Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

The Fateful Fourteenth

THE LIBELOUS COMMENTS ABOUT JOHN BROWN AND MYSELF were still being circulated. I had become so accustomed to them that I was ignoring them.

One that created a good deal of interest was my supposed interest in spiritualism. It was a cult that had swept through the country a little earlier and many people testified that they had been in touch with the dead. It was said that my friendship with John Brown could be explained by the fact that Brown was the medium who put me in touch with Albert.

If only I could have been in touch with my beloved one, how happy I should have been!

I knew that if it were possible for him to come to me he would have done so. Of course I was interested; I talked with some of my ladies; I listened to their stories of extraordinary experiences. I sat at a table in the dark with them. But Albert did not come.

And when I thought of frank, rather earthy John Brown having contact with the other world, it all seemed to be quite incongruous.

It was amazing how the stories were circulated, but I thought it was better for people to suspect John Brown as my medium rather than my lover.

I often thought how empty people's lives must be if they must pry and peep into those of others.

I always remembered how Albert had wanted writers to come to Court; he had thought they would be much more interesting than most of the people we met. I had stood out against that, fearing that the conversation might be so lofty that I should be shut out of it. I had been foolish and I believed I had deprived Albert of some pleasure.

I decided, therefore, that I would invite certain writers to Court. I was not very interested in books, but I did admire the energy of people who produced them; and as Albert had been sure they would be interesting, I would do what I had been reluctant to in his lifetime.

I had always admired Tennyson, of course. His In Memoriam had comforted me a great deal and I had written to him to tell him so. He had been to visit me both at Osborne and Windsor. I found him charming and easy to talk to.

One of my ladies told me that Thomas Carlyle, who was apparently a highly respected writer, had lost his wife, so I sent him a note of condolence.

I read George Eliot's Mill on the Floss but the books I really found absorbing were those of Charles Dickens. I asked him to come to Buckingham Palace and I had a very interesting talk with him and afterward reproached myself afresh for having turned away from Albert's suggestion to ask that sort of person to Court. They were different from the people I normally met. They had ideas. I was not sure that I should want to be with them for long, but to meet them after having read their books and in some measure had a glimpse into their minds, was interesting to see what they were like.

I could lose myself in Mr. Dickens's books, and it was exciting to be in a world which was so different from the one in which I had always lived.

I asked Mr. Dickens to present me with copies of his books, which I should like him to sign for me. He expressed great pleasure in being asked to visit me; we talked about Little Nell and there were tears in our eyes. He was one of those warm, feeling men whom I liked instantly. So different from Mr. Gladstone.

I gave him a copy of Leaves from a Journal, and he begged me to inscribe it for him.

“From the humblest writer to the greatest,” I wrote.

IT WAS ABOUT this time that the Mordaunt case burst upon us.

Albert and I had always feared there would be trouble with Bertie. How right we had been!

I had always known that Bertie was living what is called “a double life.” It was wicked of him. He had a wife who was good, loved by the people and said to be one of the most beautiful women in the country; he had four lovely children; it seemed to me that Bertie had everything. And yet he must involve himself in scandal. And what a scandal!

I had known that Bertie was riding for a fall. I knew there were late nights, actresses, gambling, including all those activities that are certain to end in disaster sooner or later; and I knew that Alexandra loved him— in spite of everything. Of course, Albert would never have approved of the way in which they brought up their children. There was no discipline in the nurseries. The children screamed and shouted and climbed all over Bertie while Alexandra looked on, applauding. It was not what Albert would have wished. Even to Vicky, with whom he had always been extraordinarily lenient, he had been a little remote, to be revered.

I said again and again that there would be trouble with those children.

“You should remember your own childhood, Bertie,” I told him. And he replied with a smile, “Oh, I do, Mama. I do.” Which seemed somehow a criticism of Albert and me.

But this was terrible. I was stunned.

Bertie wrote to me, “An unfortunate contretemps has arisen.” He had received an order to appear in court.

Appear in court! The Prince of Wales! I had never heard such a thing.

I sent for him at once. He explained to me that Sir Charles Mordaunt was bringing a divorce suit against his wife, and he had letters to her that had been written by Bertie, and Bertie's name had been mentioned with the result that he was summoned to appear in court.

“You had better tell me all about it,” I said.

He was clearly worried. Poor Alexandra! I thought, and tried to imagine myself in a similar position. Impossible with Albert!

“I am innocent,” said Bertie.

I think I was unable to hide my disbelief.

“It is unfortunate that you have made people of shady reputation your friends,” I said.

“I tell you, Mama. I am innocent.”

I suppose in a family when one member is threatened the rest rally around even though they are not convinced of the accused one's innocence. But Bertie was so firm in his protestations that I felt I must believe him.

“But you know the woman,” I said.

“Of course. I knew them both.”

“And Sir Charles Mordaunt is naming you as corespondent.”

“No, no,” said Bertie quickly. “He is naming Frederick Johnstone and Lord Cole.”

“And where do you come in?”

“She mentioned my name and there are letters.”

“Letters!” I cried. “Do you remember how my Uncle George was in trouble over letters? You must have heard of that. Did you never think what harm letters can do?”

“I haven't your fondness for writing them, Mama, but occasionally I do find it necessary to take up my pen.”

“My letters,” I retorted, “could be read in any court of law without bringing disgrace on anyone, Bertie. This is shocking. For the first time I am glad dear Papa is not here. This would distress him so much.”

“I am innocent,” Bertie repeated.

“And what does Alexandra think?”

“She is very unhappy about it.”

“Poor girl. I never had to suffer that sort of thing.”

“Papa was a saint, of course,” said Bertie with a lift of his lips. “I fear, Mama, that I am not. But I am innocent in this case.”

“The heir to the throne summoned to a court of law!”

I showered him with questions and at length the story emerged. Lady Mordaunt had given birth to a child who was blind and she was very distressed. In fact, she was a hysterical woman at the best of times. She went into a frenzy and said it was her fault that the child was blind; she had sinned. She told Mordaunt that he was not the father of the child, but that Lord Cole was. She then burst out that she had been unfaithful with several men. She mentioned Frederick Johnstone and the Prince of Wales. Mordaunt searched her bureau and found bills that showed she had stayed at hotels with Cole and Johnstone… and there were letters from the Prince of Wales.

I was very upset. I wished Benjamin Disraeli would come to me. Etiquette forbade it. He was of the Opposition. I could have talked to him. How I should have been able to explain my feelings to Lord Melbourne! But all I had was Mr. Gladstone. How could one talk of such a matter to him? He would declaim and declaim and I should want to shout at him and order him out of my presence.

Albert foresaw something like this, I told myself. But there was no comfort in that. Albert was not here to advise me. And what could we do? There was nothing for it. Even royalty had to obey the courts of law and Bertie had been subpoenaed to appear in court.

I was very sorry for him. He was easy-going. That was the flaw in his character, but perhaps I was comparing him with the incomparable Albert, which was not fair. But Bertie was as he was, and he was my son. He had declared his innocence and I was sure he was speaking the truth. I thought of all the cruel things that had been said about Albert, all the calumnies which had been directed at Brown and myself.

I thought of Bertie as a little boy and how sometimes I had thought Albert too harsh with him; I remembered the tears when he had been beaten and how I had tried not to think of it. I remembered storms that had blown up between Albert and me because I thought Albert was too harsh with Bertie, too soft with Vicky.

I sat down and wrote to Bertie. I said I believed in him, but there were always people to attack us, but that he must stand up and come through this ordeal. He must know that his mother stood with him.

Bertie came to see me. He was so soft and gentle and grateful. He opened out and said that he was afraid at times he was a little indiscreet. He had written letters to Lady Mordaunt but they were quite innocuous. He had never been her lover; but he had known of her relationships with Cole and Johnstone. She was their affair, not his.

I said, “If you are innocent, people will realize it. Innocence is the best defense a person can have.”

“Mordaunt has got Sergeant Ballantine to act for him. He is rather a terror.”

“Stand up and tell the truth, Bertie, and you will be a match for anyone.”

