Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

Jubilee

THE TIME WAS APPROACHING WHEN I SHOULD HAVE BEEN ON the throne for fifty years. It was a fact that should be brought home to the people, said Lord Salisbury, for they must realize that it was an occasion for rejoicing.

I felt tired at the prospect, but, of course, he was right. Such anniversaries should not be allowed to pass unnoticed.

I had very worrying news from Vicky. Her husband, Fritz, was suffering from a terrible throat infection—which it was whispered was cancer. Vicky was very anxious because she lived uneasily at the Prussian Court. Her parents-in-law had been far from kind to her, and Bismarck was her enemy; her son treated her atrociously; and she had to endure reproaches for everything she did; she was condemned because of her English blood.

I knew all this and when the telegram came, in cypher, I guessed the position was very grave.

The deciphering of the message revealed that the German doctors wished to perform an operation, but she wanted, first of all, to consult one of our doctors, who was said to be a leading authority on such matters. This was Dr. Morell Mackenzie. Vicky begged me to send out Dr. Mackenzie at once. She was against the operation and she thought that Dr. Mackenzie might persuade the German doctors not to do it.

I immediately sent for my doctors to ask their opinion of Dr. Mackenzie. They said he was indeed skillful, but he was very eager to amass money, and for that reason should be watched.

I told this to Vicky.

The situation was very tense. The Emperor himself was in a low state of health and not expected to live long; if he died that would mean Fritz would be Emperor, and if he died, the mantle would fall on my grandson Wilhelm, who was no friend to his mother.

That was the state of affairs when the day of celebration arrived.

On the previous day I had awakened to a sunny morning and had my breakfast out of doors at Frogmore. One could not be private out of doors at the castle.

Crowds had gathered to see me drive to the station and there were loyal cheers, which were gratifying. And when I alighted at Paddington, I drove through the Park to Buckingham Palace where I received more loyal acclaim.

How wonderful it was to be surrounded by my dear children! I thought how really remarkable it was that I had been for fifty years on the throne and been sustained through so many trials and sorrows.

The flowers were magnificent, for the growers had vied with each other to send their products to me. Among them was one bouquet four feet high, and on it were the letters V.R.I. picked out in scarlet blooms.

We had a dinner party with all the family that evening and what pleased me most was to have them all with me.

The next day, the twenty-first, the real celebrations began. I had refused to wear a crown and the State robes, for although this was a grand occasion I wanted it to be as simple as possible. The family was most put out. They thought it should be completely ceremonial. Alexandra was sent by the others to try to persuade me to wear my crown, but I told her it was not her affair and I would not be coerced. Lord Halifax was very irritated. He said the people wanted a gilding for their money, which I thought was rather a coarse way of expressing his views; and that interfering Joseph Chamberlain said a sovereign should be grand. I had decided to wear a bonnet. It should be very attractive—one made of white lace and diamonds—but still a bonnet.

Lord Rosebery said that an Empire should be ruled by scepter and not bonnet. But I was adamant and commanded that all the ladies wear bonnets and long high dresses with mantel.

I thought as I always did on such occasions: If only Albert could have been there how proud he would have been!

I left the Palace in an open landau drawn by six cream horses with an escort of Indian cavalry. Next came the men of the family—three sons, five sons-in-law, and nine grandsons.

Poor Fritz was suffering so much and yet putting on a bold appearance. His voice was almost nonexistent and it really was very brave of him to have come. He drew perhaps the loudest of all cheers for he did look magnificent in white and silver with the German eagle on his helmet. One could trust the Prussians to attract more attention than anyone else.

Following the family and myself were the processions in which Europe, India, and the colonies were represented. There were four kings from Europe—Saxony, Belgium, the Hellenes, and Denmark—with the Crown Princes of Prussia, Greece, Portugal, Sweden, and Austria.

There could not have been a more glittering assembly; even the Pope sent someone to represent him. We passed through Constitution Hill, Piccadilly, Waterloo Place, and Parliament Street to the Abbey for the thanksgiving service; and I walked into the Abbey to the sound of a Handel march.

