Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

War and Mutiny

THAT HAD BEEN A VERY DISTURBING YEAR AND I HOPED NEVER to pass through another like it.

In November, Lord Melbourne died. Although I knew that he had been ailing for some time, and life could not have been very good for him, I was deeply shocked.

I had often thought of him and his lonely life at Brocket—he who had sparkled in social gatherings, delivering that pithy wit, with its cynicism and unconventionality that had seemed so clever to me in those early days. How we had laughed together! How I had rejoiced in his friendship! How unhappy I had been when I feared to lose him! What he had meant to me I should never forget.

Albert had explained to me that he was not a statesman of the stature of Sir Robert Peel, and I had to admit that Albert was right; but Lord Melbourne had been a very special person to me.

Albert could not understand the depth of my grief but it was there nonetheless.

It always saddened me when people died, even those whom I had not known very well; but when it was someone for whom I had cared as I had for Lord Melbourne, it was hard to bear—particularly in that alarming year of unrest.

I was glad when the New Year came.

I was spending more time with the children and finding them interesting now that they were growing up. It was just those frog-like babies who did not appeal to me; but as they began to assume human qualities I found them fascinating. I was pleased with my brood—even Bertie, who stuttered much less now that Mr. Birch had come. Mr. Birch gave us such good reports of him that Albert grew a little suspicious and said that he may have caught Lady Lyttelton's and Miss Hildyard's complaint—which was spoiling the boy.

However, Stockmar had chosen Mr. Birch, and that was in his favor. Although, said Albert, Bertie's attachment to the tutor must be watched.

Albert had been depressed about what was happening in France and Germany, and wanted a little peace for a while. He gave himself up to the pleasures of Osborne. There he spent hours in the Swiss Cottage with the children; he took them for walks and talked to them about the trees and plants.

I enjoyed it so much although there were times when I wished that Albert and I could be alone without the children. I had come to the conclusion that I was meant to be a wife rather than a mother. Much as I loved my children it was my husband who was all-important to me.

I think I was a little jealous of Vicky for she claimed so much of his attention and sometimes he seemed to prefer to be with her rather than with me. Once I taxed him with it and we almost quarreled—until he made me so ashamed. To be jealous of my own daughter!

I said that he was unfair to Bertie and that to talk about others spoiling him was amusing, considering how he spoilt Vicky.

The storm blew over, but a little resentment remained, though it did not spoil those happy days. And happy they were! For a short period I was not pregnant. A joy in itself ! I could give myself up to the pleasures of Osborne—the sun, the sea breezes, the sight of the ships going up and down the Solent, my dear house that Albert had made, going down to the sea and from my bathing-machine experiencing the thrill of slipping into the water.

It was wonderful, and I was foolish to allow all that to be spoilt by petty jealousy of my own daughter on whom I doted as much as Albert did—or almost. I loved my children. It was just that I loved Albert more.

In the autumn we went back to Scotland and took Balmoral again. I think Scotland was even more wonderful than the Isle of Wight. Albert loved it more because it reminded him of the mountains and glens of his home.

He said, “I should like Balmoral to be our very own. The house is small but I could turn it into a royal residence.”

Why not? I thought. He was so good. He should have been an architect; and it would give him and us all so much pleasure.

The dear people of Scotland took us to their hearts as we did them to ours. I was already learning the names of the tenants. There was old Mrs. Grant who was so tidy and clean; and none of them was in the least overawed by royalty, the dear simple folk! There was one woman of ninety— Kitty Kear—who sat near her open door spinning; as we passed and talked to her, she did not even stop her work but remarked about Vicky, “Yon lassie has grown a wee bit since she were here last.” I learned about their families and characteristics; I dressed my children in kilts to show the people that we really felt ourselves to belong to their country.

I knew that Balmoral was going to be our favorite haven to which we could escape when affairs in London became too trying. There we felt far away…in a different world. It was just what we needed.

But alas, to my dismay and indignation, I was soon pregnant again.

There was terrible news from Ireland, which was suffering acutely from the potato famine. People were dying in the thousands and being buried in communal graves. They had murdered some of the landlords. There was revolt there as in the European countries.

I was deeply shocked when, as we were driving down Constitution Hill, a man came up close to the carriage and fired at me. I should have been killed if the gun had been loaded.

He was an Irishman named William Hamilton who blamed me for the terrible state of affairs in his country.

I was sorry for the man. I understood his anger. It must be terrible to see one's family and friends suffering from starvation when others have plenty. I would have pardoned him—after all, he had only given me a fright. But Lord John pointed out that that sort of thing could not be allowed to go on. It was a mistake to show mercy when it could be counted as weakness.

William Hamilton was transported for seven years.

That May my child was born. A boy this time—Arthur William Patrick Albert. There were seven of them now—all strong and healthy. Even the people were finding my fertility a little monotonous and there were unpleasant murmurings about the cost of the royal family to the taxpayer.

I agreed with them that I had had enough. I was now thirty-one years old. Quite a mature age and a time when I thought I should have earned a respite from this onerous task. I had done my duty. Let it rest there.

Albert was full of ideas for an exhibition he was planning. It was to show the industrial products of the world. Under his direction a Royal Commission was set up. He was working very hard on the project and he thought Hyde Park would be the very place where it should be set up. It was to be like a big glass palace.

Of course he had to fight a great deal of opposition. There were those who could not agree to Hyde Park as the setting—when it was obviously the very best place. Albert was in despair.

“They are against me,” he said. “They cannot forget that I am a German. I hear that on every side.”

“Only from the stupid,” I said. “There are so many people who admire you and more and more are learning to do so.”

I shall never forget that July day when the tragic news was brought to me.

Sir Robert—whom I had begun by hating—was now a very dear friend and I could not believe this had happened to him. He was riding his horse up Constitution Hill when it became restive and threw him. He was carried to his home in Whitehall Gardens, and four days later he was dead.

It was a great blow to the country. We had lost one of our finest statesmen.

I was so distressed to think of poor Julia Peel. She had been such a good wife to him and they were such an exceptionally devoted couple that it had been a joy to see them together. She had made herself his companion and helpmeet throughout all his struggles and triumphs. They had five sons and two daughters—a devoted family, now plunged into mourning.

First my dear Lord Melbourne and now Sir Robert Peel. Life was very sad.

There had been so many deaths recently. Poor Aunt Sophia had gone. Aunt Gloucester was very feebleminded and behaved oddly. It could not be long before she joined her sister. Uncle Cambridge was ill. Of course they were all getting old. Even I was thirty-one.

Then came terrible news from Uncle Leopold. Aunt Louise was very ill. The fate of her parents had upset her so much and she was so weakened that when illness came to her she was unable to fight it off. Uncle Leopold was very melancholy.

I took some of the children to visit Uncle Cambridge. He liked to see them and they cheered him considerably. Vicky was not with us; she was, as so often, with her father. Bertie seemed much brighter without her; and Alfred and Alice, who were with us on this occasion, were his devoted slaves.

We could not stay long at Kensington Palace because poor Uncle Cambridge was so very ill, and we were soon driving back to Buckingham Palace. The crowd pressed close to the carriage. The people were always interested to see the children. I had taught them to wave and Bertie did it with a special exuberance that always delighted the crowd.

Suddenly a man ran up to the carriage and lifting his cane he brought it down on my head. I was just aware of the children's bewildered faces as I fainted.

I was bruised and shaken and the doctors said that my bonnet had probably saved my life—or at least saved me from dreadful injuries.

These attempts on my life were becoming common occurrences. I supposed it was something someone in my position should expect.

The doctors said I must rest, but I was due to go to the opera that evening, and as I felt well enough, I said I would go in spite of my bruises.

The reception I was given was tremendous. I think that incident did a great deal to bring out the loyalty of the people. It seemed incredible that a short time ago we were in fear of the Chartists who were planning to march on Buckingham Palace.

It was wonderful to have them applauding me again.

“Long live the Queen!” What glorious words! The incident was worthwhile to provoke such emotion. I must have looked grotesque. The skin round one eye was blue and yellow; but if my head was throbbing, I did not care. I just wanted to be there listening to their demonstrations of affection.

I was less pleased to discover the identity of the man who had attacked me. He was Robert Pate, whose father had been High Sheriff of Cambridge, so he came of a good family. It seemed incomprehensible that he could have behaved so. He was not insane, but he was sentenced to seven years transportation.

My bruises remained for several weeks and I felt very resentful that I should be exposed to insults and dangers of that kind, unable to go for a quiet drive without being in fear of my life.

It seemed extremely brutal to me, for a man to strike any woman, and far worse than attempting to shoot; and the fact that there seemed no real motive for this man's crime worried me considerably, particularly as he was of a good family.

There were two more deaths that year. Uncle Adolphus of Cambridge whom we had expected to die for he was very ill; but what was most tragic was that of Aunt Louise.

Poor Uncle Leopold. My grief for him was great. I thought of how he had lost his dear Charlotte all those years ago and found happiness with Louise. She had suffered so much in her fears for her family which must surely have hastened her end.

Oh, the wickedness of these violent people who seemed to find such pleasure in trying to wreck our lives.

IT SEEMED THAT there must always be someone in the government who gave us trouble; and it was usually a person in a high place. The thorn in our flesh at this time was Lord Palmerston. Albert disliked him intensely. He had a rather amusing nickname for him. When we were alone Albert always called him Pilgerstein, which came about by translating his name into German. Pilger palmer and stein stone.

I suppose there could not have been two men less alike than Albert and Lord Palmerston and this was probably responsible for Albert's antipathy. What Palmerston thought of Albert I was not entirely sure. I think he was one of those who regarded my husband as smug. He treated him with a modicum of respect but when we were together he would address himself to me as though to remind Albert that he was only the consort.

