lives.

William Ewart Gladstone was the son of a Liverpool merchant who had immigrated to that city from Scotland. The father had been active in politics and besides being successful in business had sat in Parliament as a Tory for about ten years. Gladstone was sent to Eton and then Oxford where he had naturally soon distinguished himself in debate.

He was a man of conscience. At Eton his great friend had been Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle; and the Duke, impressed by Gladstone's amazing energy, eloquence, and outstanding qualities generally, offered to help him win the seat of Lewark for the Tories. In the Gladstone home Canning had been a hero. He was now dead but the Duke of Newcastle had remarked in public that Canning had been the most profligate minister the country had ever had, and young Gladstone thought it would be disloyal to the memory of Canning to accept help from a man who had maligned him.

His father told him not to be a fool. He would never make much progress in life if he allowed opportunities to slip out of his hands. Eventually Gladstone saw the point and won the seat. Ever since he had been climbing up the political ladder, and it was inconceivable that a man of his talent and forceful dedication could remain unnoticed.

When he was a young man he had become very friendly with the Glynne family. Lady Glynne was a widow with two sons—one in Parliament—and two daughters, Catherine and Mary. He fell in love with Catherine, but it was apparently some time before she accepted his proposal of marriage. I could imagine his courtship. Did he address her as a public meeting? I thought that very likely. However she finally agreed and of course he had chosen very wisely. He could not have found a better wife. She came from a political family, her grandfather was George Grenville, the Prime Minister who passed the Stamp Act, and she was the niece of Lord Grenville who was Prime Minister in '06; her great aunt was Chatham's wife and William Pitt was her cousin. So she was related to four Prime Ministers and it seemed only reasonable that she should be married to one.

She was the opposite of her husband—bright, cheerful, and popular; she was by no means approaching him in intellect—what a formidable pair they would have been if she had!—but she was very pleasant. I liked her as soon as I saw her, and I felt very sorry for her because she was married to that man!

She had eight children—seven of whom survived. She clearly humanized the household. I could imagine him—precise, neat in life as he was in his mind. For him there would be a place for everything. She was careless and had no time for method. But she had charm—and he was aware of it, having none himself. He was, naturally, devoted to her as she was to him, and I had to applaud that. She insisted that he take exercise, remove his wet things if he was caught in a shower; she made sure that he was well wrapped up against the cold. Like Mary Anne Disraeli, she always had a supper for him when he came in from the House; she guarded him, watched over him and even took an interest in politics—about which, in spite of her relationship with all those Prime Ministers, she was not really enthusiastic.

These items of news came to me through servants. I always had my favorite maids who kept me informed. I knew that one of the criticisms leveled against me—and Albert—was that we got on better with the servants than the courtiers. There was an element of truth in this and I was even more friendly with them than Albert had been. I liked them to know that I was interested in their welfare. They knew this and loved me for it; and it so happened that I did glean all sorts of information of which I should otherwise have been ignorant.

So that was the man who was now my Prime Minister. Admirable, no doubt, honest, stubborn on points which he believed to be right; a man who would, in the old days, have gone to the stake for his opinions.

I should have admired him. I should have welcomed him. But I could not. I simply did not like him, and as my affections were fierce so were my dislikes.

As soon as he was in power a large number of reforms were undertaken. Gladstone was obsessed with reform. I had always firmly believed in religious toleration and the liberty of the subject; but Gladstone wanted to go farther than that. He was introducing Radicalism. It was absurd to attempt to abolish class distinction. Not that I believed that a person's birth was all important. What mattered was education, good behavior, and moral standards; and I had ample evidence to know that this existed in people who were not of high birth. Gladstone introduced measures with such rapidity that it was difficult to follow him. He would stand before me with that speaker's manner and expound at great length on his various projects and talk, talk, talk. He did not seem as if he could stop. He was eloquent. I had to admit that. I found my mind straying and wondering how poor Mrs. Gladstone put up with him.

I knew of course that, constitutionally, I could not oppose him. It was the elected government who made the decisions, not the Queen. But I did have a say in these matters, and I determined to oppose him wherever possible.

His first measure was the disestablishment of the Irish Church. I knew that this was the question on which he had gone to the country, and the results of that election meant that the people were behind him. But the Lords threw out the Bill after it had been passed through the Commons. I knew this could cause a great deal of trouble, and in a case such as this the Upper House must bow to the Lower. I wanted the matter settled, for even though I did not agree with it, I did realize that the conflict was bad for the country. I asked the House of Lords to give way to the Commons. Let the principle be agreed on and the details thrashed out later.

The Bill was then passed, due to my intervention, but there was a good deal of quibbling about procedure. I was called in again and helped reconcile the two sides. I think I showed those people who thought that because I was mourning the loss of my husband I was neglecting my duties as Queen, that I was deeply involved in matters of state.

But the fact remained, I could not like Mr. Gladstone.

I WANTED TO show my appreciation of Disraeli, and it seemed to me in order to offer him an earldom. I sent for him and told him what I had been thinking. He was overcome with gratitude; he kissed my hand and with tears in his eyes told me that he did not deserve such consideration from the most admirable of queens and the most delightful of women.

I laughed at his fulsomeness, but I must say I found it gratifying, and such a change from the lectures I received in the most stilted phrases from my Prime Minister.

Disraeli declined the earldom, however. Perhaps he thought it would restrict him in the House of Commons.

But he said, “Your Majesty has been so gracious to me that I will be so bold as to make a suggestion.”

“Please do,” I said.

He hesitated and I saw the look of pain cross his face. His features were always so expressive—as I suppose mine were.

“It is Mary Anne,” he said.

He always talked of his wife in a familiar way with me. I was glad he did. I felt I knew her already. He had made me see her as a wonderful woman. I remember how on one occasion he was going to make a very important speech in the Commons and she had driven there with him; as he alighted, she had caught her hand in the door. She had been in agony but did not mention it to him for fear it might worry him and take his mind off his speech.

I used to tell him of the virtues of Albert and he used to say, laughingly, that we vied with each other in telling of the virtues of our spouses.

Then we would sigh and say how lucky we were.

Now he said, “Mary Anne is very ill. She thinks I do not know. She pretends that all is well. She has about a year to live.”

“Oh, how very sad! I am desperately sorry.”

“My dear, kind lady…how wonderful you are! Yes, I shall not long have my Mary Anne, and I know Your Majesty understands as few can the depth of my sorrow.”

I could scarcely bear to look at him.

After a brief silence he went on, “My request is this. If Mary Anne could be created a peeress in her own right… before she dies…”

“Most certainly she shall,” I cried. “I myself will make sure that this is done.”

He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His expression was one of more than gratitude; it was adoration.

So Mary Anne became the Countess of Beaconsfield.

He told me how happy she was, and he thanked me for all I had done for him.

I told him it was nothing. He had done a great deal for me. He was my very good friend and always would be. And I trusted that, if a time should come when he was in need of comfort, he would turn to me.

Although I could not see him as often as I should have liked for there would have been protests from the government if I appeared too friendly with the Leader of the Opposition, nothing could prevent our writing to each other.

I looked forward to his letters. They were so amusingly written—racy, witty, and full of gossip.

They cheered me considerably.

I sent him primroses from Osborne. He wrote me a most grateful letter. He said that from now on they would be his favorite flower.