He embraced me. Oddly enough he seemed closer to me than he ever had.

Public interest was great. The papers were full of the case. I knew that this was a very serious matter for whatever the verdict Bertie would be thought guilty. People took a delight in condemning others—especially those in high places.

I heard an account of the proceedings. Bertie went into the box and answered the probing questions put to him by Sergeant Ballantine; he did it with calm and honesty, I believe; he admitted that he knew Lady Mordaunt and had been a friend of hers before marriage.

“Has there been any improper or criminal act between you and Lady Mordaunt?”

It was the vital question and Bertie answered with great firmness, “There was not.”

Bertie was exonerated. Moreover it was proved that Lady Mordaunt was insane and the case was dismissed.

What a piece of luck for Bertie. I did hope it would be a lesson to him for the future.

I wondered what Vicky, Alice, and Lenchen were hearing of it.

I felt compelled to write to Vicky for I felt sure that her opinion of Bertie was very low already, and that she was convinced of his guilt.

“I do not doubt his innocence,” I wrote, “and his appearance in court did good, but it was painful and lowering. The heir to the throne should never have come into close contact with such people. I hope this will teach him a lesson. I shall use it as an example to remind him of what can happen, when the need arises. Believe me, children are a terrible anxiety and the sorrow they cause is far greater than the pleasure they give.”

How true that was!

But I was thankful that Bertie had emerged from a very delicate situation—not unscathed, for although his evidence had been accepted and Lady Mordaunt was proved to be mad, these matters always leave a smear.

JUST AS I was recovering from the shock of the Mordaunt case, trouble blew up in Europe. Lord Clarendon, on whose judgment I had relied so much, died, and Lord Granville took his place. Granville was a good man but I did not think he matched Lord Clarendon; and at this time we needed the very best of men at the Foreign Office. Conflict had been brewing for some time between France and Germany. I wrote to the rulers of both countries urging caution, but my entreaties were ignored and in July of that year Napoleon declared war. I thought that was unnecessary folly and when I heard that he wanted to destroy the independence of Belgium, I was firmly on the side of Germany.

Belgium was especially dear to me. How thankful I was that Uncle Leopold had not to suffer this threat to his kingdom. In spite of the fact that I did not like Bismarck my links with Germany were strong. It was almost a family affair. On the other hand I had friendship with Napoleon. Bertie was especially fond of him. So …we were about to be torn apart again. Oh, the stupidity of war and the men who insist on making it.

Vicky's husband and Alice's were both deeply involved and were actually fighting the French. I sent hospital stores to Alice at Darmstadt and I watched the progress of the war with great horror.

It was soon clear that the French were no match for the Germans who were overrunning France. I wrote to Vicky and Fritz, begging them to use their influence to stop the bombardment of Paris. To Bismarck's fury they asked for this not to be done and he complained bitterly of petticoat sentimentality hampering German progress.

I thought: A little more petticoat government and perhaps countries would not so easily become involved in wars that bring bereavement and tragedy to so many families.

The Emperor had surrendered at Sedan and Paris fell into the hands of the Germans. The war was over.

I was sorry for Napoleon and Eugénie and hated to see them so humbled. I had quite liked the Emperor; he had been a charming guest and Eugénie was very attractive.

Now they were outcasts with nowhere to go. Eugénie appealed to me and I offered her refuge in England. She came to Chichester. Napoleon was a prisoner of the Germans and they held him for some months, but when he was free he came to join Eugénie at Chichester.

Although I did disapprove of his policies and my sympathies were with the Germans—for most of my family were in that country and through Albert and my mother my ties with them were strong—I did not forget that Napoleon and Eugénie had been my friends.

Poor things! They were so grateful. How are the mighty fallen! I thought. A lesson to us all.

IT WAS A very sad day for me when I heard that poor Lehzen had died. Memories came flooding back and I felt a twinge of conscience. We had been very close and in my young days she had been the most important person in my life. My dear Daisy! And I had called her “Mother” on some occasions. And then… she had gone and I hardly saw her again. Albert had made me see that he and she could not be under the same roof. I had to make a choice and of course it must be Albert. I thought of us—dressing the dolls together, doing our reading; she had guarded me like a watchdog and would have given her life for me if necessary.

How sad that it had to be as it was!

I mourned her and regretted that she had passed so completely out of my life, but I had never forgotten her. Dear Lehzen!

But she had been happy in her last years. She had loved her nieces and nephews and no doubt planned for them as she had once for me.

I hoped she had been happy and not thought too often and too sadly of the days at Kensington Palace.

Gladstone and his ministers were in a state of tension over what was happening on the Continent. The German States were united under one great Empire. This had been proclaimed to the world in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles—stressing German supremacy over the French. It was a typical Bismarck gesture to hold the ceremony there. So now, instead of several small states, there was one Empire, a formidable power astride the Continent. Moreover, at the same time, France had become a republic.

Mr. Gladstone came to see me and standing before me—I would not invite him to sit down and he could not do so until I did—declaimed at length on the dangerous situation. A king had been deposed. All royalty must regard that with apprehension. It was very necessary for all sovereigns to have the people behind them.

The burden of this harangue was that the people's approval was not won by monarchs who shut themselves away. At the moment even the popularity of the Prince of Wales had foundered. The Mordaunt case had done him no good and whatever the verdict of the court there would be some mischief-makers who would try to make him seem guilty.

I told him to consult Dr. Jenner who had insisted that I needed quiet and rest.

“It was hard work that killed the Prince Consort,” I said. “He never spared himself. If he had he would be here today.”

Mr. Gladstone went on with his speech about the dangers following the new state of affairs in Europe.

My mind wandered. Poor Mrs. Gladstone, I thought. How does she endure the man?

I THINK ALEXANDRA was very sad at that time. She must have been very disillusioned about Bertie. I wondered what she thought of the Mordaunt case. But by this time she would have learned what he was like. Poor Alexandra. She had lost her baby, little Alexander. She consulted me about having a stained-glass window put into the church at Sandringham as a memorial. I thought it an excellent idea, and I think it cheered her considerably to talk about it with me.

Her rheumatic pains were troubling her again. When I thought of that bright and pretty girl I had first seen and how feeling she had been putting on a black dress to show she understood my mourning, I was saddened. She was beautiful—nothing could alter that; but she had lost her gaiety.

Perhaps I should speak to Bertie. Perhaps not. Speaking to Bertie had never done any good.

When we were at Balmoral, Louise had become very friendly with the Argylls and particularly with the Duke's son and heir, the Marquess of Lorne. I was rather taken aback when Louise told me that Lorne wanted to marry her.

A commoner! I thought. That was not really very suitable.

“My dear child,” I said, “what do you feel?”

“I love him, Mama. I want to marry him. I hope you will give us your blessing.”

What could I do? The dear child was radiant.

“My dearest,” I said, “I hope you will be happy.”

She threw her arms about me. “Dear good Mama,” she said.

I was certainly happy to see her happy, but I did remind her that it was very rare for royal girls to marry commoners.

“I know, Mama. The last time was when Henry the Eighth's sister Mary married the Duke of Suffolk.”

“I believe,” I said, with an attempt at severity, “she married him first and asked permission afterward.”

“Well, Mama that was the safest way with Henry the Eighth. You are not a tyrant but the dearest sweetest Mama in the world.”

I felt very emotional. I thought: They are all going…every one of them. There is only Beatrice left now. I could not bear to part with her.

I saw no reason why the marriage should be delayed, so it took place in March of the following year. I led the procession up the nave wearing rubies and diamonds and a dress of black satin covered in jet to remind everyone that I was still in mourning.

As on all such occasions I thought of Albert and pictured him standing beside me, and melancholy set in after the ceremony.

I was getting old; my children were growing up. Only Baby Beatrice left to me now!

I hoped she would never leave me.

MR. GLADSTONE'S WORDS had some effect on me and although I had no intention of coming entirely out of seclusion, I did open St. Thomas's Hospital and the Albert Hall.