There was nothing more liable to wound Albert, for he did work very hard and was cognizant of affairs—in fact more so than I was—and to be treated as though he were of no importance was very galling.

Palmerston's reputation was shady. He was known as a libertine and as a bachelor had had countless mistresses until he finally settled down at the age of fifty-five with the dowager Lady Cowper who was three years younger than he was.

Lady Cowper had been Emily Lamb, Lord Melbourne's sister, and she had married Earl Cowper when she was eighteen years old. She was a brilliant woman—as one would expect Lord Melbourne's sister to be—and the young and ambitious Palmerston was welcomed at the Cowpers' London residence as well as at Panshanger, their country seat. It was said that Emily and Palmerston had long been lovers and on the death of Earl Cowper they were married.

The marriage had turned out to be a great success. They were devoted to each other and she did everything possible to further his career. She was already a celebrated hostess and being deeply involved in politics she acted as his private secretary and adviser.

He was an individualist, determined to manage the Foreign Office as he thought best, going his own way and caring for no one. It was not surprising that he should incense us.

Albert and I discussed him continually, trying to think of ways of driving him from the Foreign Office, which, as I said to Albert, was just about the most dangerous post he could hold.

Albert thought he should be dismissed on moral grounds. There were all sorts of stories about him, one in which he had walked into a lady's bedchamber after the household had retired—in Windsor Castle of all places!—and attempted to make love to her. Sometimes I thought of what Lord Melbourne's comments would have been in these matters and I had to suppress a giggle, for they would certainly not have been Albert's.

Palmerston seemed to enjoy working against royalty and it was almost as though he placed himself on the side of the rebels. This was most disloyal. Some time before he had been accused of supplying Sicilian rebels with arms from the Royal Ordnance because he thought their fight against the tyrannical King was just. This had resulted in an apology being asked for from us to the King.

Lord John wanted to give Pam—as he was affectionately called by the people—an earldom and the Garter and send him to Ireland. I was against that. “It would seem like rewarding him,” I said. In the end Palmerston apologized to the King and the affair was hushed up.

Lord John then asked me to receive him at Court, impressing on me that as he was my Foreign Minister, I could do nothing else; so Albert and I complied with icy politeness which only seemed to amuse Palmerston. He was incorrigible.

When the Austrian General Haynau was visiting England, Palmerston made his sympathy with rebels plain. Haynau had suppressed the people's rising in Hungary with great cruelty. We did hear in the Press that he had publicly flogged women, and there were many stories of his savagery.

When he was in London he visited a brewery where the draymen set upon him, handled him very roughly, and might even have killed him if the police had not arrived in time.

General Haynau was furious at such treatment and demanded that the offenders be punished.

Lord Palmerston refused to allow this.

“General Haynau is regarded in this country as a criminal,” he said. “He was treated by the draymen as people would treat a callous murderer if they caught him.”

Albert and I discussed the matter at great length.

“He was a visitor to England,” Albert pointed out. “What was done was an insult to Austria, and an apology should be sent immediately.”

I wrote to Lord Palmerston and told him that I wanted him to write an apology and bring it to me for my approval before it was submitted.

When he arrived at the Palace I fancied there was a certain truculence about him, but there always was, as though he was reminding himself— and us—that the Foreign Office took orders from no one—not even the Queen.

I said how much I regretted what had happened.

“It is really a matter for rejoicing,” said Lord Palmerston blandly, “for the police arrived in time. Otherwise the General might not be here to complain of his treatment.”

“Show me the apology,” I said.

He bowed and handed it to me.

It was cleverly worded and almost insolent, I thought. Palmerston had finished by saying that in view of the General's reputation, which had been freely commented upon here, it had been rather unwise of him to visit England.

“You cannot say that,” I said.

I held out the paper to Albert who read it and shook his head vigorously.

“That must be removed,” I said.

“It's too late, Ma'am,” said Palmerston with that impertinent grin of his. “The apology has already been sent.”

“Then there must be another apology. We will say that this was a mistake. Please, Lord Palmerston, prepare a draft and I wish to see this one before it is sent.”

“It would not be possible, Ma'am, for your Foreign Secretary to do this.”

“But it is my wish. I shall insist.”

“Then if Your Majesty insists, I shall no longer be your Foreign Secretary. Have I Your Majesty's leave to retire?”

“Yes,” I said fiercely.

When he had gone my temper got the better of me. “You must be calm,” said Albert. “The Prime Minister is the only one who can dismiss the Foreign Secretary.”

“I shall insist that he dismisses Palmerston.”

Albert shook his head. “Alas,” he repeated, “it is for the Prime Minister to decide.”

“We must get rid of him.”

“One of these days he will go too far,” said Albert.

“I pray that day may be soon.”

I CAN ONLY say that Palmerston was a most flamboyant man. He was always at the center of some controversy. It was not long after the Haynau affair that he was involved in another crisis.

He was, in a manner of speaking, a public hero. The people applauded his actions. “Good old Pam,” they said affectionately. If there was any trouble in any part of the world where he thought the prestige of Britain was threatened, he would send out gunboats to sail up and down the coast of the offending nation; and I have to say it usually had the desired effect. This show of strength was what people liked. Those who one day would be rioting would the next be waving flags and shouting “Rule Britannia.” Gunboat Pam was a hero to them.

It was in the autumn when the Hungarian patriot, Kossuth, visited this country. I did wish these people would stay away. There was no reason why we should be involved in their quarrels.

Kossuth had tried to free Hungary from the Austrian yoke, and when he had failed, thousands of people had fled from Hungary and Poland seeking refuge in Turkey. Austria, with her ally Russia, had demanded that they be sent back.

Why Palmerston must involve us in the matter, I could not see—but Palmerston was a law unto himself. He advised the Sultan of Turkey to give the men refuge; and to show England's feelings in the matter, as was his practice, out came the gunboats to prowl through the Dardanelles. He was not threatening Russia, he explained, he was merely comforting the Turks. “It is like holding a bottle of salts to a lady who has been frightened,” he said. “I am the bottle holder.”

He had wonderful gifts of oratory and when he explained his outrageous actions in Parliament, he always seemed to be able to carry his listeners along with him, so that however hostile they had been at the beginning, he managed to win them over in the end.

As a result Kossuth visited England and the radicals gave him a tumultuous welcome.

“This is dangerous,” said Albert. “No one disputes the fact that Kossuth is a brave man, but he was a rebel, and in the state of the world at the present time, however brave, rebels should not be encouraged.”

Palmerston then declared that not only would he receive Kossuth but he should be a guest in his house.

This was too much. As a private person Palmerston might invite whomsoever he pleased, but not as the British Foreign Secretary.

I sent for Lord John and told him that if Palmerston received Kossuth in his house I would personally dismiss him from Court. On this occasion Lord John agreed with me.

I was delighted. Albert and I congratulated ourselves that we had at last got rid of our enemy.

But not so. When confronted with the ultimatum, Palmerston smilingly agreed that he would not invite Kossuth to his house.

“Opportunist!” I cried. “Where are his finer feelings?”

One would have thought that would have been a lesson to him, but Palmerston was not the sort to learn lessons. He went his own way; he was bold and could do so without harming his career; and when he saw danger, he just turned about. An odious man!

But this twisting and turning could not last.

News came that Louis Napoleon, Napoleon Bonaparte's nephew, who was now President of the French Republic, was proclaimed Napoleon III of France.

I was incensed. How dared these upstarts proclaim themselves royal!

I thought of poor Uncle Leopold and how infuriated this would make him; and how sad too. He must be almost glad that dear Aunt Louise had not lived to see this.

It was a dangerous precedent. Royalty all over Europe must tremble.

Lord John came to see me. His anxiety reflected my own. “It is a very significant step,” he said; and I remembered what Lord Melbourne had said about governments making kings and queens—and realizing that they could as easily unmake them.

“We shall remain aloof,” said Lord John. “We shall not question their right. It is not for us—a foreign power—to do so. But we can remain entirely passive…as though this has not happened.”

I agreed that this was the only thing we could do.

My astonishment was only overshadowed by my fury when I heard what had happened. The Foreign Secretary, without consulting his colleagues, had sent for the French ambassador and assured him of his cordial feelings for the new Emperor, and his friendly support.

“This time,” said Albert, “I believe he has destroyed himself.”

It was not long before Lord John was with us. He deplored the Foreign Secretary's action, he said. It had put the ambassador, Lord Normanby, in a very embarrassing position. Palmerston was going to find it very difficult to explain to the House.

And to our great joy, he did. He might protest that his words were intended to convey his personal feelings; it would not do. He was the Foreign Secretary and he could not make public pronouncements and then explain them away as personal feelings.

I had written a carefully worded letter to Lord John in which I made it clear that he had been disrespectful to me. I said that he did not explain to me what he proposed to do in a given case, so that I was not sure to what I gave the royal assent. He would alter and modify certain matters, which I thought was a failure of sincerity. I must be informed fully before decisions were taken.

I asked that this letter be shown to Lord Palmerston.

Lord John did more than that. He read it to the House.

This turned the scale against Palmerston and in spite of his usual eloquent explanations of his conduct he was forced to resign.

Everyone was amazed at the decision Lord John had taken to read my letter to the House. It was considered ungentlemanly by some. Lady Palmerston called him “that little blackguard” and Lord John was very unpopular in some quarters. Not so at Court. Nothing could have delighted us more.

I was pleased when Lord Granville was appointed Foreign Secretary.

Lady Palmerston, his “Em” as Palmerston called her, was quite vitriolic in her comments. She gathered together the wits of the day and there they discussed the inadequacies of the new Foreign Secretary. “A little lordling,” said Lady Em, “who now and then whispers a speech about the Board of Trade, but he is very good at dancing attendance on Prince Albert.”