I had insisted that Albert's Te Deum and his anthem Gotha—his own composition—should be part of the service, and when I heard it I was deeply moved, and it was almost as though he were there beside me.

We went back to the Palace via Whitehall and Pall Mall and I felt quite exhausted; but it was not the end of the day. There was luncheon at four and then I was on the balcony watching the blue-jackets march past. In the evening there was a dinner party. I could hardly keep awake. But it had been wonderfully stimulating—a day to remember.

LORD BEACONSFIELD HAD aroused my interest in India and since I had become Empress I had wanted to know more about it. I should have liked to visit it but that seemed impracticable at this time.

With the party that had come to England to take its place in the Jubilee celebrations, were two Indians who attracted my attention. They were Abdul Karim who was about twenty-four years old and whose father was, I believed, a doctor, and Mahomet who was much older, rather fat, and constantly smiling.

I engaged them to work in the royal household close to me so that I could learn more about them and their country. Karim was very intelligent but his grasp of English was not very good, so I engaged a tutor to teach him.

The tutor came eagerly, thinking he was going to teach one of the princes and when he realized his services were required for a servant— and a dark-skinned one at that—he was extremely put out.

I was irritated. I would not have people despised because their skin was a different color from our English ones; and of course the foolish tutor dared not offend me.

I was most amused when Karim offered to teach me Hindustani and I agreed to the plan at once. I was fascinated and loved to be able to address Karim and Mahomet in their own language.

Karim cooked for me—hot Indian foods—which I thoroughly enjoyed. I felt much happier than I had since John Brown had died. My Indian servants soon became devoted to me.

It was good to have people like that about me.

WHILE FRITZ WAS in England he had several sessions with Dr. Mackenzie and he was much better. He believed that Dr. Mackenzie could cure him and that lifted his spirits considerably. It was wonderful to see the change in him.

Vicky was delighted. Fritz was very important to her for he had stood beside her against all those who had been so unpleasant to her. I was well aware of what she had to endure from Fritz's family and particularly from young Wilhelm who, she believed, was so hard-hearted and ambitious that he was really longing for the deaths of his grandfather and father so that he could wear the Imperial crown.

He was a most unpleasant creature. He did nothing to stem the cruel rumors that his mother had a lover and that she had prevented her husband's operation because she wanted to keep him alive until after his father's death so that she might become Empress, after which Fritz could depart, leaving her with the Imperial pickings and her lover.

The wickedness of that young man infuriated me. I often thought of how proud Albert had been of her grand marriage. And what happiness had it brought her? Whereas Alice had been so happy with her Louis, and Beatrice had been the same in her even more humble union with Henry of Battenburg.

Poor Vicky, so clever, so proud! And what must be the hardest to bear was the unloving attitude of her own son.

It was Bismarck and his grandparents who had ruined him, and perhaps that withered arm had embittered him.

In February of the next year, Fritz was operated on and a few weeks afterward the Emperor died. Fritz was now Emperor of Germany and Vicky Empress.

It was wonderful to think of Vicky as an Empress. It was what Albert had wanted for her. He had loved her so much and been so proud of her. If only he had lived. Perhaps he could have guided Wilhelm.

I was worried about Vicky, because I knew, in my heart that Fritz was going to die. I wanted to see them both. I traveled abroad and spent a short time in Florence, which I found most enjoyable. Albert had stayed in Italy at one time and it was very moving to visit the house in which he had stayed. I was greeted effusively everywhere and people were most gracious to Karim and Mahomet, thinking they were Indian princes. It was most amusing.

When Bismarck heard that I was going to see Fritz and Vicky he was most indignant; but in Berlin I had a meeting with this man who was feared throughout the whole of Europe. I must say that I could not dislike the man, in spite of everything he had done and all I had heard of him. He was strong and I liked strong men. I had an idea that he was rather impressed by me; so oddly enough, that meeting, which might have been quite acrimonious, went off very well indeed. I felt we were both agreeably surprised and in the future we should have more respect for each other.

