Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

Farewell John Brown

HOW GRATEFUL I WAS TO LORD BEACONSFIELD IN EVERY WAY. I thanked God for him. He was a solace in that time of trouble. I pictured what it would have been like if I had had to rely on Mr. Gladstone at that time. I knew Gladstone had his good points. He was very popular with the people. He was known in fact as “The People's William.” But I could not like him. He saw me as a public institution whereas Lord Beaconsfield saw me as a woman.

The Zulu War had broken out. There was a great deal of unrest in South Africa. Sir Bartle Frere, the Governor of the Cape, was not the most diplomatic of men. Lord Beaconsfield did not approve of his actions, but, as he said to me, the government had to support its representatives. His great aim was to make us, and keep us, at the head of all states which, as he pointed out to me, meant an increase in our commitments.

There was a great deal of opposition from Gladstone who accused the government of Imperialism. Gladstone was one of those pacifists who will stand for peace at any price. I often thought that they with their timid approach are more responsible for wars than those who stand firm and strong. It is because our enemies suspect we are weak that they come to attack us.

Lord Beaconsfield agreed with me. It was the reason why, under his premiership, we were becoming mightier.

I had a terrible shock when I heard that the only son of the Empress of France, who was fighting the Zulus with us, had been captured and hacked to death by the savages. Poor Eugénie was heartbroken. I went to Chichester to comfort her. I, who had so recently lost my Alice, was in a position to understand.

It was heartbreaking. I determined to look after the poor sad creature and visit her often. Life was so cruel. It was hard to recognize in that poor woman, the dazzling Empress who had ruled over her court with Napoleon—so beautiful, so elegant—and now an exile, a sorrowing mother, who had lost her only child. I at least had eight left to me.

Meanwhile Gladstone was making virulent attacks on Lord Beaconsfield, deploring his Imperialism. What was the result of Mr. Gladstone's interference? War. I was furious.

Lord Beaconsfield smiled at my anger.

He said, “It is true that I am ambitious. I want to secure for Your Majesty, greater powers than you already have. I believe it is the way for peace and prosperity, not only for us but for the whole world. I want you to dictate the affairs of Europe. For the sake of world peace I think it is necessary for Your Majesty to occupy the position I plan for you.”

I told him that I feared Prussia might be troublesome.

“Young Wilhelm has been brought up under Bismarck. It is not surprising that he is imbued with ideas for the aggrandizement of Prussia.”

“I am really beginning to dislike Wilhelm. It seems so strange that he should turn out like this. He was the first grandchild. Albert and I were so proud of him.”

“I only hope,” said Lord Beaconsfield, “that I live long enough to see Your Majesty where you belong.”

“Please do not talk of your not being here. I have suffered so much lately. I could not bear any more.”

“Gladstone has a great following,” he said warningly. He smiled at me apologetically. “Facts have to be faced, Ma'am.”

I was alarmed.

He nodded. “Support is dropping away. It may be that before long we shall be obliged to go to the country and if we do…”

“Oh no. I could not bear that. Not that man again! I thought he had retired once. Why does he have to come back?”

“By public request, Ma'am. The people love their William.”

“Do they know he prowls the streets at night?”

“I think he has given that up. And it was said to be most virtuously done.”

“If one believes it!”

“Of Mr. Gladstone! Surely one must.”

“If I have to accept him …I…I shall abdicate!”

“Dear Madam!”

He left me very uneasy for I knew that unless he was almost sure that there would be a change of government, he would not have suggested it to me at this time, for he would know how it disturbed me.

Of course he was right to prepare me and although I was deeply distressed when Parliament was dissolved and an election was called, it was not such a shock as it would have been if I had not been prepared.

The following day I went to Germany. I had to see Alice's stricken family who had now recovered from their illness and had to face their irreplaceable loss.

Two of the girls were going to be confirmed and I wanted to see the ceremony.

It was a very sad household. Alice had been greatly loved.

I visited Vicky in time to celebrate the betrothal of Wilhelm to Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg, who was the daughter of that Duke Frederick who had laid claims to Schleswig-Holstein. Her mother was Feodore's daughter, so I had a special interest in the match; and I thought it excellent as Prussia had annexed Schleswig-Holstein. In a way it made reparations for their act.

So that was something of which I approved—though I had to say that Wilhelm's manners had not improved and I thought him quite an odious young man.

My great interest, of course, was in what was going on at home. I was in constant touch with Lord Beaconsfield and, alas, the news was gloomy.

Finally I had the result of the election. My Conservative Government had been defeated and the Liberals had a majority of one hundred and sixty.

It was indeed a tragedy.

I RETURNED HOME distraught. Not Mr. Gladstone! I could not endure it, and it would be particularly hard to bear after the pleasant companionship I had enjoyed with dear Lord Beaconsfield.