We did not care. We were rid of the enemy.

BETWEEN THEM, ALBERT and Stockmar had decided that Mr. Birch must go.

It was true that Bertie was doing a little better than he had been before Mr. Birch's arrival, but, as Stockmar pointed out, progress was not great.

“Bertie is not a scholar,” I said. “But then, nor am I.”

“My dear,” said Albert, “you were in the hands of Baroness Lehzen, and for that reason there is every excuse for you. When you think of the care we have given to Bertie, that is an entirely different case.”

“He seems so happy with Mr. Birch.”

“Happy!” said Albert. “Of course he is happy. He is having a lazy, easy time.”

“I have studied the boy very closely,” said Stockmar.

Albert always listened attentively when Stockmar spoke.

“And,” went on the Baron, “I do not like what I discover.”

My heart sank. I did hate to hear these complaints about Bertie and I had been so pleased to see him happy with Mr. Birch.

I said, “The other children adore him. He is really very popular with them … far more so than Vicky is.”

That stung Albert. He could not bear any of them to be better at anything than Vicky.

“I have no doubt he is very good at childish games,” he said shortly.

“Affie just adores him. He follows him everywhere. I am told that when Affie had an earache, Bertie was the only one who could soothe him.”

“Unfortunately we do not have to train him to be a nurse,” said Albert.

There was nothing I could reply to that. I supposed he was right. Albert always was, and he was sure now that Mr. Birch was not the right tutor for Bertie.

“The Prince of Wales tries to win admiration,” said Stockmar, “and it seems he is quite good at that…particularly among the women. He seems to have a fondness for them and they for him.”

Albert looked very shocked. “A bad sign,” he said.

“Indeed yes,” agreed Stockmar.

“I ask myself what we can do to save him from himself,” went on Albert. “When I think of what lies before… that stupid boy!”

“He is not really stupid, Albert,” I put in. “Just a little lazy perhaps but many boys are like that.”

“My love, Bertie is not many boys.”

“I have been looking about,” said Stockmar, “and I have found a very serious gentleman, a certain Mr. Frederick Gibbs. He is a barrister and would have no nonsense. I have made him aware that with a character such as that unfortunately possessed by the Prince of Wales, there must be no sparing of the rod.”

Albert thought that was a good plan and we should try Mr. Frederick Gibbs.

I shall never forget poor Bertie's face when he was summoned to us. I saw him look at his father and I could not quite understand the expression. Was it fear? I thought it was something more than that. Dislike? Impossible!

I spoke to him softly. “Mr. Birch will be leaving us, and Mr. Gibbs will take his place.”

My heart smote me. I could not help it. I knew Albert was right, of course, but sometimes the good thing can hurt bitterly even though in the end it turns out to be right. But the misery in Bertie's face unnerved me a little. Had I been alone in this I should have said, “Let us keep Mr. Birch, and make up our minds that Bertie is not going to be clever.”

“Well, Bertie,” I said gently.

“I…I…Mr. B…b…,” stammered Bertie.

Albert looked exasperated.

“I thought we had rid ourselves of that stammer. Haven't you learned to speak yet?”

“Poor Bertie,” I said. “It is a little shock. But it is all for the best.”

“You should be grateful to Baron Stockmar who has toiled so hard on your behalf,” said Albert. “He and I have worked out a course of lessons. I can assure you we have given great care to this and you should be grateful.”

“Thank Papa, Bertie,” I prompted.

Bertie said, “Is Mr. B—Birch going?”

Albert looked exasperated.

“That is what Papa has been telling you, Bertie,” I said.

“But… I—I love Mr. Birch.”

“Yes,” I said quickly, for I could see that Albert was getting irritated. “He is a good man. Papa and the Baron chose him for you. They would not have chosen him otherwise.”

I knew Bertie was going to burst into tears so I told him to go to his room.

“He is quite childish,” said Albert in exasperation.

I could not get Bertie out of my mind. I kept seeing the misery on his little face.

I DECIDED TO see Mr. Birch alone. I felt that was necessary. When Albert was there I found myself thinking what he thought. I wanted to be by myself… absolutely…even if I was wrong.

Mr. Birch had accepted the termination of his engagement with dignity and I saw that he was thinking of Bertie rather than himself, which made him bold and I sensed that he spoke out of the depth of his emotions, and, as an emotional person myself, I understood him.

He said, “The Prince of Wales is misunderstood. He is not backward, though he is not brilliant. He will never be a scholar, but he has many good attributes. He has a charming nature for one thing. He is affectionate. He needs affection as we all do—especially children.”

I nodded, thinking of dear Lehzen in my childhood and Uncle Leopold; and how fortunate I had been in spite of Albert's belief that I had been badly brought up by Lehzen. At least Lehzen had loved me.

“I have never believed that severe punishment brought out the best in children,” went on Mr. Birch. “In the whole of my career I have never found it so.”

“I think that is where your methods have not entirely pleased the Prince and Baron Stockmar.”

“I have had results.”

“Yes… but Bertie is still not as advanced as his sister.”

“They are different children, Your Majesty. Their talents lie in different directions. The Prince of Wales is inventive; he is quick-witted.”

“The Prince and I have not noticed that.”

“No because …,” Mr. Birch lifted his shoulders and went on, “I am sorry to have failed Your Majesty. I shall be sorry to leave the Prince, but I hope he will be happy.”

“I am sure he will realize in time that everything we do is for his good.”

Mr. Birch made another attempt to speak for Bertie. “He has great gifts. He is kind-hearted, fond of fun; he can make himself loved. Prince Alfred and Princess Alice adore him. He is so kind and gentle with them. Please, Ma'am, do not allow him to be treated with over-severity. It is not the way.”

I said, “You are a good man, Mr. Birch, and I know you have tried to do everything you can for the Prince of Wales. I appreciate that. I could wish …”

I turned away. He was beginning to infect me with his emotion. He was even making me think that Albert and Stockmar might be wrong. I must not think that for it could not be true. Albert was always right. Bertie was lazy. Naturally he loved Mr. Birch, who had never applied the cane and had let him go his slothful way.

“May I show Your Majesty what I found on my pillow this morning?” asked Mr. Birch.

I nodded.

He showed me a crumpled piece of paper. In it lay a tin soldier dressed in the uniform of the pre-revolutionary French army. I took it from him.

“It is the best of his soldiers, his favorite,” said Mr. Birch. “He sent it to me with this note.”

The note, written in Bertie's childish hand, said how much he loved Mr. Birch and how miserable he was because he was going away. He wanted him to have his best soldier as a keepsake.

Mr. Birch's lips quivered. I saw the tears in his eyes.

He bowed, took the paper and the soldier and begged leave to retire.

I was glad he had gone. A moment later and I should have been weeping with him. I must control my emotions, as Albert always said. My impulse was to rush to him and tell him that I was retaining Mr. Birch and that I did not care if Bertie never was a scholar.

Then I seemed to hear Albert's voice at my elbow. The note was badly written. A boy of Bertie's age should do better than that.

Albert was right. Of course he was right.

I HAD MANY a qualm about Bertie.

I knew that on the day Mr. Birch left he and Alfred stood at the window weeping bitterly—Bertie for Mr. Birch and Alfred mourned for Bertie. I noticed that even Alfred looked at Albert with something like hatred in his face. I hoped Albert did not notice. Fortunately Vicky was present and when she was there Albert never noticed any of the others.

Mr. Gibbs had been in the palace for a few weeks taking over from Mr. Birch, and I think that when Mr. Birch was there he restrained himself considerably. After Mr. Birch had left, lessons began in earnest and we heard that Bertie did not take at all kindly to them. He was sullen and refused to learn and was constantly being beaten, which did not appear to have the desired effect. Once he threw a stone at Mr. Gibbs. Alice and Alfred misbehaved too, siding with Bertie; even Helena and Louise set up a wail every time Mr. Gibbs appeared.

And it seemed that Bertie learned less under Mr. Gibbs than he had under Mr. Birch.

But Stockmar and Albert believed that Bertie had to be tamed and that the gentle hand of Mr. Birch would never have achieved anything.

Nothing Bertie did was right.

Sometimes when I was with him and the other children, without Albert, he would seem a little less sullen. We would laugh and sing together, and I would tell them about the past when I had lived in Kensington Palace, how I had saved for the doll, how I had had the typhoid fever and was so ill that my hair had come out. I told them about Lehzen and the uncles; and they listened avidly.

“Were you always the Queen?” asked Bertie.

“No,” I told him. “It was only after Uncle William died. I was the next in line.”

I asked him if he knew what that meant; he did not, so I explained.

I finished, “And after me you will be the Sovereign.”

Bertie shook his head. “No, Mama,” he said, “that will be Vicky. You and Papa don't love me. You love Vicky, so you will make her the Queen.”

I was shaken. I said indignantly, “But of course we love you. You are our son.”

He was matter of fact. He said with conviction, “It will be Vicky.”

“You think because Vicky is older than you she will be the Queen. But you are a boy and they come before girls.”

He looked unconvinced. “But, you see, you and Papa don't love me. You do love Vicky…very much.”

I tried to explain to him that I loved them all equally. I saw a faraway look come into his eyes. He politely refrained from contradiction, but his expression implied that it was no use trying to convince him of something that he knew was simply not true.

I had many uneasy nights over Bertie and my feelings came to a head when Vicky was troublesome.

There was no doubt that Vicky had a high opinion of herself. It was natural, Albert would say. She was a pretty, very clever girl. It was more than that; she basked in an atmosphere of approval. Albert liked to talk to her. She could discuss most topics with intelligence. When he was making plans for Balmoral he showed them to her before he showed them to me. He would listen to her comments. “Why, that is good,” he would say. “An excellent idea.”