I attended the Opening of Parliament wearing an ermine-trimmed dress that was in a way a sort of half-mourning; and I had a new crown that brightened up my appearance considerably.

Of course there was murmuring about that. Louise's dowry and Arthur's annuity would be discussed during this session and some of the papers pointed out that this may have been the explanation of my appearance and that I was preparing the way for when I came with my begging bowl. What with sly hints about the Mordaunt case and the dissatisfaction with my quiet life, the family prestige was very low at that time. Again and again Mr. Gladstone pointed out the dangers, particularly in view of what had happened in France; and when fifty-four votes were cast against Arthur's annuity that was a shock.

“The monarchy must be made visible and palpable to the people,” said Mr. Gladstone.

Arthur had his money, he went on, but the people expected some return for these sums.

Then I became ill. I awoke one morning to find my right elbow was very inflamed. At first I thought it was a sting but very soon I was developing a sore throat and other symptoms.

I was at Osborne and it was time for my visit to Balmoral, and I was determined, ill as I was, to go.

Gladstone was all against my leaving. He thought I should not be so far away from Parliament. The trouble was that I had shut myself away for so long and had pleaded the state of my health so often that the people did not now believe me. This was galling as I had never been so ill since my attack of typhoid at Ramsgate.

I was receiving dispatches from London. The papers were saying that I should abdicate and hand over the throne to the Prince of Wales. These articles were read in Scotland and I am glad to say that all the Scottish papers came out in my defense.

Dr. Jenner protected me magnificently. The sting in my arm was an abscess; it gave me a great deal of pain and I found it very difficult to rest at night. I was also suffering from gout and rheumatic pains. The gout prevented my walking and John Brown had to carry me from sofa to bed.

It was a most depressing time. Alfred came down to see me and immediately there was trouble between him and John Brown. Alfred gave me almost as much concern as Bertie. He had Bertie's tendency for flirtation—and worse. He was not so affable as Bertie and had a great sense of his own importance. He deliberately and pointedly ignored John Brown whom I liked to be treated not as a servant but as a friend; and when Alfred ordered some fiddlers to stop playing for the servants' reels, John Brown countermanded the order. Alfred was incensed but Brown was his imperturbable self.

Then there was another unpleasant scene that involved Vicky's daughter Charlotte who had come to stay with us at Balmoral.

Brown came into the room and I told Charlotte to say, How do you do? to him and shake hands.

Charlotte said, “How do you do? But I cannot shake hands with a servant. Mama says I must not.”

Vicky and I had a bitter disagreement about the behavior of her children. She insisted that Charlotte had been right to refuse to shake hands with a servant. I said Brown was no ordinary servant and servants were human in any case. “Indeed,” I added, “I have had more consideration from them quite often than from people in high places.”

Vicky was firm and did not mince her words. She thought Brown had too important a place in the household. Did I forget that people had talked of him … and of me?

It was all very unpleasant.

But there was this trouble with Alfred and the fiddlers.

Brown did apologize—I think because he knew the affair was worrying me. I thanked him and said, “Prince Alfred is now satisfied.” “Well, I am satisfied too,” was his typical comment, which even in that state of discomfort and harassment made me smile.

Who would have children? I thought. Their entrance into the world reduced their unfortunate mothers to the state of an animal; they might be interesting and amusing as Baby had been in her early days—and then they grew up, some of them to be a continual source of anxiety.

A pamphlet was brought to my notice. It was the work of a Liberal Member of Parliament, and it was headed: “What does she do with it?”

The article was referring to the £385,000 a year from the Civil List and other legacies which the writer estimated to be somewhere in the region of another £200,000 a year. The impertinence of people was shocking!

At the end of September I was better, but still limp and suffering from vague rheumatic pains all over my body. I had lost twenty-eight pounds in weight and I felt rather gratified about this. It would show the people that I was not malingering.

Just as I felt I was improving, I heard that a certain Sir Charles Dilke had spoken at Newcastle and made a really vicious attack on me. He had told his audience that I had failed completely in my duty. Since the death of the Prince Consort I had rarely been seen in public. What was the use of the monarchy? It should be abolished and a republic set up. It would be cheaper than a queen in any case.

It was indeed dangerous talk.

I thought that Dilke should be repudiated by his party.

While all this was happening a blow was struck from another direction. We were approaching the time of year which was always especially somber to me. December! It was on the fourteenth of that dismal month that Albert had passed away.

Then came this message; Bertie was ill and the doctors had diagnosed typhoid. Typhoid! The dreaded disease that had killed Albert. And now it had stricken Bertie!

I took the train to Sandringham. Brown was with me—more brusque than ever. The dear man knew how anxious I was and he was anxious too… for me.

Sandringham was full of people. I was glad Alice was there. She was often with us. Poor Louis had not been a great catch when she married him and owing to that villain Bismarck she was in very poor circumstances now.

She was a great comfort to Alexandra who was a sad tragic figure. She told me that Bertie had been to Lord Londesborough's place in Scarborough. Lord Chesterfield had also been a guest and was now ill, so it seemed there must have been something wrong with the drains at the Londesboroughs.

It was like living it all over again. The weather was cold as it had been then; there was snow at Sandringham. The news grew more and more alarming and I heard that one of the grooms who had accompanied Bertie to Scarborough was now ill with typhoid.

I went in to see Bertie. He did not look much like the jaunty Prince of Wales. His face was scarlet, his eyes over-bright; he was babbling something I could not understand.

I thought: Very soon it will be the fourteenth of December.

Now the whole nation was waiting for news of Bertie. From a profligate rake, a seducer, cowering behind royal privilege, he had now become a hero, the jaunty, jolly Prince was the People's Prince.

Strange how a virulent disease could transform a sinner into a saint!

He had the very best of doctors. My own Dr. Jenner was there, of course, and Alexandra had called in Doctors Gull, Clayton, and Lowe to help him.

Bertie was delirious. He was calling out the names of people… women some of them. He clearly thought he was the King of England, so that could only mean that I was dead! He was quite exuberant, laughing a rattling horrible kind of laughter. It was quite distressing to listen to him.

The doctors insisted that there be a screen between me and the sick bed. It was a horrible and infectious disease.

He recovered and then grew worse.

The papers reported nothing else but the state of “Good old Teddy's” health. He was known as Teddy for he was Edward not Albert to the people. They did not want an Albert for their King. He was to be another Edward—the Seventh.

There was an uncanny tension in the air. The papers reminded their readers that the Prince Consort had died on the fourteenth, and it seemed that everyone was waiting for the fourteenth to dawn.

There was a fatalistic notion that on that date Bertie was going to die. Special prayers were said all over the country, and Alexandra attended those in Sandringham Church. Alfred Austin, our poet laureate wrote the banal lines that were quoted against him for long after:

Flashed from his bed the electric message came

He is not better; he is just the same.

It was wonderful to have Alice with us. She moved about the sickroom with a quiet efficiency. She was a good nurse having had some practice during that terrible time which Bismarck had forced on Europe. Alexandra was indeed a devoted wife; and she loved Bertie in spite of the way he had treated her. I wondered whether I should have been so loving to a husband who had been notoriously unfaithful to me. I doubted it. But never in any circumstances could I imagine Albert unfaithful!

I remember vividly the thirteenth of December.

Bertie was worse.

We had heard that both Lord Chesterfield and the groom whose name was Blegge had died. Alexandra had made certain that Blegge had the best attention—so we all feared the worst.

The fourteenth was close. That would be the day.

Sir Henry Ponsonby said that he must recover, because it would be too much of a coincidence if he died on the same date as his father.

I clung to hope, but I greatly feared. I prayed incessantly that my son might be spared.

The dreaded fourteenth arrived. The whole country was waiting; and Bertie lay battling for life.

And then… the miracle happened. He came through the crisis. The fourteenth slipped into the fifteenth. The day of sorrow had passed.

The next day I saw him and he recognized me.

He smiled at me and kissed my hand. “Dear Mama,” he said, “I am so glad to see you. Have you been here all the time?”

“Oh Bertie, Bertie,” I cried, and I could not restrain my tears.