Sir Henry Ponsonby, my secretary, who was always such a help, tried hard to comfort me.

“I would sooner abdicate,” I told him, “than have anything to do with that half-mad firebrand who will ruin everything and try to dictate to me.”

Sir Henry soothed me. He said perhaps he would not be so bad as that. There were others. Mr. Gladstone was getting old. Perhaps he would be a little mellowed.

Mellowed! I could see no sign of that in his outbursts against Lord Beaconsfield, and his weak-kneed policy of peace at any price.

“Your Majesty could send for Lord Granville.”

“I don't want him.”

“Lord Hartington?”

“Hartington! Isn't he the one they call Harty Tarty.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“A fine Prime Minister. Harty Tarty indeed! And wasn't he involved in that scandal with the Duchess of Manchester?”

“They were intimate friends, Your Majesty.”

“Until, I hear, he conceived a passion for some creature whom they called Skittles.”

“The lady was very much admired in several quarters.”

Sir Henry had the same sort of wit as Lord Melbourne had had. He liked to make sly little remarks. I believed Bertie had been involved with that shameless creature.

And these were the sort of men I was expected to have as my Prime Minister to take the place of Lord Beaconsfield!

They both declined to take on the premiership and most tactfully reminded me that there was one man whom the people wanted.

I had to wrestle with myself. Of course my threat to abdicate had not been serious. How could it be? I knew what was my duty. I tried to think what Albert would have done.

I knew, of course. There was only one thing I could do. I sent for Mr. Gladstone.

He came humbly enough, trying, I knew, to please me. He kissed my hand, but I could not enforce any warmth into my manner.

So I had lost my dear friend and in his place was William Gladstone.

GLADSTONE'S MINISTRY DIRECTED its efforts to bringing an end to those wars that had been raging in Afghanistan and South Africa at the time of the election. Our troops were defeated at Maiwand and I was afraid that the new government would meekly accept the disaster and not try to regain our prestige as Lord Beaconsfield would have undoubtedly done. I was delighted therefore when Sir Frederick Roberts brought Afghanistan to submission by marching on Kandahar and installing a new emir who professed friendship for us.

When the Boer War broke out and General Colley died in the defeat of Majuba Hill, I was afraid that the government would take no action. I recommended Sir Frederick Roberts for the chief command of the Transvaal. But what was the use? The government pursued its “peace at any price” policy and in the negotiations gave way to the enemy.

I was deeply angry. If only Lord Beaconsfield had been at the head of affairs how different everything would be. When the soldiers came back I visited them and gave new colors to the Berkshire Regiment who had lost theirs at Maiwand. I wanted my soldiers to know how much I appreciated them and that I understood the sacrifices they made for their country.

I was horrified to learn that Sir Charles Dilke had been given the post of Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the government. I would never forget how he had fulminated against me and that he was in favor of abolishing the Monarchy. How could such a man be permitted to take part in the government?

If that were not bad enough I discovered that he had become a member of Bertie's circle. I thought that not only disloyal but foolish. When I remonstrated with Bertie he said that he mixed with all sorts of people and that it was the best way of discovering what was being said and thought. I supposed there was something in that but I should certainly not receive Dilke.

There was one sad fact that obsessed me at the time. Lord Beaconsfield became ill. He had been growing feebler since he took his place in the House of Lords and, indeed, I think he only accepted the peerage because he found the House of Commons demanded too much of him.

When I heard that he had taken to his bed at Hughenden, I wrote to him commanding him to send me word of his progress. He wrote back so charmingly that my letters did him so much good and that he immediately felt better on reading them. He said it was very cold at Hughenden and he found it difficult to keep his old bones warm.

In March he managed to come up to his place in Curzon Street. I was delighted because I thought that was a good sign.

I sent him primroses from Osborne and he wrote back to tell me that they cheered him.

It was April. He had not been out for three weeks and when I did not hear from him it occurred to me that he was too ill to write.

I would go to see this dear old friend. I would command him to get well. I could not lose any more of those I loved. But before I could go I heard that he had died.

His last words were, “I am not afraid to die, but I would rather live.” Dear Lord Beaconsfield!

He had wanted to be buried in Hughenden church beside Mary Anne. I could not bear to be present—my grief was too intense—so I sent Bertie and Leopold to represent me. They took the primroses I wanted to be laid on the coffin. I wrote a card that was attached to them, “His favorite flower.”

I knew, of course, that they were so because I had sent them to him.

I had lost a beloved friend whose one thought was the honor and glory of his country and unswerving devotion to the crown. His death was a national calamity and my sorrow was great and lasting.

Although it was his wish that he should be buried at Hughenden, I ordered that a monument should be set up to him in Westminster Abbey.