I felt a little irritated. She was only a child after all.

Then there was the incident that brought matters to a head. Albert had been unwell for some time. I believed he had been rather delicate in his boyhood and now he had a series of colds, one after the other, which was very worrying. I fussed over him a little and although he pretended to be impatient, I think he enjoyed it. There was a doctor in Windsor named Brown who was very highly regarded and I said why did we not ask his opinion instead of calling in Sir James Clark. I thought a fresh man might be able to put his finger on Albert's weakness. It might be something to do with the Windsor air and Brown knew Windsor.

Vicky heard Albert call the doctor Brown and when she spoke of him she referred to him in the same way.

“That is impolite,” I said. “You must call him Dr. Brown.”

“Papa calls him Brown,” said Vicky, who always wanted to argue about everything.

“Papa is different. Papa may do as he wishes and he may be Brown to Papa but he is Dr. Brown to you.”

“I cannot see…,” began Vicky.

“Never mind whether you see or not. Don't do it again.”

Vicky liked to show off in front of the others and again referred to Brown.

I saw Albert smile to himself; he thought it was amusing. I was angry that Vicky should be impolite to the doctor and ignore my orders.

I said that if I heard her call the doctor Brown again, she would go straight to bed.

The very next morning when Dr. Brown called she said, “Good morning, Brown.” She was really a minx. She saw me looking at her and said, “Good night, Brown. I am going to bed now.”

Then she left the room.

Albert could not contain his laughter—and he laughed rarely.

He explained to the doctor who joined in the mirth. Whether he thought it was funny I do not know. One is never sure with people. I was not amused.

I was even more annoyed when later Albert went to her room and came down smiling proudly.

“What a child!” he said. “She is so amusing. Do you know, she told me that she did not mind spending the day in her bedroom. She had her books and she does enjoy them. So it is no punishment really, she said.”

I retorted, “You encourage her in her naughtiness, Albert.”

“Such charming naughtiness,” he said.

“She defied me.”

“That was really witty at the end. Good morning…Good night, I am going to bed.”

“You can see no wrong in her, can you?” I said.

“My dear love, I see her as she is.”

“And how do you see Bertie?” I cried. Then it came out… all the thoughts that had been in my mind and which I had refused to consider. “You can be cruel to Bertie your son while you pamper your daughter.”

Albert looked at me in amazement. “I? Cruel to Bertie! What do you mean? Victoria, what are you saying?”

I had gone too far. I had said what I did not mean. Of course Albert only wanted the best for Bertie. It was Bertie who was slothful, who would not learn.

Albert went on, “When I think of the trouble I have gone to for that boy… and you say…”

“Oh, it was nothing, I did not mean it. I have been worried about Bertie, and seeing how you are with Vicky…”

“Liebchen,” he began, and he slipped into German. He had neglected me. I was jealous because he spent so much time with our daughter. She was growing up… she needed him. She was a dear, sweet, clever child, and he had high hopes for her. He loved all our children. If he seemed cruel to Bertie it was only for Bertie's good. Did I want Bertie to grow into a criminal?

I began to feel wretched.

It was my impetuosity again.

“I'm sorry, Albert. I didn't mean it.”

He took my face in his hands.

“Little one,” he said, “you are just a little jealous of Vicky. I have neglected my little wife… for my little daughter. It is because she is ours— yours and mine—that I love her so much.”

I was in tears. I lay against him.

He was so good. He was a saint. And it is sometimes not easy to live with saints.

I told him this and he stroked my hair and was very tender. He understood, he murmured. He understood… absolutely.

WHEN DEATH STRIKES it seems to do so in several directions all at once. Someone dies here, another there; and life seems changed somehow.

Dear Aunt Adelaide died and I was very sad remembering so many incidents from the past, her many kindnesses, the Big Doll she had given me, and how she had tried to get me to her children's balls because she had thought I was not having enough fun. Dear Aunt Adelaide! I hoped she was happy now with Uncle William, for they had truly loved each other.

Louis Philippe died at Claremont. How sad to die in exile! There was hardly any notice taken of his death. That old gossip, Greville, who was staying at Brighton at the time, said there was no more notice taken of the death of the King of France than there would have been of one of the old bathing women opposite his window.

But the death that was so tragic for Albert was that of George Anson, the secretary, whom he had been so reluctant to have in the beginning and whom he had grown to love. For weeks Albert was pale and sad. He had wept bitterly on the day of Anson's death—and I with him.

We had lost a dear friend.

I think the death of Anson made him turn to planning feverishly for the exhibition, and because there was so much opposition in the beginning it helped Albert to overcome his grief. He became so angry and frustrated, and his mind was so filled with plans that he forgot to grieve.

The Great Exhibition was Albert's creation. How proud I was of him! This would show the people what a clever man he was. This exhibition was for them; it was for the whole world; it had been made to bring the nations together; it was to show how art and commerce could combine to make a better life for all people.

Joseph Paxton's crystal palace was superb, and, of course, Hyde Park was the best possible setting. While it was in progress I used to take the children to see it. I told them that this was all due to their Papa and how people from all over the world would come and marvel at it. We followed its progress with loving attention. It was going to astonish the world, I told Albert.

It seemed so long before the opening day. It was to be May the First. Little Arthur was just a year old so the day began with his birthday celebrations. He was quite a little man and was delighted by the presents that were brought to him. It was clear that Bertie was his favorite, and as he grasped his presents he handed them to Bertie as though for his approval. Bertie seemed to know just how to please the child. He certainly had a gift for that, even if mathematics was beyond him.

Opening the exhibition was the most wonderful experience of my life. Bertie walked beside me, and a few paces behind were Albert and Vicky. The peals of the organ rose to the crystal roof; the flowers were magnificent, the fountains splendid. There was an orchestra with two hundred instruments, and with it six hundred singers.

I laughed inwardly to think of all those who had tried to prevent this from being made. How stupid they would look now! Even Lord John Russell had made a nuisance of himself by raising an objection to the gun salutes being fired in the Park. He said they would shatter the glass, and he had wanted the guns to be fired in St. James's Park. That would not do, said Albert. It would not seem like part of the occasion if they were not fired in Hyde Park. Albert won the day. I must say I felt a little trepidation, lest Lord John might be right. But he was wrong, of course. The guns were fired in Hyde Park with no dire consequences.

When I heard people cheering Albert I was so moved. Nothing could have pleased me more.

Perhaps, I thought, they will appreciate him now.

There was no doubt of public approval. The glass palace was crammed with people of all kind. I was touched to see the Duke of Wellington there. He was getting very old now and he came arm in arm with Lord Anglesey—such old men, both of them, but determined to be of the company. Lord Palmerston put in an appearance and on such a day I even felt kindly toward him.

“It is a very fine exhibition is it not, Lord Palmerston?” I said.

He gave me one of those mischievous looks and replied, “Even I, Ma'am, can find no fault.”

I almost liked him then. He reminded me a little of my poor Lord M.

When we returned to the Palace I was so happy. The Duke of Wellington called to congratulate Albert; and little Arthur—who had been named after him and whose godfather he was—presented him with a little nosegay. Arthur did not know what it was all about but he did it perfectly.

The day was not over. In the evening we went to Covent Garden to see The Huguenots. On our way there, and in the theater, we were cheered enthusiastically. I heard the cry in the streets: “Good old Albert!” and my happiness was complete.

Happy days followed. There was no talk of anything but the glorious Exhibition. Mr. Thackeray wrote a beautiful May Day ode about it in which he said it:

Leaps like a fountain from the grass

To meet the sun.

The Prime Minister wrote to me:

The grandeur of its conception, the zeal, invention and talent displayed in its execution, and the perfect order maintained from the first day to the last, have contributed together to give imperishable fame to Prince Albert.

I wrote to Uncle Leopold:

It was the happiest, proudest day in my life, and I can think of nothing else. Albert's dearest name is immortalized with this great conception, his own; and my own dear country showed she was worthy of it.

Almost every day I was there. I would have everything explained to me—including the intricacies of the machinery which I could not understand at all.

Visitors came—royalty and the most humble. I had arranged for the head of the gillies at Balmoral to be brought to London to see the Exhibition. It was most amusing to watch his honest, open face. He was not exactly enthusiastic. I was sure he was wondering what use it was. They were so natural, so plain spoken, these dour Scotsmen. I liked them for their sincerity. They were such a contrast to so many people I met.

Among the visitors were the Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia; Albert and I were pleased that they had brought their son Prince Frederick William with them—Fritz, as he was called. He was twenty-two and although not exactly handsome had very attractive blue eyes. I was very interested in him because I knew Albert had plans for him and Vicky. His mother, the Princess Augusta, was a very amiable woman and I took to her at once. We talked together about Vicky and Fritz and she was very agreeable about the project, and it was comforting to see that Fritz and Vicky took quite a liking to each other.

At the end of July we went to Osborne. It was such a happy time because of the success of the Exhibition; we talked of it endlessly. It was to be closed on the 15th October—the twelfth anniversary of our engagement.

I said to Albert, “It has taken all this time for people to get to know you, to understand you and appreciate your worth.”

IN NOVEMBER THAT year Uncle Ernest died. It was quite a shock to me when I heard. I had never liked him; he had been a strange, mysterious man; but now that the bogey of my childhood was gone, oddly enough I felt a certain sadness. It was strange that he had been one of the most popular kings of Europe. He had taken a great interest in the affairs of his people, and when the rumble of revolution had spread through Europe, he had been able to suppress the beginnings of revolt in Hanover with ease. Now my poor blind cousin George had become King of Hanover.