All past differences were forgotten. He was alive.

I SAID THERE must be a thanksgiving service at which the whole country could rejoice.

I had a letter to the people published in which I thanked them for their concern. We were very popular. I wondered what that odious Charles Dilke was feeling now. His horrible schemes for destroying us had come to nothing—beaten by typhoid! We would show him and his kind that whatever he might think, the people still loved the monarchy. The concern that had been shown for Bertie proved that.

By the end of February, Bertie had recovered sufficiently to take part in the ceremony of rejoicing. I sat beside him in the carriage and it was heartwarming to see the people and hear their shouts.

“God bless the Queen! God bless the Prince of Wales.”

They were pleased with us because they had come near to losing Bertie.

It was a miracle, said the doctors. Few could have been so sorely smitten with the disease and come through. It had been God's will. He had listened to the people when they had cried, “God save the Prince of Wales.”

At Temple Bar the crowd was most dense. It halted the carriages and I took Bertie's hand in mine and kissed it. There was a brief silence and then the cheers rang out.

As we went on to St. Paul's I thought of Gladstone's prophecies. This would show him that the monarchy had a deeper hold on the affections of the people than he was aware of. But it had taken a near-tragedy, such as this which had happened to the Prince of Wales, to show them how much a part of their lives we were.

But it was very gratifying all the same.

As Albert would have said: Often great joy comes out of suffering.

ON THE FOLLOWING day a very alarming incident took place.

I was riding in the carriage with Arthur. Brown was on the box, and I was thinking of how well the thanksgiving service had gone off and hoping that Bertie's terrible experience might have had some effect on his character. Alexandra had been so unswerving in her devotion to him. I hoped he would realize that he owed it to her to give up those fast women who had such attraction for him and to devote more time to his beautiful and virtuous wife.

It amazed me how fond Alexandra was of him, and his children were the same. I had seen them romping around him, not showing the least respect; and he was free and easy with them. In a way it was quite pleasant to watch, but I was not sure whether it was good for the children. Albert had been so different.

Then suddenly I saw a young man by the carriage…very close. He was looking straight at me and in his hand was a gun.

Everything seemed to stand still. It was not the first time I had looked death in the face—and in very similar circumstances.

In a flash Brown had leaped from the box; he was grappling with the young man and had thrown him to the ground. Arthur also had leaped from the carriage. He was grasping the man whom Brown had already overpowered.

I felt shaken. People were rushing up. The man who had wanted to shoot me was taken away.

Brown looked at me anxiously. “You all right, woman?”

“Oh, Brown,” I said. “You saved my life.”

Brown grunted and the carriage drove me back to the Palace.

I WENT TO bed. They said I must. I was thinking that this was the sixth time someone had tried to kill me. Each time they had been foiled. Of course they had not all intended to kill me. But the shock was the same. I wondered about this latest young man. What was his motive?

It was not long before Mr. Gladstone arrived.

The man was Arthur O'Connor, an Irishman, and this had not been a serious attempt on my life as the pistol had not been loaded.

I said, “That does not make the prompt action of John Brown any less commendable.”

Gladstone bowed his head.

“What loyalty!” I went on. “What service!”

“O'Connor said he wished to frighten you into releasing Fenian prisoners. He was not going to shoot, he said. Only to frighten you.”

After Gladstone had gone I thought fondly of John Brown and I wondered how I could show my gratitude. I decided I would give him a medal to commemorate the occasion and an extra twenty-five pounds a year.

When this was known, Bertie—who like the rest of the family did not care for John Brown—said that Arthur had also leaped from the carriage and grappled with O'Connor.

“After John Brown had him in his grasp, yes.”

“Arthur acted bravely and he seems to be getting no recognition. It all seems to be going to that fellow Brown.”

“Certainly it is not. I shall have a gold pin made for Arthur so that he will know how much I appreciate his efforts to save me.”

“Well,” said Bertie, “that is something. Not to be compared with a gold medal and twenty-five pounds a year, but something.”

“What would Arthur want with a medal and twenty-five pounds a year! I have worked hard to get him his annuity. You children are a little ungrateful at times and I do not understand why you are all so unkind to poor Brown. He gives me much more care and attention than I get from my family.”

Bertie raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Good John Brown! Not a word against him.”

Bertie was becoming quite unmanageable. All the care and attention he had when he was ill, all that adulation afterward had gone to his head.

Gladstone came to tell me that O'Connor had been sentenced to a year's imprisonment.

I was rather alarmed.

“One year!” I cried. “What when he comes out? What if he tries again? I should like to hear that he has been transported. It is not that I want him more severely punished; I know that he is mad. But I do not want to think of him here in this country.”

Gladstone made one of his speeches about the points of law and how the court's sentence could not be changed. However, because I felt so strongly and they understood my fears, O'Connor was offered his fare to another country so that he could leave England instead of serving his sentence.

This he accepted with alacrity. When he left I felt safer because he was out of the country.

I RECEIVED A very sad letter from Feodore. She begged me to come and see her for she feared that if I did not come soon she would never see me again.

“I am very ill,” she wrote, “and something tells me that I have not long to live. I want to see you before I go. I want to say goodbye.”

When I told Mr. Gladstone that I proposed visiting Baden-Baden he shook his head and made one of his long speeches.

Recent events, he pointed out, such as the Prince's illness and the O'Connor attack, had increased our popularity. We must hold on to it. We must see that we did not lose what we had gained. We must do nothing to diminish it.

I said, “My sister is very ill. I am going to see her.”

And I went.

My dear Feodore! How she had changed from that bright and beautiful girl who used to sit in the garden while I watered the plants and she conducted her love affair with Cousin Augustus.

She had grown rather fat; she had lost her bright color; and I saw at once that she was indeed very ill.

“I am so glad I came,” I said.

She became very sentimental talking of the past. She said, “You were such a dear little child—so warm, so loving, so innocent. I was delighted with my little sister.”

It was a sad visit because we both knew we should not meet again. So we talked of the past, which was the best way of not looking into the future.

“My Uncle George was very interested in you,” I reminded her. “You might have been Queen of England. I believe you could have been if Mama had wished it.”

“Mama wanted that role for you.”

“Yes,” I said. “She wanted to rule through me, whereas she would never have been able to had you been Uncle George's Queen.”

“Does it ever strike you, little sister, what hundreds of possibilities there are in our lives? If you did this…if you did that at a certain time the whole course of your life could be changed.”

I admitted that I had thought of it.

The days sped past; we drove out in the carriage now and then. Feodore was not strong enough to walk or ride. She said I must not spend the whole time with her.

“Dear sister,” I replied, “that is what I have come for. You have no idea what black looks I received from my Prime Minister when I told him I was coming. But I was determined to come all the same.”

“You are not happy with Mr. Gladstone. He is highly thought of here. They think he is a very strong man.”

“Strong he may be, but I find him most uncomfortable and difficult to talk to. How I wish people had had the sense not to send Mr. Disraeli away.”

Then I made her laugh with an imitation of Gladstone and his speaker's manner. “I always feel like the audience at a meeting when he holds forth. His wife is quite a pleasant creature. I often pity her for having such a husband.”

“Perhaps she is fond of him.”

“Oddly enough, she seems to be.”

“People seem different to different people.”

Dreamy days they were. Sometimes I would forget how ill she was. She insisted that I do a little sightseeing and she arranged for me to see something of the place. I was shown the haunts of some of the worst characters of both sexes in Europe; but what I remember most was an instrument of torture that was used by the Inquisition. It was called the Iron Virgin—a case lined with knives into that those who were called heretics were thrust, and, as they said, embraced by the Virgin.

I had never seen anything like it—and I shall never forget it.

The time came for me to say goodbye to Feodore, and I took leave of her with protestations of affection. We both knew it would be our last meeting and we tried to be brave about it. We embraced with great affection. We had always been such good friends. The only difference we had ever had had been at the time of that awful Schleswig-Holstein business when she had wanted my support for her daughter's husband and I had been unable to give it.