Four days after the funeral, Beatrice and I went to Hughenden and I laid a wreath of white camellias on his coffin, which lay in the open vault in the churchyard. I wanted everyone to know how much I had loved and honored this man; and the following year I had a tablet set up in the church on which were the words:

To the dear and honored memory of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of

Beaconsfield, this memorial is placed by his grateful and affectionate

Sovereign Victoria R.I.

“Kings love him that speakest right.” Proverbs XVI 13.

February 27th 1882.

It seemed to me that death was in the air—a most depressing thought. I had recently heard of the assassination of Tsar Alexander, the father of Alfred's wife, and soon after that President Garfield of the United States met a similar end.

But before that there was trouble with Egypt when the Khedive's war minister Arabi Pasha brought about a successful coup and overthrew the Khedive. Egyptian finance was in chaos; France was involved with us but refused to reinstate the Khedive so we had to go ahead single-handed.

I was delighted when we had a decisive victory. I was at Balmoral at the time and ordered that a bonfire should be lighted at the top of Craig Gowan.

But of course I remembered the feeling of my “peace at any price” government and once again I mourned Lord Beaconsfield and wished with all my heart that he was beside me so that we could enforce the strong policies in which we had both so fervently believed.

I WAS ASTONISHED when Leopold came to me and told me that he planned to marry. I had thought he never would. We had always been so watchful of him ever since we discovered he was cursed with that dreadful disease, hemophilia.

He was so careless of himself, which I supposed was natural. He could not be expected to lead a completely sheltered life; after all he was a normal healthy young man in every other respect.

I had heard rumors of his attraction to a certain young woman who was making a stir in London. This was largely due to Bertie. But it was Leopold, so it was rumored, who had seen her first.

She was a certain Mrs. Langtry, the daughter of the Dean of Jersey, who had married a Mr. Langtry. They would not have moved in very exalted circles but it seemed the woman was exceptionally beautiful, had been noticed by a nobleman, and was asked to his house.

There, Leopold had seen her and apparently fallen in love with her. Alas for Leopold, Bertie saw her picture, wanted to meet her, and then decided she was for him.

Such was Leopold's nature, and Bertie's too, that this did not result in any ill feeling between them. Bertie pursued Mrs. Langtry, was seen everywhere with her, and Leopold shrugged his shoulders and decided to take a trip on the Continent.

There he met Princess Helen Frederica Augusta, daughter of the Prince of Waldeck Pyrmont, and decided he wished to marry her.

When I heard I was horrified—not by the thought of whom he had chosen, but because he was contemplating marriage. I feared he was not strong enough. I had lost my dear Alice and that had made my children who were left to me doubly precious; and because of Leopold's weakness I was afraid.

I discussed the matter with Bertie who thought that Leopold must marry if he wished to.

“Do you understand the nature of this terrible thing from which he is suffering?” I demanded.

“I know that if he bleeds he is in danger. But you have to let him live, Mama. He is just as well married as single.”

Of course he was right. I was being fatalistic. Whatever was coming I must be prepared for it.

So Leopold was betrothed and created Duke of Albany.

I WAS ON my way to Windsor Castle and had left the train and taken my place in the carriage, which was waiting for me at the station. The horses were just about to move forward when I heard a loud report, then a scuffle, and Brown, white-faced and anxious, was at the window.

“A man has just fired at your carriage,” he said.

I felt quite ill. This was the seventh shock of this nature that I had had in my life. I should be used to it, but one never is.

“I'm taking ye on to the castle the noo,” said Brown. “I'll soon have ye there.”

Later I learned exactly what had happened. Two boys from Eton School had been in the little group of people near the carriage. They had seen a man lift his hand with the pistol in it, directed straight at the carriage. One of them had knocked it out of the man's hand with his umbrella while the other had hit the assailant with his. Then they had seized him and clung to him until he was arrested.

This was a really serious attempt for the pistol had been loaded.

Mr. Gladstone came down to Windsor, all concern. I must say he did seem very sincere—and indeed, it was hard to imagine Mr. Gladstone ever anything else; but his manner irritated me even when he showed he was upset by the incident.

“The man is mad,” he said. “All those who have made an attempt on Your Majesty's life have been mad. In other countries rulers are attacked for political reasons. It is gratifying that in this country all assassins are madmen.”

“The effect is the same on the victim, Mr. Gladstone,” I said coolly.

“Yes, Ma'am, that is so, but the motive is different; and madmen have not the same power to reason.”

Now I was going to get a lecture on the motives of madmen and the difference in assassins in England and other countries.

I cut him short.

“I shall be relieved to hear more of this matter,” I said.

He told me then about the bravery of the two boys from Eton who had without doubt averted a tragedy.

“I should like to let them know how much I appreciate their actions.”