I was grieved to see poor Fritz, for he was shrunken and looked so ill and was unable to speak. I knew he could not live long; but at least he had made Vicky Empress. I saw Wilhelm too—a very arrogant young man, but I did subdue him a little and I told him I was most displeased by his conduct and asked him to promise to mend his ways, which—very much to my surprise—he did.

I left Vicky telling her that she must always call on me if she needed me. I would even come to Berlin if necessary.

When I returned home I summoned Dr. Mackenzie and asked for the truth about Fritz's condition. He told me he could not live more than three months.

It was June when that dreaded and not unexpected message came.

Fritz was dead.

I sent a telegram to Wilhelm—now Emperor of Germany—telling him that I was heartbroken and commanded him to look after his mother. I signed myself Grandmama V.R.I.

BERTIE WENT TO Berlin for Fritz's funeral and came back in a state of smoldering fury. I had rarely seen him so enraged, because, although like me he could have sudden bouts of temper, he soon recovered from them. But Wilhelm had really upset him—more than that he had disturbed him.

He wanted me to understand the true nature of my grandson.

“I do not believe, Mama,” he said, “that he is at all unhappy about the death of his father. In fact I would go so far as to say he rejoices in it, because it has given him the Imperial Crown.”

I replied that that did not surprise me for the envoy whom he had sent to me to announce his father's death had done it with an air of triumph that I had thought quite disgraceful.

“Germany is now a force to be reckoned with,” said Bertie. “I believe that Wilhelm has big ideas for expansion. He was particularly disagreeable to me. I had an idea he was almost baiting me, implying that I was only heir to a throne while he was an Emperor. His manner to Vicky is really unforgivable. He is jealous of you. Even he knows that Germany is of less importance than Britain and he does not like that. I really believe he will seek to change it. I think he would like to turn you from your throne and take it himself.”

“Bertie, that's impossible!”

“Impossible for him to do such a ridiculous thing, yes. But to have such ideas, no. He has Bismarck behind him. Wilhelm's youthful vanity might give him foolhardy ideas, but Bismarck is a seasoned warrior, Mama. We ought to recognize that. He seeks to better me in every way. He is trying to point out all the time that he is a better man than I am. He called me Uncle in a way to suggest that I am ancient and he is on the threshold of life.”

“I can see we shall have to be watchful of our little Wilhelm.”

“Yes, indeed. He asked me to give him a kilt and everything that goes with it. It was to be in the Royal Stuart for a fancy-dress ball. I had this sent to him. I saw a picture of him, wearing it, and below he had written: ‘I bide my time.’ The picture was distributed throughout Germany.”

“This is outrageous.”

“Wilhelm is outrageous.”

I was so disturbed by that conversation that I took up the matter with Lord Salisbury who said that there was obviously an antipathy between the Prince of Wales and the Emperor of Germany; but the latter was very young to have come to such an exalted position and Salisbury believed that in time he would settle down.

It was a family quarrel and that must not be allowed to become discord between nations.

VICKY CAME TO stay with us for a long visit. Both Bertie and Lord Salisbury thought it was unwise to invite her in view of the situation with Germany, but I upbraided them for their lack of feeling. Vicky was my daughter and she had just lost her husband; I was not going to allow her to be subjected to even more unhappiness than she was enduring through her son and Bismarck.

We had many long conversations during which I learned more of the hard times through which she had passed during the whole of her married life; and how it was only Fritz who had stood between her and even greater humiliation from her parents-in-law and now her son who was dominated by Bismarck.

I said that Wilhelm should be made to understand that he could not behave so to his mother. She begged me to invite him for a visit so that I could discover for myself the way in which he was going.

Rather reluctantly I agreed that he should come for a short stay in the summer.