I was delighted with Lord Granville who was so different from Lord Palmerston. He was so charming and kept me informed regularly about everything, but where politics were concerned we could not be long without trouble.

There was worrying news from France because Louis Napoleon was changing the uniform of the army and having the imperial eagles restored to the flags. It seemed as though he had military ambitions. Lord John thought we should strengthen the local militia; Palmerston had other views. His foreign policy had always been aggressive; he had sent out his gun-boats at the least provocation. Secretly, much as I disliked the man, I was inclined to agree with his policy, for I was convinced that there is nothing like a show of strength to intimidate troublemakers. Palmerston wanted a national militia and would agree to nothing else. So …he fought Lord John on this with the result that the government fell.

“I have had my tit-for-tat with Johnny,” was the irrepressible Pam's comment.

I sent for Lord Derby as leader of the Tories to form a government, which he did. It was weak and did not last long. What was significant was that Benjamin Disraeli was given the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House.

I was very interested in this man. He was so unusual. At first I had recoiled from him with horror; he was so obviously Jewish with a dark complexion, very dark eyes and eyebrows, and black ringlets, which I heard afterward he dyed. He had written several novels quite successfully and was a master of oratory, so I heard. I asked the Disraelis to the Palace to dine, which surprised many people for it was believed that Disraeli was the last person I should wish to have contact with unless it was inevitable.

But I was curious, for I had heard so much about him as he was talked of a good deal. It was said that he had married Mary Anne Wyndham for her money, but now there was not a more devoted couple in London— even Victoria and Albert. So naturally I wanted to see this pair.

I thought she was vulgar—not so much in her appearance as in her way of speaking. His speech was very flowery; but I found them interesting.

Then there was another death that affected me deeply—that of the Duke of Wellington. Of course he was very old; but he was agile. He had been a frequent visitor to the Exhibition and there had always been people to cheer him; he would never be forgotten as the hero of Waterloo. He had been in quite good health until a few days before his death. He had set out from Walmer Castle, where he had been living, for a drive to Dover, and when he returned ate a hearty dinner. That night he had a fit, and he died in the afternoon of the following day.

His funeral was a great occasion attended by much pomp. Tennyson wrote a magnificent ode on his death and even Lord Palmerston said that no man ever lived and died in the possession of more unanimous love, respect and esteem from his countrymen.

He lay in state at Walmer and was buried in St. Paul's in November after lying in state again in Chelsea Hospital. The funeral procession passed by Constitution Hill and Piccadilly and the Strand to St. Paul's followed by a million and a half sorrowing people.

I felt desolate. They were all going… all my dear old friends.

There was change everywhere. Lord Derby's ministry could not last, and I had to call on Lord Aberdeen to form a new government. It was an uneasy state of affairs. We needed a strong government. Nothing seemed the same…even names had to change. The Whigs were now calling themselves Liberals and the Tories were split between those in favor of Protection under Lord Derby and Benjamin Disraeli, and those who were still called Peelites and wanted Free Trade under Lord Aberdeen. They called themselves Conservatives.

It seemed impossible to do anything but form a coalition if there was to be a strong government; this Aberdeen tried to do; so he included Lord John Russell and Lord Palmerston from the Whigs—or Liberals—and Gladstone and himself from those who had been Tories and were now Peelites.

I was pleased with this for I was very fond of Lord Aberdeen, and it seemed a good idea to have the best men from the two parties. I did not like Palmerston, of course, but I knew he was a strong man; and the important thing was for the country to be firmly led, so I must stifle my prejudices.

In the midst of all this to my horror I became pregnant again. I had hoped that little Arthur would be the last, but it seemed that that was not to be.

I am afraid I was a little irritable, accusing Albert of indifference to my state, making wild condemnations against the powers who had designed women only for the horrors of childbirth, when it would only have been fair to make the men share a little of the burden.

Albert was kind, in that half indulgent, half exasperated, way of his, calling me “dear child” as though I had never grown up and it needed all his patience to contend with me.

There was a grain of comfort. Sir James Clark who knew so much how I dreaded these births came to me and asked if I would like to try the new chloroform. I had heard of this. Albert was not very enthusiastic about it. He believed that God had meant women to suffer—presumably for being the one to offer Adam the apple—and that it was His will that suffering should be borne with fortitude.

But I was not in the mood to listen to Albert. Instead I wanted to hear more from Sir James who said that he thought there was no harm in it either to mother or child. It was true the Church railed against it. “All men,” I said. There was a great deal of controversy in the Press. To use the painkiller or not?

I made a decision. I could endure no more. I would try the chloroform.

And I did.

I was amazed. How easy it all was! There I was in my bed and the pain was beginning to torment me… and the next moment I was lying there, not really exhausted coming out of what seemed like a peaceful sleep.

“Your Majesty has a son,” I heard, and I felt so joyous I could have burst into song. So it was over. Oh, blessed chloroform! And dear Sir James who had advised me to try it!

“This will make a good deal of difference,” said Sir James. “There will be easy births all over the kingdom now. Your Majesty has blazed the trail. What you have done, everyone will want to do.”

I was so pleased and so very relieved.

We called the baby Leopold George Duncan Albert.

Alas, he was not as lusty as the others. We discovered later that he had a terrible disease. It was haemophilia, the bleeding disease. We were terrified that he would fall and cut himself in any way, for if he did, it would be difficult to stop the bleeding. He was the first of my children to be delicate.

I am afraid at this time there were storms in the household.

I was worried about the baby and still thought a great deal about Bertie's relations with his father. I tried to convince myself that the beatings and the general severity were right, but I could not get Bertie out of my mind. He himself seemed to have come to terms with them; but he really was far more mischievous than he had been under Mr. Birch. He still could not—or would not—learn. He was a great problem.

I would flare up at the slightest thing… against Albert. Something within me made me blame him. Mama always sided with him, and I felt I must be in the wrong; but that did not help.

Albert was always loving and tender, calling me his dear child until I wanted to scream at him that I was not a child. I was a queen. They should remember that. Then I would be regal and Albert would be withdrawn. After that he would be sorry. “I should help you,” he would say, “help you to overcome your nature which was not corrected in your youth.”

When I look back on that period that followed Leopold's birth I think that I was overwrought; I had to flare up; I wanted a quarrel and a quick making-up, and being happier than ever because we were reconciled.

We went to Balmoral in the autumn. It was not yet completed and I think Albert was rather glad of that. He did so love the work. When it was finished it would be magnificent with its one-hundred-foot tower, its gables and turrets. The views were splendid—mountains, forests, and the River Dee. We had designed tartans to hang everywhere. My design was the Victoria Tartan, Albert's the Balmoral; and these were hung side by side with the Royal Stuart. I loved the fresh air and the dear simple honest people. I felt so much better there among those natural people like my special favorite, John Brown, who always held my pony when we went for mountain rides.

But I could not be free of my ministers even at Balmoral. Not that I wished to be far from Lord Aberdeen—that most charming man; he enjoyed Balmoral and threw himself whole-heartedly into the local customs. He wore a kilt and danced a reel with me—which was most amusing.

I could have done without the presence of Lord Palmerston. I noticed that his eyesight was not good and he was showing signs of age. He played billiards with Albert, who managed not to show his dislike of the man.

Lord Palmerston said there was trouble brewing in the East. We did not take much notice of it then.

WHAT I HAD always feared more than anything had come to pass.

I knew that there was a certain uneasiness, but I had hoped that with Lord Aberdeen's reasonable policies we should keep out of it.

Russia had invaded Turkey's principalities on the Danube, and Turkey was England's friend—a weak one, but nevertheless a friend.

I was at Balmoral when I heard that the British fleet had entered the Dardanelles. It was Palmerston's gunboat policy again; and Palmerston had persuaded Aberdeen to allow this action to be taken in my absence.

By October that year Turkey had declared war on Russia. Palmerston immediately demanded that we support the Turks with France as our ally. Lord Aberdeen was for peace; it was Palmerston who urged action. I was torn between the two of them. I did not believe that Aberdeen could bring the Emperor of Russia to see reason, and yet the idea of siding with Palmerston was obnoxious to me.

Aberdeen came to me one day in a state of anger against Palmerston who, unknown to him, had been in direct touch with our ambassador in Constantinople.

“Surely,” I said, “that is treason.”

Aberdeen shrugged his shoulders. He was determined to keep us out of war, but his mild nature was no match for Palmerston. I swung over to Aberdeen's side.

“The Emperor must be victorious,” I said, “and if the Russians are magnanimous and the Turks reasonable, perhaps that could be an end to this disagreeable matter.”

Then Lord Palmerston resigned.

That was the sign for the people to show their feelings. Mr. Gladstone was of the opinion that Palmerston should be called back to government. Lady Palmerston was working indefatigably to make everyone aware that the country needed her husband at this time and Lord Aberdeen was nervous. He thought the government would fall, which would be a disaster, and he did not see how he could survive unless Palmerston was recalled. Palmerston came back.

Then we heard that Russia had sunk the Turkish fleet.

Palmerston was the hero of the day. His prophecies had been correct. He had been warning the government of the impending trouble for months but they had preferred to shrug aside his warnings. The people thought we should be at war—as we should be now, they said, but for Palmerston's being pushed out.

With one accord the people named the scapegoat, and it was Albert.

Palmerston was the national hero; Albert the villain.

Articles about him appeared in the Press. Slogans were written on walls. People carried banners demanding that he go back to Germany where he belonged. Nothing was too bad to say about Albert. I could not believe that the Exhibition and all the good he had done could be so quickly forgotten.