That, he said, was an excellent idea.

It was arranged that I should receive the whole school—nine hundred boys—and very moving it was to see them assembled in the quadrangle. I spoke to them, commending the two of their number who had so gallantly come to my rescue. Then the two heroes themselves came forward and received my special thanks.

My would-be assailant turned out to be a certain Roderick McLean who was brought to trial and found not guilty but insane.

I was incensed by the verdict. Not guilty when he had aimed a loaded pistol at me, which might have killed me but for the prompt action of two schoolboys with their umbrellas! It seemed to me that people who tried to kill my subjects were guilty of murder, but if they tried to kill me, they were found to be insane.

“There is no doubt of the man's insanity,” said Mr. Gladstone. “In this country it is always the insane who attempt to assassinate the sovereigns.”

The man was detained “during Her Majesty's pleasure.”

It would be my pleasure that he remained as long as I had any say in the matter.

In his ponderous way Mr. Gladstone did see my point and said that he would take up the matter of such cases and see if he could bring about a change in the law.

My popularity soared after the attempt. That was always gratifying; and when one had come unscathed out of these incidents they seemed almost worthwhile for the pleasure of enjoying the people's acclaim.

ABOUT A MONTH after the Roderick McLean affair, Leopold was married. There had been the usual distasteful wrangle in Parliament about his allowance. But at length it was agreed that it should be raised to £25,000 a year. There was the expected outcry in the Press about the money the royal family was receiving from the country, the habitual murmuring about my seclusion, “What does she do with it and is she worth it to us?” was renewed, and forty-two members voted against the allowance being raised. However the majority that passed it was substantial enough.

I attended the ceremony in my black gown and over it I did wear my white wedding lace and veil. I prayed fervently that Leopold would not tax his strength. I greatly feared for him. The blood losses he had suffered all his life had weakened him; and he must realize that such a disease set him apart from normally healthy men. Helen was a very capable young woman, not afraid of stating her own mind—even to me. I had felt a little taken aback at first but soon began to admire her spirit. I was beginning to think she was just the wife for Leopold.

I was buying Claremont for them as a wedding present. It was a house of which I was particularly fond. Uncle Leopold had left it to me for the duration of my life, but I had thought I should like to own it so that I could give it to the newly married couple.

I soon began to worry less about Leopold for marriage seemed to suit him, and soon after the wedding Helen was pregnant. Her child was due to be born ten months after her wedding—which was really very prompt.

I had so many grandchildren that I had to concentrate to count them. But Leopold's would be rather special because I had never thought he would have children.

I was at Windsor. I had been down to Frogmore to be with Albert and when I came back I was very sad as I always was after these visits. I must have been deep in thought for as I was coming downstairs I slipped and fell.

There was consternation. Brown came rushing out, sweeping everyone aside. He picked me up looking very angry with me and said, “What have ye done now, woman?” which made me smile in spite of the pain in my leg.

He carried me to my room. Everyone fussed around, but I said I should be all right in a day or two.

But the next morning I could not put my foot to the ground without pain. The upset had started my rheumatic pains and they came on more virulently than ever.

The doctors came and said I must rest.

It was very tiresome. I hated to be inactive. But I certainly was bruised and my leg was painfully swollen.

Brown used to carry me from my bed to the sofa and then, because he thought I should get some fresh air, took what he called the wee pony chair and he would drive me around the park.

What should I do without Brown? I wondered.

Each morning he would come unceremoniously to my room with a “What'll ye be wanting today?” as though I were a fractious child whose wish must be consulted to keep me quiet. It always amused me and the sight of him cheered me up.

Just over a week after my fall it was not Brown who came to my room for orders but one of the other servants.

“Where is Brown?” I asked.

“He is unable to wait on Your Majesty this morning.”

Oh, I thought, amused. I supposed he had been a little “bashful” on the previous night.

“Very well,” I said.

I would tease him about it when he appeared.

But Brown did not appear. Later in the morning I sent for him. One of the others came instead.

“His face is swollen, Your Majesty,” I was told.

“Face swollen! What has happened? Has he had a fall or something?”

I had to find out for I could glean nothing from the servant.

“I want to see him,” I said. “Send him to me.”

He came and the sight of him shocked me. His face was indeed red and swollen.

“What on earth has happened, Brown?” I asked. “I dinna ken,” he said shortly. And I could see that he was ill. I told him to go back to bed at once. Then I sent for Dr. Jenner.

When Jenner had examined Brown he came to me and told me that he was suffering from erysipelas.

“Is that dangerous?” I asked.

Dr. Jenner shook his head.

“I want the best attention for him. You yourself, Dr. Jenner, and Dr. Reid.”

“That is hardly necessary, Ma'am …” began Dr. Jenner.