To my surprise Wilhelm accepted the invitation with enthusiasm and said how happy he was to be allowed to come to the dear old home at Osborne. How should he come? Might he wear the uniform of a British admiral? I said that he might and I had a delightful letter from him that was almost humble. “The same uniform as Lord Nelson,” he wrote. “It is enough to make one feel giddy.”

That was a good beginning.

I was amazed when he came. He was quite charming, calling me “dear Grandmama” and treating me with great respect and only rarely showing glimpses of the great Emperor.

Was it after all just a natural antipathy to Bertie? Did he perhaps think Bertie was a little frivolous—which in a way he was? Was Vicky a little overbearing? She had always been a little too sure of herself. Albert had spoiled her and refused to see it.

I remembered how thrilled Albert had been by his first grandchild. Wilhelm had always been his favorite.

I told Wilhelm this; he liked to hear stories of his babyhood and listened attentively when I talked of Albert.

Strangely enough, the visit I had dreaded was a very pleasant one; and when Wilhelm left I felt much happier than I had since Fritz's death.

MY ABDUL KARIM was most amusing. He was a dignified creature—as some Indians are—and he had very graceful bearing. As a servant he had to wait at table and he did not like that at all. He claimed that in Agra he had been a clerk—what was called a Munshi; and the tasks he was asked to perform here were not in keeping with his dignity.

Those about me laughed at the arrogance of the young man but I did not. I understood the meaning of dignity and whoever felt theirs affronted must be treated with consideration. I said he was not to wait at table but he should be known as the Munshi; and when business arose appertaining to India, if a simple reply was needed, I gave it to him to deal with.

He was very happy after that—and devoted to me.

People were saying, “Is he another John Brown?”

That was not so. There could never be another like him.

There was a certain amount of prejudice, which had to be overcome. I forbade anyone to talk of Indians as blacks, for the term was used with a certain amount of contempt. I was getting on with my Hindustani lessons and could now address Indians in their native tongues, which was a great help.

I was Empress of India. Therefore I had a responsibility to that country.

MY RELATIONS WITH Bertie had improved a good deal in the last years. He seemed to be so much more responsible—and so affectionate toward me. It was very gratifying. I thought he was learning to understand the tremendous tasks which lay ahead of him.

And then there was trouble again—with the scandal of Tranby Croft.

It was not women this time but almost equally as bad.

Bertie was the guest of honor at the house of a wealthy shipowner named Wilson who lived at Tranby Croft; and as Bertie was known to enjoy gambling, that was the feature of his visit.

One member of the company was Lieutenant-Colonel Sir William Gordon Cumming of the Scots Guards, and while they were playing baccarat Sir William was suspected of cheating.

After the company had retired there was a conference between the others to decide what action should be taken and the result was that they confronted Sir William who was naturally indignant. However, five members of the company said they had seen him in the act. He said he would leave the house and never speak to his accusers again.

Bertie was sympathetic as he always was to people in difficulties—no doubt having been in so many himself—and he was not sure whether to believe Sir William or those who said they had seen him cheat.

The evidence against Sir William seemed very strong; and Bertie, recklessly as it turned out, took charge of the investigation. True, he was a member of the party, and naturally they looked to him to do what was to be done; but he should have shown more discretion.

Between them they decided that Sir William could never be allowed to play baccarat again and that he should be made to sign a document agreeing to this.

Bertie said that naturally he would add his signature with the others. He had not, even at this time, learned the danger of putting anything in writing.

Sir William at first refused to sign and said that if he did so it would be tantamount to admitting his guilt. There was a great deal of argument and Bertie threw himself whole-heartedly into the dispute and eventually they did succeed in persuading Sir William to put his name to the paper.

That should have been the end of the matter; but these things have a habit of leaking out—through servants, I suspect—and there were the usual exaggerations. Great sums of money were mentioned as the stakes that had been played for at Tranby Croft. The papers took it and the extravagance of the Prince of Wales was the main topic. As for Sir William he was exposed as a man who cheated at cards and what had been a private matter was now a public cause.