Why had we not gone to the defense of poor little Turkey? Why indeed? Because Albert did not wish it. German Albert! The Queen had not wanted us to go because she was governed every time by Albert. Who ruled the country? German Albert. Who wanted England handed over to his German relations? He was related to the Russian royal family; he was a traitor to this country. He spoke English like a German; he didn't even look like a man… not an Englishman. He was too pretty; he never laughed; he was cold, aloof, disdainful of the people. He was smug.

On the other hand was that gay debonair brilliant Pam. He had been something of a libertine in his youth. Of course he had. He was a man. A man who would laugh at life and enjoy it, and at the same time guide the affairs of the country in the way that they should go. He had always known how to subdue our enemies when he had been in power. Why? Because Lord Palmerston wanted to keep England for the English and not turn it over to a lot of goose-stepping, rapacious, smug Germans. Down with Albert!

Cartoons, caricatures and verses appeared everywhere. There was one of the latter which ended:

You jolly old Turk now go to work

And show the Bear your power

It is rumored over Britain's Isle

That A is in the Tower.

This gave rise to the rumor that Albert was being taken to the Tower and crowds assembled at the Traitor's Gate to jeer at him.

This was the state of hysteria to which the country was reduced.

I wept with rage and frustration and I railed against the stupid mob. “How dare they?” I cried. “Action must be taken.” I was not the only one who thought this.

Mr. Gladstone turned out to be a good friend to us. He wrote an article in the Morning Post that made a deep impression; the subject was brought up in the House and the accusations against Albert were laughed to scorn, and many spoke in a most complimentary fashion for the Prince—including Mr. Disraeli. Lord John Russell made a magnificent speech in which he said the hysteria must be stopped for it was utter nonsense.

This fortunately did have a calming effect on the people but there were fears in certain quarters that there might be an attempt on Albert's life. I was, after all, not a stranger to assassination attempts, and I was terrified for Albert.

When I opened Parliament, Albert was with me, and the Prime Minister insisted that every precaution should be taken and we rode through the streets heavily guarded. He was right; there were cheers for Lord Palmerston and hisses for Albert and me.

I was so wretched when the people showed their disapproval of me and at such times remembered how, as a little Princess, I had gone among them while they cheered me, shouting my name and their good wishes.

How sadly life changed!

Lord Aberdeen was loath to go to war but Palmerston threatened to resign unless a stronger line was taken, and the people were firmly behind Palmerston. War had a great appeal for them perhaps because it was so far away, and I could see that the country was inevitably drifting toward it.

In February an ultimatum was sent by our government to the Russians: Unless they retired from the Danube Principalities before the end of April, we should declare war. They did not reply and we were at war.

We could only attack Russia from the sea; our fleet sailed into the Baltic under Admiral Napier and in September landed in the Crimea. There were twenty-four thousand English, twenty-two thousand French, and eight thousand Turks. Our object was to capture Sebastopol.

From the balcony of Buckingham Palace, I watched the troops march past on their way to war. I wanted them to see me and know that my heart was with them. Later I went to the wharf to see them. I remembered Lehzen's lessons about that queen, of whom I had never really been very fond during my childhood. She had gone to Tilbury to her troops; she had made a fine speech about being a weak woman and having the heart of an English king. I might not have been so gloriously articulate as she was—but I did want them to know how much I cared.

How I hated war! It dominated my thoughts. I hated the thought of all that death and destruction; and my subjects being at the heart of it.

Lord Palmerston was letting everyone know that had he been in power the war could have been avoided. It was the foolish policy of appeasement which was the cause of many a war. If Russia had not believed that England would stand aside, if we had not had a vacillating government, they would never have dared to take action.

I was beginning to think that Palmerston must be right.

I can hardly bear to think of that time and the terrible hardships endured by my people. The disaster of Balaclava, the empty triumphs of Alma and Inkerman, the terrible epidemics which raged through the armies and killed more men than the guns.

I was proud of Miss Florence Nightingale, who went out with her nurses to look after them. She was magnificent working under the most fearful conditions.

Albert was at his desk for hours; he was continually thinking up improvements for the army which were presented to the government; and almost all of them were adopted. He insisted that we needed more men; we needed a more efficient commissariat; we needed improvements everywhere. The government was weak; he was finding himself more and more in agreement with Palmerston. And in time the inevitable happened. Palmerston had to be there, at the head of affairs. The people believed he was the only man who could end this wretched war. I think we all knew it too.

In due course Palmerston came to the Palace; he kissed my hand in accordance with tradition and set about forming a government with himself as its Prime Minister.

There was fresh hope everywhere. People were dancing in the streets. “Palmerston is back,” they cried. “Soon we shall be victorious now.” And although there were no miracles, events did take a turn for the better. Palmerston, energetic, positive and constructive, had the people behind him. He and Albert were agreeing on many important matters and I felt my antipathy toward the man fading a little.

He was certain that he was right and determined not to sway for anything—not even his own position. I suppose that was an inherent honesty. The only people who were against Palmerston at that time were certain politicians. It has always amazed me how petty they can be; I suppose they are so ambitious for themselves, so eager not to miss the slightest chance of their advancement, that they cannot bear to see others leaping ahead. Mr. Disraeli was very disappointed. I believed he had set his heart on the premiership for himself; he resorted to personal abuse, calling Palmerston “an old painted pantaloon, very deaf, very blind, with false teeth that were constantly threatening to fall out of his mouth.” Such items had nothing to do with winning the war and this was blatant envy. Palmerston was old; he was seventy, I believe; he may have touched up his cheeks; but I suspected Mr. Disraeli himself dyed his own hair. Mr. Disraeli had outstanding gifts, and it amazed me—as it has on many occasions—how men who are truly great can be so bemused by jealousy as to betray their baser side so childishly.

I received the news of the death of Tsar Nicholas with mixed feelings. There was great rejoicing. This was just retribution, it was said. The man who had been the cause of the deaths of thousands was now taken himself. I could only remember the man I had known, with his wild eyes and eccentric habits. He had really been rather charming.

But the war continued without him.

Albert crossed to France for a conference with the Emperor. He came back with copious notes and said he thought the Emperor was rather indolent. However, the visit improved relations with France and I was sure Albert had made a good impression.

We were now so friendly with the Emperor that he and his wife paid us a return visit. I was most interested to meet them. Louis Napoleon was a very charming man, but quite small in stature, and his wife was very tall and slender. We made a striking contrast, I being so short and, I have to admit, inclined to plumpness, whereas Eugénie was so tall and willowy. On the other hand, Albert's tall figure called attention to the Emperor's lack of inches—so as far as appearances went we were an incongruous quartette.

I took them to Windsor which impressed them as it did all visitors.

I found them delightful, which was a surprise because I had been expecting the Emperor to be something of an upstart. He was very complimentary to me and he had a soft gentle voice; he really knew how to charm women, and I noticed his eyes following some of our more spectacular beauties. Albert was inclined to suspect such men but I admit to a weakness in myself inasmuch as I did enjoy their company. And thus it was with the Emperor.

We took him to a review of the troops in the Park. He rode a magnificent chestnut and bowed so charmingly to the onlookers that he was loudly cheered. He told me that years ago when he had lived humbly in England he had once been among the crowd to watch me ride by. That had been fourteen years before. “A sight so impressive, so touching in its dignity,” he said. “I never forgot it…or you.” He was a very charming man. The Empress was delightful too.

When they were introduced to the children Vicky was overawed by her—not so much by her dignity as her beauty and the lovely clothes she so elegantly wore. The two of them were so natural with the children, which was rather delightful in persons of their position, and I was pleased to see that the Emperor took a special interest in Bertie. Bertie's response was immediate. He was so accustomed to being put in the shade by his brilliant sister that he responded to attention like a flower opening to a spell of rare sunshine.

He chattered away to the Emperor and I was glad Albert was not present or he would have restrained him, but I thought it would do Bertie no harm, and I could see that the Emperor was enjoying the boy's questions. Bertie wanted to know about the French army, the guns, and the uniforms.

“I want to be a soldier when I grow up,” he confided to the Emperor.

“You'll be a good one,” replied the Emperor with a smile. “I wish you would join my army.”

“Oh,” cried Bertie, “so do I.” Then he said something that shocked me. “I wish you were my father.”

I was about to protest, but the Emperor was shrugging off the remark with great tact, and I felt that the only way was to treat it lightly as a child's carelessly spoken word in a thoughtless moment.

But deep down in my heart I knew that Bertie meant what he said.

In August we paid a return visit to France. The war was going moderately well and we received a great welcome there. There were processions through the streets with the people crying: “Vive la Reine d'Angleterre,” and I was so glad that they did not forget to shout: “Vive le Prince Albert.”

I felt the Emperor and Empress really were our friends.

Albert's birthday occurred during that visit and we celebrated it at St. Cloud. It was a wonderful day. The Emperor had composed special music for the day and there was present-giving just as at home. Then we went out onto the palace balcony and three hundred French drummers paid tribute to Albert.

He was thirty-seven. I prayed God to bless him and protect him for many years to come.

My present to him was some beautiful studs. There was a blank space in them at the time and I told him that when Sebastopol fell, they should have that name on them, so that in years to come he would remember when I had given them to him.

Sebastopol! How we longed for it to fall! When it did that must signify the end of the war was in sight. But although the war was going well for us, Sebastopol continued to hold out.

I told Albert how enchanted I was by the Emperor.

He looked at me and smiled.

“My dear child, you do grow so enthusiastic so quickly.”

“I know.”

“It was only a little while ago that you were reviling him as an upstart, and now because he has whispered a few charming words in your ear…”

“It is nothing of the sort!” I protested. “I know him now … personally. I didn't then.”

Albert was right, of course. He was so much more calm than I, so balanced, so less likely to be influenced by personal charm. But I had changed a great deal since my marriage. I was growing a little more like Albert. I wondered if when we were very old I should be exactly like him. That would be a great improvement, I knew; but I did wonder whether I should get so much fun out of life.