These beastly wars that made rifts in families!

But any rift between us was now healed, and with poignant tenderness we said our last farewells.

When I arrived back it was to find Mr. Gladstone in a tutorial mood. He came and talked, standing before me, rocking on his heels, expounding his views. He thought the Prince of Wales should be seen doing some work. It would please the people.

“What sort of work?” I asked.

Mr. Gladstone thought that, as his father had been interested in art and science, they might be fields to explore. “The Prince Consort had a knowledge of architecture,” he added.

“The Prince of Wales is not the Prince Consort,” I said. “If only he resembled his father more I think we should have less cause for concern.”

“Perhaps philanthropy would be good for him,” Mr. Gladstone went on, rocking on his heels and discussing philanthropy as though I had never heard of it. He really was the most exhausting man I had ever met.

Finally, I said, “I can see no point in planning for the Prince of Wales. I am told he is a good ambassador. Let him do what is asked of him, but the idea of forcing him into art, science, or philanthropy, I think is hopeless. He would never give his mind to any of these.”

Mr. Gladstone seemed to be in agreement, only he could not say so simply. And it was decided that for the moment we should leave Bertie alone.

DEATH! IT NEVER seems to strike singly. Poor Feodore died, as I knew she must. Napoleon passed on at Chichester. How sad that he who had such grandiose plans should have ended in exile.

One of the saddest deaths was that of the Countess of Beaconsfield. Poor Mr. Disraeli was heartbroken. He was such a feeling man. He wrote long letters to me and I wrote back expressing my sympathy. None knew better than I what the loss of one's partner meant. I could understand as few could; I sensed the depth of his feeling, his desolation.

He told me that she had been eighty-one. Well, it was a great age. He himself was sixty-eight. “I knew she had to go before me,” he wrote. “But that does not soften the blow.” Poor, poor Mr. Disraeli, my heart bled for him.

He wrote so beautifully, so poignantly. He brought back memories of my own loss. I wrote and told him of my feelings, how similar were our losses.

The death of his wife seemed to bring Mr. Disraeli closer to me.

But these were all expected deaths and there was one that was the most tragic of all.

How I suffered with the dearest of my daughters, my Alice. She had seven children, which I had always said was too many, but Alice loved them all dearly and did not mind so much as I had those months of pregnancy and the births. She accepted these pains and discomforts, thinking them worthwhile.

When I heard what had happened I could scarcely believe it. She had gone into the courtyard and her little Frederick William, who was about three years old, saw her and called out to her. He leaned out too far and fell onto the cobbles below.

A little later he died. Alice was heartbroken. How I suffered with her. I thank God that she had the others.

She had been dogged by ill luck since her marriage, poor girl. Louis had never been a great match—unlike Vicky's with the Crown Prince of Prussia—and Louis had lost a lot of what he had at the time of his marriage—thanks to that arch-villain, Bismarck.

Alice and I had not been quite so close since her marriage. There had been one or two upsets. I had remonstrated with her because she would nurse the children herself. A wet nurse would have been so much more suitable. The business was distasteful reducing one to the level of a cow, I thought. A very crude joke of Nature. But Alice insisted. She said she had saved the children from dysentery. Then I thought she had had too many too quickly, and it was quite clear that she resented my interference in this matter. She had more or less told me that it was entirely her affair.

Sometime before she had forgotten Vicky's birthday, which upset Vicky very much, and I had not invited Alice to England when Vicky was there because I feared a coldness between them.

I believed too, that she and Alfred had put their heads together and made plans to draw me out of my seclusion. So although I never forgot that in the past Alice was the one who really came first in my affections, that had changed a little since her marriage.

Alfred, like Bertie, seemed destined to cause trouble. He must marry, of course, but he did seem to make the most unsuitable choices. Sometime previously he had contemplated marriage to Frederika, daughter of my blind cousin George, who had been driven from his throne of Hanover.

I had firmly quashed that. As her father was blind I said there was a possibility of that malady descending through his daughter, and as Alfred was not very determined that happily passed over. Then there was an involvement with a commoner. I feared that I was going to have even more trouble with Alfred than I had had with Bertie.

Now he was really serious. He wanted to marry a daughter of the Tsar. I was not at all pleased about this. The Russians had been our enemies and I did not entirely trust them. I began to reconsider Frederika. I had been rather fond of my blind cousin at one time, and I believed she was quite a pleasant girl. But Alfred—fickle creature—had forgotten Frederika and was set on Marie of Russia.

The Tsar at first had not been eager for the match and then seemed to change his mind. I heard rumors that came through our ambassador in Russia that Marie had been involved with Prince Golitsyn—and not only him—and that the Russian royal family were now eager to see her settled. Hence the sudden acceptance of marriage with Alfred.

Naturally I did not want such a marriage, and as Alfred was so feckless I felt I must reason with him. His past would not bear too much scrutiny. I could think of several reasons why the marriage should not take place. The Russians were half oriental; they were self-indulgent; I did not have a great opinion of the Romanovs. There would be a marriage in the Greek Church. No. I was against the match.

It seemed that the Russians were not too keen now either. There was a great deal of shilly-shallying, and I wondered if Alfred's pride would allow him to accept that. But he seemed to be unaware of it and he was pursuing marriage to Marie with a tenacity that I wished he would give to more worthy matters.

At last, to my dismay, the engagement was official. I asked that Marie should visit me at Balmoral at which I had a most impolite reply from the Tsar to the effect that he had no intention of sending his daughter for my approval. The Tsarina then suggested that I meet the Princess at Cologne.

“The impertinence!” I said. “Do they expect me to run after her!”

I was furious when Alice wrote to me advising me—advising me!—to meet the Tsarina and her daughter at Cologne. “The Tsarina feels the heat more than you do, Mama, and traveling is so tiresome for her. It is meeting half-way, and that seems reasonable.”

Reasonable! I thought. I picked up my pen and wrote to her:

You have entirely taken the Russian side, and I do not think, dear child, that you should tell me—who have been nearly twenty years longer on the throne than the Emperor of Russia and am the Doyenne of Sovereigns and who am a reigning Sovereign which the Empress is not—what I ought to do. I do think I know that. How could I, who am not like any little Princess, be ready to run at the slightest call of the mighty Russians.

Bertie and Alexander were, of course, in favor of the Russian marriage because Alexandra's sister Dagmar was married to the Tsarevitch. Bertie invited them to come to England, which they did. I found them very charming and I felt less animosity to the Russians after that. Alexandra's sister was a pleasant creature—not as beautiful as Alexandra, but the affection between them was strong, and I really became quite enchanted by them all.

And when I did meet Princess Marie I found her warm and loving, and I saw no reason why—if she would learn our English ways—she should not make Alfred a good wife. Heaven knew he needed a steadying influence.

I had a long talk with Alfred warning him of the duties and the responsibilities of marriage and expressed the fervent hope that he would change his life when he became a husband. But I did not believe he paid much attention.

At length they were married in St. Petersburg. I sent my dear friend Dean Stanley to perform the wedding ceremony after the Anglican rite. It was by all means a glittering occasion.

HOW FICKLE ARE the people! Those who had heralded Mr. Gladstone's ministry a few years before were now weary of him.

He had realized the signs of weakness in the Liberal party and that it no longer possessed the power to carry on in government.

He came to see me and delivered one of his harangues. I paid more attention this time because I realized he was thinking of relinquishing office. His Irish Universities Bill had been turned out and several Liberal candidates had been defeated in by-elections. Of course, he was a great reformer and although people clamor for this, when the reforms are brought in they see that they are not all they were made out to be.

I was reading the accounts of Alfred's grand wedding when I had a telegram from Mr. Gladstone telling me that the Cabinet had decided to dissolve Parliament.

There was an election. Mr. Gladstone retained his seat but it was a triumphant victory for the Tories.

I waited impatiently for my new Prime Minister to call.

He had aged a little. The sorrow he had suffered at the death of Mary Anne had affected him deeply. I saw this at once and when I held out my hand for him to kiss, I touched his head as he bent and said, “Dear Mr. Disraeli, this is indeed a happy moment.”