Sir William decided that he had no alternative—if he were not going to be completely ruined—but to bring an action for slander against his accusers.

Bertie was horrified. He had had experience of a court before and he wanted no more; and the fact that he would almost certainly be called as a witness would give the case that publicity that they had all tried to avoid.

Sir William's military career was in jeopardy and he contemplated resigning from the army. Bertie wanted to prevent his doing this for if the case was tried in a military court it could be held in secret. Sir William's advisers wanted heavy damages which could only be won in a civil court.

When I heard how far matters had gone I was angry. Just as I had thought Bertie was becoming more aware of his responsibilities this had happened! He was no longer young enough to be excused for youthful follies.

It was most disturbing when he was subpoenaed to appear in court to give evidence. Whatever could have induced him to sign that paper! It was the utmost folly. And now here he was—for the second time— appearing in court to give evidence.

One would not have believed that the central figure in the case was William Gordon Cumming. It was the Prince of Wales who filled the papers. And even when the case was decided against Gordon Cumming in such a manner that there could be little doubt of his guilt, it was Bertie whom the Press pilloried.

The future king, said the Press, is given to gambling, horse-racing, and other activities… not concerned with matters of state. His income was clearly too large. There were other causes on which the money could be better spent. There had been a time when Mr. Gladstone had induced the Prince to take up some charitable work and he had become a member of the Royal Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes.

Bertie, for all his faults, had a kind heart and he had been horrified at some of the conditions in which the poor lived; he had made his views widely known. This gave the Press the opportunity of accusing him of hypocrisy. Here was the man who had been outraged by the misfortunes of others. He could do something about it. He could spend some of his vast income on helping the poor, but he preferred to play for large stakes at baccarat. Was this the man who would one day be King? He was given to pleasure. Of what use was he to the nation?

It was hard to believe that when he had been on the point of death they had mourned for him; and when there had been that triumphant journey to the cathedral to give thanks for his return to health they had cheered him so loudly. This was the mob.

One of the papers very alarmingly pointed out that it was conduct such as this that had brought about the French Revolution.

Wilhelm pretended to be infuriated. When Bertie had been in Prussia, Wilhelm had made him an honorary Colonel of the Prussian Guard. My grandson now wrote to me pompously stating that he was deeply put out that one of his colonels should behave in such a manner as to become involved in scandal.

I laughed contemptuously at the arrogant fellow and wished he was with me so that I could give him a piece of my mind. Bertie was outraged and the hatred between him and his nephew had become even greater than it was before.

We heard from Vicky that Wilhelm blew up the matter out of all proportion and that it took up a lot of space in the German Press.

One German paper—obviously inspired by Wilhelm—said that the Prince of Wales had a new motto: Ich Deal.

Poor Bertie! In spite of the fact that I deplored his way of life, I could feel almost sorry for him.

I THINK I had begun to change during my friendship with Lord Beaconsfield, and from that time the Court was a little less somber than it had been in the years following Albert's death. It was not that I mourned Albert any less; it was not that I did not think of him constantly, but I was taking an interest in certain recreations. I had always been fond of music; it was one of the pleasures which Albert and I had shared.

We were having private theatricals at Osborne in which guests took part. We had tableaux of various subjects, historical pastorals, scenes from operas, and such things. I enjoyed preparing for these so much; they made me feel young again. For the first time since Albert's death, I had players at the castle. They did a lovely performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Gondoliers. Later Eleonora Duse performed La Locandiera, and Mr. Tree brought his play The Red Lamp to Balmoral; and to celebrate my seventy-sixth birthday there was a performance of Verdi's Il Trovatore. I found such entertainments so stimulating and enjoyable; and I always thought: How Albert would have appreciated this.

Before this, however, my grandson Eddy—Albert Victor, Bertie's eldest son—had become engaged to Princess May of Teck.

Eddy had never been very bright; his brother George was his superior in learning; but Eddy had been a great favorite of his parents. I think Alexandra loved him especially not only because he was her first-born but because he was backward and he needed her more than the others. But of course all their children adored Alexandra and Bertie.