“It is my wish,” I said regally.

Dr. Jenner bowed. There would be gossip, I guessed, because I had ordered the royal physician to attend John Brown. But I did not care. He was of great importance to me.

ANXIOUS AS I was over John Brown, I was delighted to hear that Helen had been safely delivered of a little girl. So Leopold was a father!

I must visit the mother and child at once even though I had to be carried out to the carriage. Alas… not by John Brown.

I found Helen recovering from the birth looking fit and well, but lying on a sofa. Leopold had one of his bleeding bouts and the doctors had warned him to take the utmost care for a while, so he was on another sofa. And because of my indisposition one had been put in for me.

The three of us reclining on sofas made quite an amusing scene.

The child was brought in and admired. Leopold was in the highest spirits; and as for Helen she was very proud of herself. It was a happy occasion but when I went back to Windsor I was greeted by alarming news. John Brown had taken a turn for the worse.

“For the worse!” I cried. “But I thought that from which he was suffering was not very serious.”

“Your Majesty, he does not seem to be able to throw off the illness.”

“But he has twice the strength of an ordinary man!”

“That does not seem to help him, Your Majesty. John Brown is very ill indeed.”

I was deeply disturbed. I went to see him immediately. He looked quite different and he did not recognize me. He was muttering in delirium.

Oh no, I thought, this is too much!

But, alas, what I had begun to fear, happened.

The next morning they came to tell me that John Brown had died in the night.

I COULD NOT believe it. Not another death. People were dying all around me. Was that part of the pattern of getting old? It seemed only a short time before that I had lost my dear friend Lord Beaconsfield. John Brown had been a comfort to me then…and now he had gone.

It was such a blow that it stunned me. I could find no solace anywhere. None of the family mourned with me. They had never liked him and deplored my relationship with him. They did not understand, of course. They had called him one of the servants. He had not been a servant. He was something far closer than that.

I wanted to raise some memorial to him. Sir Henry Ponsonby was very uneasy. He dropped veiled warnings. We did not want to give the Press a field day. No doubt there would be damaging speculations as to my relationship with him if too much attention was paid to his passing.

I did not care. I was tired of the Press and trying to placate a fickle people. They listened to cruel libels and slander; and then when Bertie had nearly died and I might have been assassinated they found they loved us dearly. What was such shifting affection worth?

It was one's friends like Lord Beaconsfield and honest John Brown who mattered.

I had a statue of John Brown set up at Balmoral. I charged Lord Tennyson to write an inscription and he wrote:

Friend more than servant, loyal, truthful, brave,

Self less than duty, even to grave.

I discovered that Brown had kept diaries and thinking what a magnificent job Sir Theodore Martin had made with his Life of the Prince Consort, I asked him to write a life of John Brown. I believe pressure must have been brought to bear on Sir Theodore for he declined on the grounds of his wife's ill health. I guessed that Sir Henry Ponsonby may have had something to do with this. Sir Henry was a dear friend but he had always been uneasy about the scandals concerning John Brown and he did not, I know, want these to be increased, which he believed would be the case if a life of Brown was brought out. But I wanted to show the world what a wonderful person he had been.

As Theodore Martin would not write the book I engaged a Miss Macgregor to edit the diaries with me.

To soothe myself I published an addition to Leaves from a Journal with More Leaves from a Journal of Our Life in the Highland.

With mingling sadness and pleasure I recalled those days with Albert when the children were young. It brought it all back so vividly. I could relive it all, but the sorrow of remembering what was past, was hard to bear.

I had many congratulations, but the family was shocked.

I heard that the old Duchess of Cambridge had said that Leaves was vulgar, such bad English, trivial, and boring.

I never liked the woman!

Even Bertie raised objections.

He thought it should not be generally circulated. “It is all right for those of us in the family circle to read it,” he said, “but not beyond that.” He added, “It is rather private.”

“I think people are interested.”

“I think people are too interested in our doings.”

“There is nothing for me to be ashamed of in mine,” I said aiming a direct shaft at Bertie which went home. I added that Lord Beaconsfield had found Leaves enchanting. Perhaps because he was a writer himself and understood such things. He had often referred to us as fellow authors.

“He was always overeager to flatter. I heard he once said that he believed in flattery for all, but with royalty it had to be laid on with a trowel.”

I smiled. I could well believe the dear man had said that. But he really meant he had admired my book. He understood how one wanted to write as people like Bertie never would. But then when he was a boy he had shunned the pen—and had many a beating for it. No, Bertie could not be expected to understand.

I believe there was a conspiracy to prevent Brown's Life being written and I suspected Sir Henry to be at the root of it; and of course he would have plenty of supporters, including the Prince of Wales.

Sir Henry then said he would consult the Bishop of Ripon, Dr. Cameron Lees of Edinburgh, about the Life of Brown.