WE WERE CONFIDENT of victory now although the Russians still clung to Sebastopol, and it was suggested that I might take a holiday away from the cares of State—just for a few weeks. If my presence was needed in London I could be recalled.

So happily we set out for Scotland. It was particularly exciting this year because the new Balmoral had been completed, just as Albert had designed it; and we had been longing to see it for some time.

How I loved it! It was like a baronial castle. I loved the pitch pine and the tartan interior.

“Everything,” I cried, “is perfection.” It was a delight to think that it was Albert's creation—his own building, his own laying out…as at Osborne. I could detect his wonderful good taste and his dear hand everywhere.

That was a never-to-be-forgotten stay at Balmoral, for we had not been there very long when the news came to us that Sebastopol had fallen. It was the news we had been waiting for. After three hundred and ninety-nine days, the city had capitulated.

Albert and I clasped hands and looked at each other. I think we were both near to tears. We went to the window and looked out. On a hill, well within sight of Balmoral, a pile of wood stood waiting; it had been there for a whole year.

Albert solemnly went out. I watched him climb the hill and set fire to the bonfire. It was the signal. Soon I saw a string of them blazing away, proclaiming the fall of Sebastopol.

There was something else that made that visit a memorable one.

Albert said to me, “I have invited Fritz to Balmoral.”

I knew at once what he meant. His heart was set on a marriage between Vicky and Fritz; he wanted Vicky to be Queen of Prussia.

I said she was too young.

“The marriage could not take place until she is seventeen,” said Albert, “but I want her to get to know Fritz. I do not want her to go straight to him. Let them be together… let them get to know each other…to like each other.”

I knew it was a good idea, and I looked forward to welcoming Fritz to Balmoral.

I liked him very much. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and pleasantlooking. He was greatly in awe of Albert and obviously had been told what a wonderful person he was. That made us both warm toward him.

Fritz fell into our ways with a charming ease. He was determined to make himself agreeable, and it was perfectly obvious that he greatly admired Vicky. It would have been surprising if any young man had not done so, for she was very pretty, and of course, so bright that she must be noticed.

Fritz went stalking with Albert, riding with us both, and picnics with the family.

It was all very pleasant.

I was amused by my gillie, John Brown—such an honest, outspoken man! “So he's to have yon lass,” he said to me.

I was rather taken aback and I said, “Well, Brown, we hope it will turn out something like that.”

Albert thought they were too familiar, these gillies. My special favorites were Grant and Brown. I liked their honesty. “They are not accustomed to royalty,” I said, “and even if they were they could not pretend, even to us.”

Vicky, of course, enjoyed being the center of the romance. She knew what it was all about and behaved in a rather coquettish manner, sometimes being quite affectionate to Fritz and at others indifferent.

I knew what was coming when Fritz asked if he could come to see me. I immediately granted the interview, and he told me how happy he was to be with us and what a wonderful visit this had been. He admired Albert and me more than any people he knew, and he loved our daughter. Would we allow him to make a formal proposal for Vicky's hand?

I told him that it was what Albert and I had hoped for.

He was delighted. He was such a dear boy—though he was not such a boy really. He must have been about twenty-six then—so much older than Vicky, but not too old; and Vicky would never have lived happily with a very young man. She needed someone older, someone experienced; otherwise she would have been managing everything.

I told Albert what had happened.

I think he was a little upset. I could understand it was galling on occasions like this when people came to me, for in the ordinary way they would have gone to the father. But after all I was the Queen.

He was very emotional to think of his little Vicky marrying. I always felt a faint irritation about his obsession with Vicky and much as I tried to suppress it, I could not always do so.

“It is what you wanted,” I said sharply. “In fact it is what you arranged, and Fritz was your choice.”

“I know. I know. It has to happen. But how we shall miss her!”

“We have the others.”

He smiled sadly. “They are not Vicky.”

“Oh, I know how you dote on her. She can do no wrong in your eyes. I hope she will have as lenient a husband as she has had a father.”

Albert wore that look of tender exasperation that meant he was trying to reason with a wayward child. It often irritated me and especially when the subject of contention was Vicky.

“Vicky,” I said, “is talented and good-looking, but you do show that you care for her…more than for any of us.”

“Liebchen!”

“It is all very well to be shocked, to pretend… but it is obvious. Vicky this… and Vicky that…Vicky is always so good, so very good that Bertie has to be proved wrong to show how good Vicky is.”

“Victoria, what are you saying?”

I looked at him. My dear dear Albert. There were lines of pain on his beautiful face. He did work so hard, and all for the good of those about him … the country … the family … all of us. He suffered terribly from rheumatism. He was wearing a wig occasionally because his hair was thinning and his head became so cold. Its darkness made him look pale.

I was immediately contrite. I ran to him. “Albert, you must take care of yourself.”

“My dear child, you flit from one subject to another.”

“The impulse comes and I say what I think. I have always been like that.”

He stroked my hair. “It is not your fault. It is the way you were brought up… encouraged in tantrums…never corrected. My poor, poor child.”

I always hated those shafts at dear old Lehzen, but I was so worried about his frail looks that I let this one pass.

I had the fleeting thought that when Vicky was actually married, she would have to go to Prussia and that would leave the field clear for me.

It was an odd thought to have about one's own daughter. I suppose I was jealous of all the time Albert gave to her.

ALBERT ARRANGED A ride to Craig-na-Ban. The entire family—apart from the very young ones—were to go.

We set out accompanied by two gillies, John Grant and John Brown, and we decided on the point where the carriage should pick up those who did not want to ride back.

The outing was a great success. Fritz had his chance. He and Vicky rode side by side and sat a little apart from the rest of us when we picnicked.

I could see by their faces that Fritz had proposed and that Vicky had accepted.

When we returned to the castle Vicky came to our room as I knew she would; she ran to Albert and threw her arms about him. “Papa,” she said, “I am going to marry Fritz.” Then she turned to me.

“We are not surprised,” I said kissing her. “Your father thought it would be an excellent match.”

“But, Vicky, you would not have been forced or even pressed to take him … if it had not been your wish,” said Albert quickly.

“I know, dearest Papa,” said Vicky, smiling fondly at him.

“There will not be a wedding for some time,” said Albert.

“Oh no, Papa.” She looked at him in horror. “How shall I bear to leave you …” Then looking at me, “To leave you both.”

“It is in the nature of things,” I reminded her. “And it will not be for three years,” comforted Albert; and they exchanged a loving look.

“I wonder how I can leave you,” said Vicky blankly.

“We shall see each other,” said Albert. “We shall visit Prussia and you will come to England.”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Vicky. “We shall meet… often, shan't we?”

Albert nodded. He put his arms round us both. “I shall pray,” he said, “that you, my dearest Vicky, will be as happy as your mother and I have been.”

THERE SEEMED TO be spies everywhere. We had not wished the news of Vicky's engagement to be generally known for a while; she was so young and it would be some time before the marriage could take place. But almost immediately the Press were on to it.

“Who is this Frederick of Prussia?” asked the headlines. “Another little German princeling.”

The old story of Albert's family taking over England was repeated.

The Prussians retaliated. Was it such a good match? What dowry was being offered? Frederick was the future King of Prussia. The English seemed to have forgotten that. The Princess would have to come to Germany to marry.

I was very angry when I heard this. These Germans were indeed arrogant. There was a little storm with Albert for he always made excuses for them. I accused him of agreeing with everything they said, of arranging a match that would be prestigious to Germany.

Albert tried to calm me.

“It is the usual outcry of the Press,” he said. “They must have something controversial and sensational to sell their papers. Soon there will not be room enough in the same country for the Monarchy and The Times. The Monarchy wishes to do good; the Times wishes to make mischief. Do not let them irritate us, for that is their object. We can defeat it by ignoring it. In time everything must work out for the best—and, of course, Vicky will be married here.”

Of course he was right—as he always was.

THE WAR IN the Crimea was drawing to an end and I wanted to institute a medal, which would be the highest order possible and which could be conferred on all those, military, naval and others, who had performed, in the presence of an enemy, some outstanding act of bravery and devotion to their country.

This was to be called the Victoria Cross and it was to take the form of a Maltese cross and to be made of bronze. The royal crown formed the center, mounted by a lion; about the crown was a scroll on which were the words for valor. We had at first thought that the words should be for the brave, but that seemed to suggest that all of those who had not received the cross were not brave. for valor seemed more to the point; the ribbon was blue for the navy and red for the army; and branches of laurel decorated the clasp, while the cross was supported from inside by the initial V.

If a man received the Victoria Cross and performed a further act of bravery worthy of it, he should have a bar across the ribbon; and in the case of non-commissioned officers and men there was to be a pension of ten pounds a year, and an extra five for a bar.

I had the pleasure of meeting that very wonderful woman Miss Florence Nightingale who had done such excellent work by actually going out to the battlefields with her nurses.

When she was back in England I invited her to the Palace to dine with me. I was so surprised and so moved to meet her; she was quite attractive, gentle, and ladylike…a delightful and amazing woman.

I told her how I envied her because she had done so much for our men; and that I had thought of her often during the darkest days, walking along the corridors of the hospital with her lamp—an inspiration to us all.

Over dinner she told me what life in the Crimea had been like and her stories were both heart-breaking and heart-warming.

I said to Albert afterward that meeting people like Miss Nightingale and hearing of our brave soldiers and nurses restored my faith in the world and made me forget for a while all those horrible people who were trying to make trouble.

And finally the wretched war was over. How I rejoiced. Albert and I discussed the terms of peace, and Albert said he was quite satisfied with them. The Black Sea was secure for a while; Russia was humiliated and Turkey was safe.