“For me, Ma'am,” he replied, “it is the start of life again.”

I knew what he meant. In his devotion to me, he could salve the grief he suffered at the death of Mary Anne.

LIFE WAS MUCH happier for me now that I had my dear Mr. Disraeli as a constant visitor. Although we had kept in touch during his years in opposition, for we were both prolific letter writers, it was much more satisfying to see him in person.

I had to admit that Mr. Gladstone was a man of high principle and he had worked hard for his country; but then so did Mr. Disraeli and he did it gracefully, so that it was a pleasure to be with him. He made state affairs a matter of interest and amusement, as Lord Melbourne used to. That was a much more effective way of dealing with them, for Mr. Gladstone's tedious speeches did have a tendency to send me to sleep.

Mr. Disraeli was a great talker and his descriptions were so vivid. I felt I knew so much about him, his ambitions, his determination to “climb the greasy pole” as he expressed it, to the premiership. “And,” he said, “it is much harder, Ma'am, I do assure you, to stay at the top of it than climb it.” I was sure he was right.

It was from him that I learned of Mr. Gladstone's peregrinations after dark through the streets of London. “His great desire, Ma'am, is to rescue ladies of easy virtue and bring them back to paths of righteousness.”

I was incredulous. “Mr. Gladstone behaving so! I wonder what Mrs. Gladstone has to say.”

“She is a most devoted wife. She believes unshakably in the virtue of her husband.”

“Does she join him in this…er…work?”

“Indeed, Ma'am, I believe they have ‘rescued’ one or two. It has been going on for years.”

“It seems to me an odd occupation for such a man.”

“It is a dangerous one.” He looked at me slyly. “People are apt to misconstrue.”

“I cannot believe Mr. Gladstone would ever be anything but virtuous. Oh dear, poor Mrs. Gladstone!”

Mr. Disraeli had a wonderful effect on me. I felt better than I had since Albert's death. I felt more alive. I felt younger, even attractive, not as a queen but as a woman.

I believe that in a way he was in love with me. People do not always understand these things. They think that love must be a physical thing. Far from it. I was never what is called “physical” in that respect. I did not need that sort of contact; my emotions were of the spirit. I had heard that he had written of me that now that Mary Anne was dead, I was the only person in the world left to him to love. He was completely devoted to me; our meetings brought as much joy to him as they did to me. I knew that he called me “The Faerie Queen.” I thought that was rather charming and I was grateful to him.

People said rather crudely that “he had got the length of my foot” and knew how to be sympathetic and that his sympathy might be expressed with his tongue in his cheek.

I knew these things were said, but I did not care. People always tried to spoil things that were beautiful and my relationship with him was beautiful. We were a joy and comfort to each other and what more could one ask of any relationship?

We agreed on so many things and when I was incensed by something and he did not agree with my views, he had such a comical way of raising his eyebrows and saying in a mock serious way “Dear Madam,” which always amused me and made me reconsider my opinions.

We discussed Mr. Gladstone at great length. He was concerned about religion. He had defended Roman Catholicism and then published an Expostulation against the Catholic claims. He was a strange man—subversive, in a way. There was this obsession with religion and the nightly wanderings.

I would not say this to anyone else but Mr. Disraeli, but what if Mr. Gladstone were in secret a Catholic… and a libertine?

Mr. Disraeli just looked at me and said in his mock-severe voice, “Dear Madam,” which of course made me laugh.

The troubles between the family and John Brown continued. They were all against him. They could not understand that in his honest Highland way he was no respecter of persons. I had quickly realized this and so had Albert, and we had told each other that loyalty and honesty came before lip service.

Two courtiers who held service in the household had threatened to resign because they could not accept the privileges accorded to Brown. Bertie said he would not go to Abergeldie because Brown was given shooting rights, which ruined the sport for him. Someone said, “Brown is a coarse animal.”

They were all trying to rid me of the very best servant I had, one whose loyalty to me was never in question.

The company Bertie was keeping was causing scandal everywhere. I had my anxieties over Alfred. Vicky was arrogant. I believe she thought the wife of the Crown Prince—one day to be Empress—was more important than the Queen of England; Alice—even Alice—had ceased to be the placid girl who had meant so much to me; Leopold frequently suffered from hemorrhages, which were a constant anxiety; and I was terrified that Beatrice was going to fall in love and I found myself restricting her, keeping her from social activities, trying to arrange that she did not meet people outside the family. I thought often of my mad grandfather, George III, who had spoiled the lives of his daughters. I must remember that. Yet how could I bear to lose Beatrice!

There was always the danger of offending the public, and it seemed that feelings against royalty were always simmering and ready to boil over.

Charles Greville's Memoirs were published and widely read. I thought them amusing at first but then I began to see how dangerous they were. He exposed too much and although he recorded actual events he did exaggerate them. His observations were quite cynical and no one was spared. This sort of thing did no good to the established State.

Mr. Disraeli was not very pleased at the publication. He said the book was a social outrage and that Greville was full of vanity. Someone else commented that it was like Judas writing the lives of the apostles—which I thought a rather witty and apt remark. I think it was Lord John Manners who said this.

But as I read on and saw how my poor uncles were pilloried, I realized how dangerous the book was.

Greville had been Clerk of the Council in Ordinary from '21 until '60 and had died in '65 and these Memoirs of the reigns of George IV and William IV were edited by a Henry Reeve; and when objection to their publication was raised, this man Reeve remarked that my behavior would seem very good when set against that of my uncles. I had been fond of both Uncle George and Uncle William and I deplored this publication, which, in any case, could do no good to the monarchy.

There was another unpleasant incident that had set the people against us—though I cannot think why we were to blame in any way, but people are quite illogical.

Our yacht the Alberta collided with another ship when we were crossing to Osborne. Three people were drowned and I was most distressed. The case was brought to court and the mob surrounded the courthouse screaming threats against our captain. It was most unfortunate; and the case dragged on and on, and our enemies in the Press made the most of it. One would have thought that I had deliberately set out to collide with the other boat, which was in our way, and cared nothing that lives were lost as long as I could pursue my pleasure. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and no one could have been more unhappy than I was that lives had been lost.

Then we had the dangerous Aylesford affair—another scandal involving Bertie. What a genius he had for getting himself into these scrapes. It was just as Albert had feared.

Disraeli had a great interest in India. “One day I am going to make you Empress of India, Ma'am,” he said.

I smiled at him. He really did care for me so much.

He thought it would be a good idea if Bertie was sent to India.

“A very good background for his particular sort of mischief, I imagine,” I said.

“Dear Madam!”

I smiled at him. “Well, you know Bertie has a habit of falling into mischief…”

“He is a good ambassador. The people like him.”

“He is too fond of fast women and gambling.”

“The people often like their heroes to have feet of clay. It makes them feel so much more like heroes themselves. I think the Prince will do very well.”

At length I decided that if the Prime Minister thought it advisable, it must be right.

Bertie was delighted; Alexandra less so, for she was not to go with him.

It was while he was in India that the trouble blew up. It was like the Mordaunt case all over again—with variations, of course. But Bertie being what he is, perhaps that was to be expected.

Dizzy, as he was universally called—and I found myself thinking of him thus for Mr. Disraeli was too remote an appellation for such a friend—came to see me.

“I'm afraid, Ma'am, that a little contretemps has blown up in the circle of the Prince of Wales.”

“Oh dear… not women again!”

“One woman, Ma'am.”

“Do please explain. I must hear the worst.”

“It is Lord Aylesford. His wife is threatening to divorce him.”

“Oh no… not Bertie!”

“Not exactly, Ma'am. I must give you the details as they have been given to me. Perhaps you did not know that Lord Aylesford is one of the Prince's greatest friends.”

“I know very well. I was against his going on tour with the Prince, but I was overruled. He is a gambling, sporty type.”

“Exactly so, Ma'am, and a member of the circle that is close to the Prince. I think he is considered to be a very amusing fellow.”

“And Aylesford's wife?”