“These are men who know about these things, Your Majesty,” he said. He then brought in Lord Rowton. I wondered what Brown would have thought if he could have known about this. Important people were making such a to-do over his simple writings.

Dr. Lees thought it would be desirable to postpone the Life for a while. They called in Randall Davison, the Dean of Windsor, who applauded the decision to postpone; and he ventured the opinion that it would be desirable if no more Leaves were published.

I was very angry with him. Was the wretched Dean implying that the publication was vulgar and unseemly in my position?

I could not prevent myself showing my anger; and the Dean, realizing how offended I was, sent in his resignation. He said that he had displeased me and was sorry for it; but there was not a word about changing his mind.

It was true that my anger rose quickly; but it did as speedily depart.

I began to think about the Dean. It was wrong that he should resign over such a matter. He had offended me and he knew it. Yet he had spoken what he believed to be the truth. I must bear no grudge for that and in my heart I knew that he was right.

In view of all the scandal attached to my relationship with John Brown, the publication of his journals would only add to that. My life with Albert and the children was private too. I would read my journals; I would recall it all. I must accept the truth, and honor those who gave their opinions to me at the risk of their careers.

I must be wise. No more Leaves then, and the memoirs of my beloved Highland servant must be indefinitely postponed.

IT WAS A year since John Brown had died and I was still mourning. There were memories of him everywhere—especially at Balmoral. Helen was pregnant again and her little Alexandra was still little more than a baby. It was obvious that Helen was going to be fruitful and it was a mercy to know that the dreadful hemophilia was only passed on through the female side to the sons, so Leopold's children would be safe.

Leopold had one of his bouts of illness and the doctors had suggested he go off to the south of France. I heard from Helen that his health was greatly improved there.

On the very anniversary of John Brown's death, the twenty-seventh of March, I received a telegram from Cannes to say that Leopold had fallen and injured his knees. Because on that day I had awoken to a cloud of depression thinking of my Highland servant whom I missed so much, I was filled with apprehension. I had a suspicious feeling about dates. My dearest Albert and Alice had actually both died on the 14th December. It was small wonder that I felt this significance. So strong was my premonition that I thought of leaving for Cannes, but before I could make plans to do so another telegram arrived. Leopold had a fit which had resulted in hemorrhage of the brain. Leopold was dead.

Ever since we had known he was suffering from this fearsome malady we had been expecting this. Many weeks of anxiety I had suffered on Leopold's account. But later I had felt better about him and since his marriage and the birth of his first child I had begun to wonder whether I had been unduly anxious. I had reminded myself that he had so many of those bouts of bleeding but had always recovered from them.

But Death was all round me. I felt there was no escaping from it. I wondered all the time at whom it would point its finger next.

They brought home Leopold's body and it was buried in St. George's Chapel at Windsor.

Two children lost to me as well as my beloved husband!

Three months after Leopold's death, Helen gave birth to a son.

THE POLITICAL SITUATION was worrying; and each month it was brought home to me that Mr. Gladstone's methods were not those that had proved so successful in Lord Beaconsfield's day.

The trouble came from Egypt, which was at that time almost entirely administered by us. The inhabitants of the Sudan were led by a fanatical man called the Mahdi; and they were now menacing the Egyptian frontier. It was the task of the English government to decide whether to put down the rebellion or abandon the Sudan and cut it off from Egypt. The decision to abandon it was naturally taken by Gladstone and his supine supporters. How different it would have been if Lord Beaconsfield had been in command! Gladstone was terrified of what he called Imperialism. Had we been stronger in Egypt, as we should have been under Lord Beaconsfield, the Mahdi would never have risen against us. People like Gladstone with their weak so-called peace-loving policies, were the ones who were responsible for wars. We were drawn into these affrays through our weakness, never through our strength. Lord Palmerston had realized that and what was called his gun-boat policy had triumphed again and again. He believed in sending out a warning before hostilities commenced. Now the garrisons in Sudan must be rescued. The government was naturally dilatory in this, but the public demanded that General Gordon be sent out in order to negotiate with the Mahdi about the release of the beset garrisons.

I was very anxious particularly when Gordon was besieged by the Mahdi's forces in Khartoum. Again and again I warned the government that forces must be sent out to aid Gordon, but the government was afraid of war. I was glad to say that the public was with me, and finally Lord Wolseley was sent out to Gordon's aid. But he arrived too late. Khartoum was stormed and Gordon killed before Wolseley could get there.

I was horrified and so ashamed of my government. I told them I keenly felt the stain left on England. I had a bust made of Gordon and set up in one of the corridors of the castle.

I hoped the government would see the error of its ways. I hoped they would recall Lord Beaconsfield's energy and genius, which they called Imperialism. They did not understand that having attained the territories we must support them and never, never show weakness.