At home there was great rejoicing. How happy I was, standing on the balcony of Buckingham Palace acknowledging the cheers of the people. I went down to Spithead to review the fleet; and in Aldershot I rode past the troops and the soldiers cheered me with enthusiasm, taking off their helmets and waving them above their heads; and the dragoons lifted their sabres and waved them while everyone shouted, “God Save the Queen.”

I was delighted to have Bertie with me. It was amazing how good he was on occasions like this. It was only book learning that defeated him. He looked very fine on his horse and the people shouted, “Long Live the Prince of Wales,” which he acknowledged with a dignity that made me proud of him.

I told Albert about this afterward and he smiled and said, “Oh yes, Bertie is very good at receiving thanks for what he has not done.”

“They were applauding him because he is the heir to the throne.”

“Exactly,” said Albert. “All he has to do is be. That he does nothing does not matter in the least.”

“He is rather young as yet to have done anything.”

“Except work hard and prepare himself.”

I did not pursue the matter. I was too happy to want to indulge in a storm.

It was wonderful that the people liked Bertie and he enjoyed parading before them; and most glorious of all: The wretched war was over.

I HAD BEEN fortunate in escaping pregnancy for so long, but it could not continue. In the midst of all this excitement I discovered it had happened again!

Thanks to blessed chloroform, I did not regard the birth with such horror as I had done in the past; although of course there was the discomfort that could not be avoided.

And in due course I gave birth to my ninth child—a girl. I was very grateful for the blissful effects of the chloroform and I submitted to its administration with the utmost eagerness. Beatrice Mary Victoria Feodore was an April baby. Thank Heaven she was strong and healthy, unlike little Leopold who gave us such cause for anxiety. My conscience was eased by little Beatrice because I had had a nagging fear that my taking the chloroform might have had an effect on Leopold. The health of my little girl showed me clearly that this was not the case as I had enjoyed the same relief in giving birth to her…We had to choose with the utmost care those who would supply our baby's needs for we had had a terrible shock about a year after Leopold's birth to discover that his wet nurse Mary Brough had gone mad and murdered her six children. The idea of such a woman being in close contact with one of my children horrified me. I was thankful to Sir James Clark who had noticed that Mary Brough was a little strange after she had been with us for a while and had suggested a change. He had found a woman from Cowes so Mary Brough was not with Leopold for very long.

Such experiences made one very wary. However, Beatrice thrived and the whole family soon became devoted to Baby, as we called her.

In June of that year I presented the first of the Victoria Crosses. There was a review in Hyde Park which was very splendid and moving and during it I pinned a medal onto the breasts of sixty-two men who were considered worthy to receive it.

Albert had suggested that now that Vicky was growing up and soon to be married, she might dine with us. I did not really wish this because these were the occasions when Albert and I were alone, and I cherished them. Now they were to be shared with Vicky.

Albert paid great attention to her and I would find myself often outside the conversation—which was rather galling.

Vicky was quick-witted, and as she was as devoted to Albert as he to her—or almost—she made a great effort to say what he wished her to say, and I must admit she had the art of being controversial when that most amused him and acquiescent when that was the mood he sought. There was great rapport between them. They understood each other completely.

I loved my daughter; I was proud of her; but I did know that she was not the perfect being Albert believed her to be.

She was certainly vain; she loved admiration; she was willful; she had enjoyed scoring over Bertie. Well, I suppose she was human. I could have accepted that if Albert had not believed she was such a little paragon. I was surprised that he, who should be so clear-sighted in everything else, should be so blind about Vicky.

Vicky was coquettish, inclined to be flirtatious; and Albert saw none of this. I remembered one occasion when we were driving she let her handkerchief fall over the side of the carriage. It was clear to me that she wanted the equerries to vie with each other for the favor of bringing it back to her. Realizing this, I stopped the carriage and I told her to get out and pick it up herself. She looked at me shrewdly, understanding that I saw into her mind. Perhaps being of the same sex I was more aware of those little foibles than Albert was.

Time was passing. I was in a state of uncertainty. There were times when I dreaded losing Vicky. Sometimes she seemed so young, so vulnerable; and I thought of my child going into a strange country. The Prussians were not exactly a merry people. Indeed, they were very serious, very rigid in their ideas; and I felt uneasy about her. And yet, on the other hand, when she had gone, I should have Albert more to myself.

At dinner, I used to long for ten o'clock when Vicky would leave us and I should have the rare happiness of being alone with Albert.

Once in one of our storms Albert accused me of wanting to get rid of Vicky. I was horrified, and yet there was a glimmer of truth in it.

The time had come when the wedding dominated our thoughts. With the prospect, there was the humiliating necessity of getting agreement in Parliament for Vicky's grant. I always hated this haggling over money and dreaded it, but I must say that Palmerston was magnificent. He knew how to handle these matters and—in spite of my feelings in the past—we could not have had a better man at the head of affairs at this time.

“The way to do it, Ma'am,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “is to sound out the Opposition before taking the matter into the House. We get agreement before we put it up to the vote.”

How right he was! And there were only eighteen dissensions, which was really infinitesimal. Vicky was given a dowry of £80,000 and £8,000 a year, which seemed quite satisfactory.

Owing to the opposition of the uncles Albert had never been given the title due to him. Every time the subject had been raised there had been howls of protest. Those uncles had all been afraid that Albert would take precedence over them. But now they were dead.

Albert was very concerned that one day, when he and Bertie were in the public eye, Bertie would take precedence over him. It would be very disconcerting for a father to have to take second place to his son. Of course Bertie was the Prince of Wales and if I should die, he would be King and stand above all. And without hope of any title Albert would be of little importance.

I discussed the matter with Lord Palmerston, who suggested that we should get Parliament to agree that Albert should be given the title of Prince Consort.

As he could not be King—and I saw this—I would be content with that title for Albert, and I left it in the capable hands of Lord Palmerston.

My horror was great when, just as I had thought the matter was to be settled, Palmerston came to tell me that the Lord Chancellor had discovered a legal impediment and that there would have to be an Act of Parliament to create Albert Prince Consort.

I was furious. They seemed to delight in humiliating Albert. Everything he did for their good was forgotten; they only remembered that he was a poor German who had become rich because he was the husband of the Queen. I was determined, though, that he should have some title. He should not go unrecognized any longer. I declared I would create him Prince Consort by letters patent.

Lord Palmerston smiled approvingly and said, “Why not, Ma'am.”

And so, at last, after all these years, it was done.

A TERRIBLE DISASTER struck us. There was mutiny in India. I could not believe the horrific reports that kept coming in to me.

The Indians had arisen and were killing our people. Lord Palmerston came to see me. His calmness irritated me.

“Why? Why?” I demanded.

“It is difficult to say why, Ma'am. I would guess it has come about because of the rapid advances European civilization has been making, with the result that it is absorbing the national institutions of the country. Remember we have recently taken in the Punjab and Oude; and the Indians no doubt think that we intend to annex the whole of India, disregarding their old customs and faith. The Sepoys have been victorious under English command, and doubtless they think they can win battles on their own.”

“They must be subdued…at once.”

“As soon as possible, Your Majesty.”

I was haunted by the terrible things that were happening. Our people to be submitted to torture and death! It was unacceptable, I said to Palmerston. What was being done?

“Everything possible,” he replied.

“It is not enough,” I retorted.

“I want action.”

“It is fortunate for me that Your Majesty is not on the Opposition benches,” said Lord Palmerston.

He gave the impression of frivolity, but I knew he was very seriously concerned. It was just his manner. He could never show panic. He must face every situation with a calmness and glint of humor—though where the humor was in this appalling tragedy I failed to see.

I think what shocked me more than anything were the atrocities committed on women and children. I was haunted by horrific visions; I found sleep impossible. Whatever I turned to there was this terrible mutiny in India hanging over me like a black shadow.

The cause of the uprising was said to be that the Sepoys believed that cartridges were greased with the fat of beef or pork and thus rendered unclean for both Hindu and Mohammedan; they thought it was a plot to destroy their caste.

I did not entirely believe this and thought they might be in revolt against the rules laid down by the East India Company.

Of course we were stronger than they were and they could not stand out against us for long. Sir John Lawrence was magnificent and with the help of Brigadier Napier and General Roberts, the mutiny was subdued. The Sepoys were handled with a firm but not severe hand, and the Sikhs were only too pleased to take advantage of British rule. What was most important of all was the transference of the administration of India from the East India Company to the Crown.

Lord Canning was the Governor-General, and I let it be known that the Indian people were my subjects, and there was no hatred for a brown skin. The color of skin was immaterial to me. It was my greatest wish to see them happy, contented, and flourishing.

Such a disaster had its effect. Oddly enough, Lord Palmerston slipped from his pedestal. How fickle was the mob! The hero of yesterday was the villain of today. Had not I myself seen that clearly enough. Disraeli had been somewhat vociferous about the mutiny and said he had seen trouble coming and had warned of it, only to be ignored. A new hero perhaps? In any case, poor Pam was out of favor.

I had to admire him. He simply did not care. He was after all about seventy-five years of age.

“It is incredible,” said Albert. “A short time ago, he was said to be the great English statesman, the champion of liberty, and the man of the people. Now, without having changed in one respect, having the same virtues and faults that he always had and having succeeded in his policies, he is considered the head of a clique, the man of intrigue… past his work … In fact he is the target for hatred.”

It was true. But one could not hope for logic from the mob. Palmerston shrugged his shoulders. He laughed at the people and went on just as before, a decrepit old dandy in his brightly colored coat and trousers, his touched-up complexion and dyed whiskers.

I had to admire him, because I had come to realize that he was a brilliant statesman.