“She was also on good terms with the Prince.”

“I feared that.”

“It is not on the Prince's account that Aylesford is threatening divorce. Lord Blandford is the man in the case. While Aylesford was in India, Lady Aylesford set up house with Blandford. News of this reached Aylesford and he left for home—rather against the Prince's wishes for he liked Aylesford's company a good deal. The Prince despised Blandford and made some comments about him that were brought to the notice of Blandford's younger brother—Lord Randolph Churchill.”

“I never liked the man.”

“A fiery-tempered young fellow. He was furious that his brother should have been slandered, he said. Particularly…”

“Particularly?” I insisted.

“By the Prince. I believe he recalled the Mordaunt scandal and er…”

“Other scandals. You must tell me the truth you know, Mr. Disraeli.”

“Exactly, Ma'am. Your Majesty is too wise and the situation too delicate for us to mince our words. The fact is that Churchill says he wants the divorce stopped. He is a hot-headed idiot, as indiscreet as a man can be. He wants the Prince to stop the divorce. He says that he must use his influence with Aylesford and stop him proceeding further.”

“But why draw in the Prince?”

“Churchill resents what the Prince said about his brother. He says the Churchill family honor is at stake. He is a wild, impetuous young man, capable of any folly in the heat of anger; the sort who can do a great deal of harm. He has already sought an interview with the Princess of Wales.”

“Surely not! Oh, my poor Alexandra! It is bad enough for her to know of the Prince's… activities… but to be drawn into this!”

“It was a ridiculous thing to do, but then Churchill is ridiculous.”

“Why go to the Princess?”

“He wants her to impress on the Prince that he must forbid Aylesford to start divorce proceedings.”

“But what has the Prince to do with this?”

“Ma'am, according to Churchill, the Prince has written letters to Lady Aylesford. When Aylesford threatened divorce, she gave these letters to Blandford. They are now in Churchill's possession and if Aylesford goes through with the divorce, the letters written by the Prince will be handed to the Press.”

“This is terrible.”

“I fear it is a little unpleasant.”

“It reminds me of my Uncle George. He was always in difficulties with women and there were letters.”

“It may well be that the letters are quite innocent.”

I looked at him helplessly. “Churchill says that if these letters are published the Prince will never be able to sit on the throne.”

I felt limp with exhaustion. If only Albert were here. He would know what to do. But if he were, how unhappy he would be! Perhaps I should be glad that he was not here…to suffer this.

What an unpleasant situation! Churchill was adamant. I had never liked him. I would never receive him at Court—not him nor his American wife.

I knew it was useless to rage against them and I knew, too, however innocent Bertie's part in all this—and I could hardly believe it was—the Press and public would make him appear guilty—and that was just as bad as though he were.

What fools young men were, writing letters to women! One would have thought that they would have learned from the example of others— but they never seemed to.

I was comforted to have Disraeli there. I felt that if anyone could bring us out of this unsavory matter, he could.

“Will you leave this to me, Ma'am?” he asked.

“Most willingly, my dear friend,” I told him.

How clever he was! I know that he worked indefatigably for my good. He told me that he had approached Lord Hardwicke and impressed on him the danger of the situation and Lord Hardwicke had seen the point and promised to do what he could.

I am sure it was due to Disraeli's efforts that we came out of that as well as we did. Between them Lord Hardwicke and Mr. Disraeli managed to get Lord Aylesford to stop proceedings; and by the time Bertie came home, the matter was settled.

But as Disraeli said, there would have been rumors of the affair and it would be as well for Churchill to make an apology to the Prince.

At first Churchill refused to do this, but when his family and friends pointed out that he would be ruined at Court if he did not, he complied.

Bertie accepted the apology but Lord and Lady Randolph thought it necessary to travel abroad for a while and Bertie vowed that when he came back he would not receive him.

So another unsavory matter was brought to an end.

Dear, clever Mr. Disraeli.

HE WAS SUCH a brilliant statesman. His Indian policy had brought about what he so ardently desired. I was created Empress of India. How proud he was! Of course the Opposition had done their best to prevent this; and Disraeli had to compromise to a certain extent by assuring them that the title would only be used for matters dealing with India.

I was worried about him for his health was not of the best, and I insisted on bestowing a peerage on him and he became Lord Beaconsfield.

He had induced me to appear a little more in public and I had found the experience quite pleasurable. We had worked together over the Ashanti War and when it was over I had reviewed the soldiers, sailors, and marines, distributing medals. I attended a concert at the Royal Albert Hall and inspected the wonderful Memorial—so beautifully elaborate with its large gilded figure of Albert in the center.

There was trouble in Europe that made us very watchful. It was like the Crimean War all over again. Turkey and the Balkans were at loggerheads and Russia was threatening to come in.

Disraeli followed in Lord Palmerston's footsteps. He said that our interests in India and everywhere dictated that Turkey must not be violated. The Turks behaved with great ferocity in the Balkans and Mr. Gladstone who, a little while before, had announced his retirement came back to fulminate against the Turks because of the atrocities they had committed, and declared he was against any English support for Turkey.

I was furious with Gladstone. Self-righteous and moralizing, he was preventing Disraeli from acting as he thought best. Disraeli was a great enough politician to realize that personal feelings of repugnance must stand aside when the nation's interests were at stake.

Russia must be kept out. I wrote to Alice who was very concerned about the conflict; and she had a meeting with the Tsar at Darmstadt when he assured her that he had no desire to come into conflict with England.

So much for his promise. Russia almost immediately declared war on Turkey and in a short time was victorious.

I was very distressed when the Sultan made an appeal to me to beg the Russians to make lenient peace terms. As if Russia would do that! The terms were harsh and Disraeli suggested that we demand the settlement be agreed by a congress of European states.

This was an alarming situation and we were on the brink of war with Russia. I daresay Gladstone would have retreated; but not Lord Beaconsfield—and I stood firmly with him.

I shall never forget the day when Lord Beaconsfield came to me in a very serious frame of mind.

He said, “We must at all costs prevent Russia from getting a foothold in the south of the Danube.”

I knew what those ominous words “at all costs” meant.

I told him that I felt complete confidence in him and he must take the risk.

He left for Berlin where the conference was to be held and I was greatly disturbed when I heard that he and Prince Gortchakoff had reached deadlock, and Beaconsfield had remarked that if they could not come to an agreement the dispute would have to be settled “by other means.”

I daresay Russia was not so eager to enter into conflict with us as she was with little Turkey; and a compromise was reached. Lord Beaconsfield returned home, bringing with him, as he said, “Peace with honor.”

I was delighted to see him and welcomed him warmly. I was determined that all should know how I appreciated the good work he had done for the country, and I awarded him the Order of the Garter.

I suppose everyone knew of the happy relationship I enjoyed with my Prime Minister. I was certainly seeing more of people and they all knew that I had paid a visit to his country seat at Hughenden when I had planted a tree in honor of the occasion.

With the companionship of Lord Beaconsfield and the faithful attendance of John Brown, I felt I was very fortunate.

LEOPOLD WAS A continual anxiety. He had just recovered from a very bad illness. I was always so worried even if he were only slightly ill. I dreaded that fearful bleeding. He was so reckless. He wanted to live as other people did—and I could understand that, but he assumed a certain indifference to danger, which was very worrying for me.

I was slightly more reconciled to Bertie. Everybody liked him though none looked up to him, but it seemed that his character was the key to his popularity. Everyone had looked up to Albert—or should have done— but not many people really liked him.

Bertie was always considerate to the servants, and as I was the same, I liked that in him.

There are often troubles in families. I knew that Vicky was having trouble with young Wilhelm. He had always been an arrogant child, and I supposed that, to one of his temperament, having a deformed arm must be very frustrating. He always signed himself “Prince Wilhelm of Prussia” even to me. He was so proud of being Prussian and made no secret of the fact that he despised his English blood, which enraged me. He actively disliked Vicky, it seemed—his own mother! What infuriated him most, I believe, was that England was more important in the world than Germany, and Bismarck and his grandparents had instilled in him that this must not always be so. He never defended his mother when people spoke against her—which they did often because she was half-English. He laughed with them at her and her foreign ways. I knew Vicky was most distressed about this son of hers.