I was deeply concerned about the garrisons in Sudan and bitterly ashamed of our performance there.

The entire mission was a failure and as a result, the Sudan, which should never have been separated from Egypt, lapsed into barbarism.

Oh dear Lord Beaconsfield! I wondered if he was looking down in dismay at what was happening to all the work that he had so zealously done.

BEATRICE WAS THE only one of the children who had not married. She had always been close to me since the days when she had enchanted us all with her quaint observations.

She had changed a great deal from that amusing little girl. She was not like her sisters, being shy and retiring. I knew she dreaded company and she confessed that she never knew what to say to people.

In a way I was glad of this. I am afraid it was rather selfish of me but I could not bear to face the possibility of Beatrice's leaving me.

I had gone to Darmstadt to attend the marriage of my granddaughter Victoria of Hesse to her cousin Louis of Battenburg. Leopold's death was so recent and very much in my mind, and I had undertaken the journey in the hope that in the heart of my family I could forget.

It was a fateful occasion for at the wedding Beatrice met the bridegroom's brother, Henry of Battenburg; and Beatrice and Henry fell in love.

When Beatrice told me of her wish to marry I was overwhelmed with horror.

“Impossible!” I said. “You have just been carried away.”

Beatrice said this was not the case. She and Henry were deeply in love; they had admitted this to each other and above everything else they wanted to marry.

I said she must forget it. I had suffered enough. Lord Beaconsfield had died; John Brown had died; and so had Leopold. Now I was expected to lose her—the last of my children to be with me!

Poor Beatrice, she was heartbroken; but being Beatrice she just bowed her head and looked resigned.

Of course I spent a miserable time. I could not eat; I could not sleep.

To lose Beatrice! No, I could not face it. That would be the last straw. She would forget. She was not meant for marriage. After all, she was now twenty-seven—old enough for a girl to have put all that behind her. She had come so far without contemplating marriage. Why must she think of it now? It was ridiculous. It was absurd.

And yet I could not bear to see my poor Baby so sad.

This would not have happened, I said to myself, but for Leopold's death. Beatrice was so close to her brothers.

We returned to England, poor Beatrice looked wan and tragic.

I thought: I cannot allow this to happen. I cannot be like my poor mad grandfather. I thought of the aunts who had always been of great interest to me when I was young. They had all seemed so strange—half mad some of them—and they had all had such sad lives. Their father had tried to keep them close to him, which was a very selfish thing to do.

I could endure it no more.

I said, “Beatrice, you have changed so much.”

She did not deny it.

I sent for Henry of Battenburg.

I said to him, “You know what Beatrice means to me. I find it impossible to do without her. I feel so lonely at times. I have lost so many who were dear to me. Suppose you were to make your home in England? Would that be possible? You could marry Beatrice and I could still have her with me.”

The joy in his face made me so happy.

I sent for Beatrice.

I said, “Henry is going to live in England. I shall not lose you after all, dearest child…”

We embraced; we laughed; it was wonderful to see my dearest child so happy. It was a long time since I had felt so contented.

It was quite a simple wedding. I called it a “village wedding”; but it was an extremely happy one; and I was delighted to see my child so happy with her Henry and he with her.

POLITICAL STORMS WERE rising at the time of Beatrice's wedding.

Gladstone's government was in difficulties—at which I was not surprised. I was not the only one who was disgusted by the weakness of his Egyptian policy. The country was ashamed, and the budget proposals were defeated, which meant Gladstone's resignation.

I offered him an earldom, hoping this would see the back of him as far as I was concerned; but he declined it.

I was delighted to invite Lord Salisbury, as leader of the Conservative Party, to come and see me, but he was not very eager to form a ministry since he was in the Lords and the task, he thought, should fall to Sir Stafford Northcote who was the leader of the party in the Commons. He really wanted to be in the Foreign Office, but he at last agreed that if he could combine the offices of Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister, and could get, in some measure the support of Gladstone during the few months which remained before Parliament was dissolved, he would do his best to form his ministry.

I must say that Gladstone was not very accommodating but at length Lord Salisbury agreed.

I was delighted. I liked him very much. Indeed, I believe I should have liked anyone after Gladstone. Lord Salisbury was the first of my Prime Ministers to be younger than I was. I supposed that was a reminder of how old I was getting.

That little respite did not last long. At the elections, the Liberals were back in power and I was once more faced with Mr. Gladstone.

What a trial that man was! He was now intent on bringing Home Rule to Ireland and had sprung his intentions of doing so on me and the country without giving anyone time for thought. I did not believe the country wanted it. As for myself it would mean I should break the oath I had taken at the coronation to maintain the union of the two kingdoms. I was unconvinced by his arguments.