Eddy had not been very happy in his attachments. He had formed a great affection for his cousin Alicky and that had come to nothing; then he had fallen in love with Lady Sybil St. Clair Erskine—and she was not the only one. In fact poor Eddy had fallen in love frequently but with little success. Then there had been Princess Héléne of Orléans, quite a suitable match that would have been, but we had to remember that as Bertie's eldest son he was destined for the throne, he could not marry a Catholic. There had been certain negotiations but the affair had lapsed.

So now it was such a pleasure to hear that he had become engaged to May. I was very fond of her mother and we had all been so surprised when she married for she was no longer in her first youth then; but it had worked out very well and she had given birth to her capable May. It was a very happy state of affairs.

He had “spoken” to May at a ball at Luton Hoo and been accepted. She was such a nice girl—cheerful and capable—and quite pretty. She was just right for poor Eddy and he was delighted. He had for so long wanted to marry.

May's mother was pleased with the match. It meant that in time May would be Queen, and of course this was greatly approved of by the Cambridge side of the family.

The wedding was to take place on the twenty-seventh of February.

CHRISTMAS HAD PASSED and we were in January when I received a telegram from Sandringham.

Eddy had influenza. Alexandra said he was going on quite well and there was no cause for alarm.

With Beatrice's help I was in the midst of planning eight tableaux which we were going to put on that evening. One that particularly interested me was that of the Empire; and Beatrice was to represent India. She was a little plump for an Indian. They all seemed to be rather thin. The Munshi was very happy directing us and putting us right as he loved to do. I thought Beatrice would be a great success. I was delighted that she was happily married and that I had her and Henry with me—almost always under the same roof. Their dear children were a delight to me. It was such a relief to know that I should keep Beatrice near me.

The tableaux were a great success and the following day there was another telegram from Sandringham. Eddy's influenza had turned to pneumonia. I noticed with dismay that it was the thirteenth of the month; I kept my superstitious dread of the fourteenth; but at least this was not December.

I wondered whether I should go to Sandringham, but there was always such a fuss when I visited and I guessed poor Alexandra would be too frantic to want me there.

On the next day—the fateful fourteenth—another telegram arrived. This one was from Bertie.

“Our darling Eddy has been taken from us.”

How heartbreakingly tragic! There was to have been a wedding and now there would be a funeral.

I WAS VERY sad when after a term of six years, Parliament was dissolved and I was horrified to hear that Gladstone was fighting an election with fire and enthusiasm.

I could not bear it if he were returned. I had had such a long rest from him. If he came back it would be intolerable.

“The idea,” I said to Ponsonby, “of a deluded and excited man of eighty-two trying to govern England and her vast Empire with his miserable democrats is quite ridiculous. It is like a bad joke.”

And it turned out to be as bad as I feared. Although he failed to win the large majority, which he apparently expected, I found myself with Gladstone as Prime Minister for the fourth time.

A few days after the election he came to Osborne to kiss my hand. He was very changed since I had last seen him; not only was he much older, but he walked in a bent way with a stick; his face appeared to have shrunk and he was deathly pale with a weird look in his eyes, a feeble expression about his lips; and even his voice had altered.

I said to him, “You and I are much lamer than we used to be, Mr. Gladstone.” And that was as far as I could go. I could not show friendship for a man I could never like. He should know better than to cling to office. The people admired him for some reason; I supposed it was all that walking about at night which intrigued them. I doubted he did it now.

I wished I need not accept him, but of course I had to. He was the chosen of the people. But they did not show tremendous enthusiasm for him and I doubted that, with his small majority, he would get his will. He had an obsession about Ireland and was working hard to bring in Home Rule. I did not think he had a chance of getting through with it with his tiny majority.

He did, however, get it through the Commons, but it was thrown out of the Lords. I was delighted at that and I hoped it was the last we would hear of Home Rule for Ireland.