There was one thing that endeared Bertie to me. He might be unsatisfactory in many ways, but I was sure he would never listen to disparagement of me. He was a good son if one could forget those peccadilloes he fell into, mostly with regard to women.

Then there was Arthur. He was the most like Albert of all my children, and I never thought he would marry; but quite suddenly he fell in love and in an unexpected direction.

He chose Princess Louise Margaret, daughter of Prince Frederick Charles—a nephew of the German Emperor—and Princess Marianne of Prussia. It was rather an unfortunate choice because the Prince and Princess were separated. I wished he would not rush into this. If he had wanted to marry I could have found him a more suitable bride. But Arthur had made up his mind and I had never believed in forcing the children into a marriage that was distasteful to them.

However, when I met the girl I found her quite charming; and although she was not good-looking she had a very pleasant profile. I thought it was rather wonderful of Arthur to have rescued her from a broken home and I told myself that Louischen—which by this time she had become—was more likely to appreciate a man like Arthur and make a good marriage because she had experience, through her parents, of the other kind.

I wrote to Vicky telling her how sorry I was about Wilhelm's behavior. It made me realize that I was rather fortunate after all. Alfred and Leopold were often careless and wanting in consideration; Arthur had always been good and attentive; and I was beginning to think that those terrible scrapes through which Bertie had passed had been a lesson to him. And I did not think that any one of them would tolerate anyone's speaking ill of me.

But the child I was really worried about was Alice. She was not in good health. Bearing all those children had been too much for her. She was devoted to them all and had suffered tragically when little Frittie had died. He had been cursed with that terrible disease which it seemed passed through the family to the sons by the mothers. I had passed it on to Leopold and Alice had to Frittie. She had never really recovered from his death.

Almost immediately after, the Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt had died and Louis had succeeded him; and although it was a small state, much diminished by that odious Bismarck, official duties weighed heavily.

Alice was first and foremost a family person. She had been my devoted daughter—little Fatima, the placid one. When she married, of course, she had moved away from me, and we had had our little upsets; but she was still the best-loved child.

I was in a state of horror when I heard that her daughter Victoria had diphtheria and she was very ill indeed. Two days later her daughter Alix—called Alicky—caught it; then Baby May was the next victim. Then Ernest, her only son, and Ella.

It was November when the telegrams came. It was a time of year that I had dreaded since Albert's death. Memories always came back to me more vividly at that time. I had come to think of the fourteenth of December as a day of ill omen, when horrible catastrophes would overtake me. Bertie had come near to death on that date and by a miracle survived. But I did dread that time of year.

Alice had only six children left to her. They were the center of her life. She was essentially the mother I had never been. How she must have suffered when that little one had fallen from the window … and in a moment of delight at seeing her!

I waited eagerly for news. I could not sleep and the first thing I looked for in the mornings was news of Alice.

It came and it was very depressing. Louis had caught the terrible disease and Alice herself was the only one who was well.

I wrote pages to her. She must take care of herself. She must leave the care of her family to nurses. She must never go close to them for that was how the disease was passed on. She must not be tempted to embrace or kiss them. She must leave the entire care of them in the hands of servants, doctors, and nurses.

Alice wrote back almost indignantly. I did not seem to understand. This was her beloved family. Did I imagine she would leave them in the hands of others? Indeed no. She was going to nurse them herself.

Lord Beaconsfield came and shared my grief.

“I wish that I could go there,” I cried. “I would nurse them. I would send Alice away to safety. Dear Lord Beaconsfield, she is the most loved of all my children. She was always so different…so gentle. Albert loved her, although Vicky was his favorite… but Alice was mine. She was such a good girl. She and Arthur are the only two in the least like their father. If I caught the disease, what would it matter? My life finished on that tragic fourteenth of December.”

He looked at me sorrowfully and said, “Dear Madam.”

I smiled faintly. He was such a comfort to me.

There was further sad news. Little May—five years old, the baby and pet of the household, had died.

Alice's grief was terrible. The whole family was stricken.

The worst was to come. I heard afterward what had happened. Her son, Ernest, who was also a victim, was so sorrowful when he heard of his little sister's death, and feeling that he himself would be the next, had turned to his mother in an access of grief, and she had embraced and kissed him.

The result of that embrace was that Alice herself was stricken.

This was what I had feared and I summoned as many of the family as I could and told them. They were in despair. Alice had been greatly loved and it was only two days to the fourteenth of December.

I was proud of them all as they gathered around to comfort me. Bertie was as charming as he knew how to be, and was especially so on occasions like this.

I prayed to God. I prayed to Albert. I tried to make terms with the Almighty. Save Alice and take me instead. Give me Alice and do anything You will. I had already, on that other fateful fourteenth been dealt the cruellest blow that could possibly have befallen me and I was ready to face anything—just anything in return for Alice's life.

The thirteenth came. There was no news. I went through the day in a haze of apprehension, and I awoke to the fateful fourteenth.

Brown fussed over me, scolding me, telling me I was “a foolish woman who could do nae good by fretting.”

I had almost known it would happen. I took the telegram in a state of numbed acceptance.

Alice was dead.

THEY STOOD AROUND me, my dear family. Alice was the first child I had lost and the tragedy was almost more than I could bear.

Bertie put his arms around me and tried to comfort me. He had especially loved Alice. When they were young she had often tried to cover up his misdemeanors. I was sure she had saved him from many a beating.

We knew then how she had caught the infection. In expressing her love for her son, and trying to comfort him she had caught the disease herself. Beatrice wept bitterly and so did Alexandra. Dear girl, she was very much one of the family.

It was strange that it should have happened on the dreaded fourteenth.

Brown gave me some comfort with his silence and shocked looks; he urged me to drink a little. I could not eat. He said nothing, but it is amazing what comfort there can be in silence.

Lord Beaconsfield called.

“I thought you would not wish for visitors at such a time,” he said. “But I felt that if you could not bear to see me you would say so. Therefore I came. What can I say? I can only offer my deep sympathy.”

I was pleased to see him at any time, I told him. It was true that I should not have wished to see anyone else. I was able to talk to him about Alice, about Albert, the two whom I had loved best in the whole world— and I had lost them both.

“How well I understand, Ma'am,” he said, and I knew that he was thinking of Mary Anne.

“You had a wonderful wife,” I told him. “I had a wonderful husband. You called her the perfect wife. Albert was, without doubt, the perfect husband. You have often said how fortunate we have been to have these wonderful beings even for a short time. But I have often wondered if we should have been happier if we had never known them. Then we should not have had to suffer their loss.”

He said he did not agree with me on that, and I was sure he was right.

Later he sent me a copy of the speech he had made in the House of Lords. I read it again and again and I could not stop the tears flowing as I did so.

“My Lords, there is something wonderfully piteous in the immediate cause of her death. The physician who permitted her to watch over her suffering family enjoined her under no circumstances to be tempted into an embrace. Her admirable self-constraint guarded her, but it became her lot to break to her son the news of the death of his younger sister to whom he was devotedly attached. The boy was so overcome with misery that the agitated mother clasped him in her arms and thus she received the kiss of death.”

I was so touched, so deeply moved. How like Lord Beaconsfield to express it so beautifully!

When he came to see me we wept together.

“The kiss of death!” I said. “It was so beautifully expressed. And that was what it was.”

He sat with me talking in his fluent way. He thought it was significant that Alice had died on the fourteenth of December.

“So you think Albert wanted her with him and he chose that day to take her?”

Lord Beaconsfield said he thought that might be the case.

“I should have thought he would have taken Vicky rather than Alice. Vicky was his favorite. She was the clever one. My dear sweet Alice was never that.”

It was all very mysterious, said Lord Beaconsfield; and we talked of death and the after-life and whether those who had passed on could come back to watch over those whom they had loved on earth.

And talking with Lord Beaconsfield assuaged my grief.