I was delighted when quite a number of Liberals decided to vote against Gladstone's Home Rule Bill and it was rejected by the Commons.

It was a great relief when the government was once more defeated and Lord Salisbury called in.

I found Lord Salisbury a delight after Gladstone.

Salisbury was really an old friend. I had known him well as an associate of Lord Beaconsfield—and although it was not the same as having that dear man back again, it did in a measure give me some comfort. He was very knowledgeable in foreign affairs of which, in my opinion, Mr. Gladstone was totally ignorant.

I wanted him to sit for a portrait and when it was completed I had it placed in my own apartments, which, I told Lord Salisbury, was the highest compliment I could pay anyone.

I was thankful that the bogey of Home Rule was set aside. Postponement was sometimes so helpful.

A VERY UNSAVORY scandal shook the political world at this time as well as filling the papers and having the whole country agog for more distasteful details.

I could not help being amused—disgraceful as it was—because it concerned my old enemy Sir Charles Dilke. It was extraordinary that those people who posed in public as being so concerned for the welfare of the people—wanted to abolish the monarchy and so on—were all the time behaving in their private lives in a manner that was far from exemplary.

It all blew up when a certain Mr. Crawford started divorce proceedings against his wife. Mr. Crawford was a member of Parliament and he had an attractive and somewhat frivolous wife. Dilke was connected with the Crawfords by marriage and was a frequent visitor to their home; and in view of the family relationship this caused no comment.

Mrs. Crawford had been having a flirtation with a certain Captain Forster and Mr. Crawford accused him of being her lover. The wife, when confronted, told her husband that not Forster but Sir Charles Dilke was the lover.

Then the unsavory details about that defender of the rights of the underprivileged began to emerge. Apparently he had been Mrs. Crawford's mother's lover; and Mrs. Crawford betrayed revelations about orgies concerning Dilke, herself, and female servants.

The servants did not come forward, but as Mrs. Crawford had confessed to adultery, the divorce was granted.

I must confess to a certain satisfaction; and a great relief that Bertie was not involved in this one! Whenever I heard of a case of this nature in a certain circle—and Dilke was a friend of Bertie's—my immediate thoughts were: Please God don't let Bertie be discovered!—which shows the fear that was in my mind; and that was natural after all the anxieties I had suffered on his account.

Of course Dilke's career was ruined.

I discussed it with Bertie and as was to be expected, he was on Dilke's side.

“It is disastrous for him,” he said. “He was a great politician.”

“He was certainly skilled in living a double life,” I retorted. “He might have been Prime Minister.”

“Then I am indeed glad this has happened. The idea of my being asked to receive such a man!”

“Mama, I believe that woman was exaggerating.”

“The court did not seem to think so.” I looked at him sadly. “I am surprised, Bertie, that after all your father did for you, you do have some strange ideas. This man is a republican. He has clearly spoken against us … and you make him your friend!”

“Mama, he is clever, witty…He has ideas.”

“Ideas of destroying us! Very gratifying!”

That was not the end of the affair. Dilke, of course, could not be included in the government—it was Mr. Gladstone's government at this time because it had happened just before Salisbury came into power.

Joseph Chamberlain, who was a friend of Dilke and was eager for him to remain in the House, wanted the Queen's Proctor brought in to stop the divorce, pointing out that Dilke had not been proven guilty. He had not gone into the witness box—otherwise I was sure he would have been.

So the scandal flared up again. It proved to be the worst thing that could happen to Dilke. In the course of the inquiry which followed, it was discovered that the house that Mrs. Crawford had mentioned as the setting for the sexual orgies that had taken place between Dilke, Mrs. Crawford, and two housemaids, was owned by a woman who had been housekeeper to Dilke. That appeared to explain a good deal.

There was another trial out of which Dilke came badly, for the jury decided that Mrs. Crawford had been telling the truth.

That was the end of Dilke.

I could not help experiencing a certain satisfaction. He had called himself a reformer. Let him begin by reforming his own life.

I thought about him a great deal and I began to feel a twinge of pity for him; and he had posed as such a virtuous man, which made it all the worse for him. I wondered how an ambitious man felt to see his career in ruins.

I should rejoice. Another of my enemies brought to the dust. I did really feel a little suspicious after that of people who acclaimed so publicly their desire to do good.

That set me thinking of Mr. Gladstone and his nightly peregrinations. Was that one of the reasons why I disliked him so intensely?

At least it made him a little human.

No, I could not—much as I should like to—believe that Mr. Gladstone was such another as Sir Charles Dilke.

The Dilke affair added to the government's unpopularity over Egypt and the rejection over the budget proposals was certainly a factor in bringing it down.

In any case I was grateful to have Lord Salisbury as my Prime Minister.