When one gets old the days seem to race by. One emerges from one into another and in no time a year has passed.

Poor Alexandra could not get over Eddy's death but I think when George became engaged to Princess May she felt a little happier. We all liked May so much, and it seemed right that, having lost one brother, she should take the other.

The wedding took place in the July of that year '93; the heat was great and poor Alexandra looked rather drawn. I think she could not stop herself thinking that it might have been Eddy who stood there with May instead of George.

But George was a good boy—so much more stable than Eddy had been. I felt sure that May would find a husband more to her liking in George than she would have done in Eddy.

I enjoyed the wedding very much, but it was marred by one incident. Mr. Gladstone actually had the temerity to come into my tent! I suppose he thought it was a Prime Minister's right. And not only did he enter but he sat down! I said, “What does he think this is? A public tent?”

I was glad on that occasion to meet Nicholas the Tsarevitch who was an extremely charming young man and bore a striking resemblance to the bridegroom.

Soon after the wedding, Albert's brother Ernest died. This did not affect me very deeply because I had always been aware of his unworthiness and it had amazed me that two brothers could be so different. I had never ceased to thank the fates for giving me Albert instead of Ernest. I did take credit, of course, for my own judgment in choosing Albert for I could have had either. How fortunate I was to have chosen the saint instead of the sinner.

His death meant that Alfred inherited the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg, and almost immediately he was leaving to take up his position in his father's native land.

Dear Rosenau! I promised myself that I would visit Alfred there—but those visits were always such poignant mingling of pleasure in being in such perfect surroundings, and sorrow of having memories of Albert brought back to me more vividly than ever.

Sometimes life flows on evenly and peacefully, but there are periods when events of great importance follow fast on one another. 1894 was one of those years.

In March Mr. Gladstone came to see me at Osborne and told me he thought he was too old to continue. I quite agreed with him and could not hide my pleasure. I knew that I must have betrayed it to him for I heard that in reporting the interview he said, “She was at the height of her cheerfulness when I told her.”

Perhaps I should have been kinder to the old man; but I was never one to pretend to have, or not to have, affection for those about me.

His Cabinet was quite emotional when he told them of his intention to retire; he himself was unmoved; he made his last speech to the Commons in which he urged them to do battle with the House of Lords; he was still obsessed by the Home Rule Bill.

He came to me—I was at Windsor then—to tender his official resignation. He was eighty-four and almost blind, with cataracts in both eyes. I asked him to sit, which he did. We talked awhile but I had never had anything much to say to him. I was glad when he left, and then I realized that I had not uttered the conventional thanks for his years of honorable service. I simply could not. I did not think he had done a great deal of good for the country. He was against all that Lord Beaconsfield—and I— had stood for. He would have liked to diminish the mighty Empire which it had so delighted Lord Beaconsfield to build. Good, one might think him, if one took a kindly view of all those wanderings in the night; but good men do not always make the best Prime Ministers.

When I sent for Lord Rosebery and invited him to become Prime Minister he came rather reluctantly. He turned out to be rather weak in the beginning and sent out appeals to his colleagues to support him— and, of course, after the manner of rival politicians, they did not.

It was really the end of Gladstone's Liberals. The country was not ripe for that sort of policy. The most wild proposals were put forth for the Home Rule for Ireland, “mending or ending” the House of Lords, and the disestablishment of the Church in Wales, and even a veto on liquor sales.

Rosebery could not have continued in office without the support of the Irish members, and when he rashly declaimed that there would be no Home Rule for Ireland unless the majority of members for the English constituencies were in favor of it, support fell away from him. He had more or less let it be known that the Home Rule Bill was postponed indefinitely.

I despised him for his weakness. I did not think he was enjoying his role. After all, he had not exactly taken it with alacrity. He suffered from sleepless nights; he had influenza, and the by-elections were going against him. He had only been in office for about a year when he handed in his resignation.

Parliament was dissolved and to my great pleasure the Conservatives were returned and Lord Salisbury came to see me. I had a new Prime Minister and a dear friend.

ANOTHER EVENT AT that time was Alicky's engagement to the Tsarevitch Nicholas of Russia. Although I was suspicious of the Russians I did realize what a great match this was for Alicky—one of my very favorite grandchildren. She was a beautiful girl, clever and sensible … and my dear Alice's daughter, which in itself endeared her to me. In the space of three weeks the dear girl became a wife and Empress, for the Tsar died and Nicholas had stepped into his place taking my darling Alicky with him.

No one could deny it was a brilliant marriage.

Another matter for rejoicing was the birth of a son to George and May, which caused great excitement among the people who marveled that I had a great grandchild. I did not think it was so wonderful. If Alicky had not refused Eddy in '89, I might have had one four years before.

Still, it was good to know that the people were pleased.

We must not expect life to go on too smoothly and I did not, but I was unprepared for the terrible tragedy that overtook us. Henry of Battenburg had left us to go with the expedition to Ashanti. I had not wanted him to go. One of my great comforts was to have him and Beatrice under my roof; they and their dear children had been a great solace to me during the last years and again and again it had been brought home to me what a wise decision it was to bring Henry to England and let him and Beatrice marry.

I believe Henry was looking for adventure. He probably thought that life spent between Osborne, Windsor, and Buckingham Palace somewhat uneventful; however, he had this urge to go and unselfish Beatrice had not stood in his way. I told him he would never be able to endure the climate but that had no effect on him.

Just after he had left a very disturbing incident arose. There was trouble in South Africa where President Kruger was continually stirring up strife. He believed that the Boers should have control of the country. I did not trust the man and believed that we should have real trouble sooner or later.

The administrator of Rhodesia was a Dr. Jameson who had carried out a very daring plan to overthrow Kruger. It was a foolhardy thing to do but very brave. Stealing into the Transvaal at night, with a few hundred mounted police, he had tried to foster a revolt against Kruger. His force was small; Kruger was powerful; and in a very short time Jameson and his men were overpowered. Unfortunately certain documents were taken, which betrayed the fact that Cecil Rhodes and our Colonial Office, presided over by Joseph Chamberlain, were all involved in the scheme.

It was a disaster for us—and it did indeed lead to the Boer War which broke out some years later. But we did not know that then, and I felt a certain sympathy toward Dr. Jameson who seemed to me to have the right ideas and the courage to attempt to carry them out. The Boers were horrid people—cruel and overbearing.

What was so hard to bear was that Wilhelm had sent a telegram to Kruger, congratulating him on preserving his independence. This was unforgivable. We had suffered pinpricks from that arrogant young German Emperor before, but this was a direct blow. How dared he! Bertie was furious.

“He shall not be invited to Cowes this year,” he said.

I remembered that last year had been very difficult; he had been late for dinner when I was present; he had referred to us as colleagues, which irritated me as he was setting himself on a level with me, and not in a humorous way either. He had openly quarreled with Lord Salisbury; he had referred to Bertie in the presence of people who had reported it, and lost no time in circulating it, that his uncle was an “old popinjay.”

I wrote off a letter of reproval to him and told him that his action over the telegram would not be forgotten for a long time to come.

I do not think Wilhelm was greatly perturbed; he had such a high opinion of himself as a ruler as important as I was—and I am not sure that he did not think he was greater.

I believed then that Wilhelm was going to cause a great deal of aggravation in the years to come and this feeling did not lessen as time passed.

It was soon after this terrible raid that a telegram came to say that Henry was suffering from fever. For a week we awaited news. We heard that he was recovering. Alas, the recovery did not last; and on the twentysecond came the dreaded telegram. Henry was dead.

My poor Baby! She was distraught. It had been a true love match. Useless for me to say I had been through it all before. There was no comforting her.

She was very patient, very selfless—Beatrice always had been—and she bore her grief more secretly than I had borne mine.

I was desolate. Once again happiness had deserted the house.