THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE CONSORT.
The news of the terrible mortality in the Portuguese royal family,
especially the death of the King, to whom the Prince was warmly
attached, had seriously affected his health, never strong, and for the
last few years gradually declining, with gastric attacks becoming more
frequent and fits of sleeplessness more confirmed. At the same time
the Prince's spirit was so unbroken, his power of work and even of
enjoyment so unshaken, while the patience and unselfishness which
treated his own bodily discomfort as a matter of little moment had
grown so much the habit of his mind, that naturally those nearest to
him failed in their very love to see the extent of the physical
mischief which was at work. Nevertheless there is abundant evidence
that the Queen was never without anxiety on her husband's account, and
Baron Stockmar expressed his apprehensions more than once.
Various causes of care troubled the Prince, among them the
indisposition contracted by the Princess Royal at the coronation of
her father-in-law, the King of Prussia, and the alarming illness at
Cannes of Sir Edward Bowater, who had been sent to the south of France
in charge of Prince Leopold. After a fortnight of sleeplessness,
rheumatic pains, loss, of appetite, and increasing weakness, the
Prince drove in close wet weather to inspect the building of the new
Military Academy at Sandhurst, and it is believed that he there
contracted the germs of fever. But he shot with the guests at the
Castle, walked with the Queen to Frogmore and inspected the mausoleum
there, and visited the Prince of Wales at Cambridge afterwards.
Then the affair of the _Trent_ suddenly demanded the Prince's
close attention and earnest efforts to prevent a threatened war
between England and America. In the course of the civil war raging
between the Northern and Southern states the English steamer
_Trent_ sailed with the English mails from Savannah to England,
having on board among the other passengers several American gentlemen,
notably Messrs. Mason and Slidell, who had run the blockade from
Charlestown to Cuba, and were proceeding to Europe as envoys sent by
the Confederates to the Courts of England and France. A federal vessel
fired on the English steamer, compelling her to stop, when the
American Captain Wilkes, at the head of a large body of marines,
demanded the surrender of Mason and Slidell, with their companions. In
the middle of the remonstrances of the English Government agent at the
insult to his flag and to the neutral port from which the ship had
sailed, the objects of the officer's search came forward and
surrendered themselves, thus delivering the English commander from his
difficulty.
But the feeling in England was very strong against the outrage which
had been committed, and it was only the most moderate of any political
party who were willing to believe--either that the American Government
might not be cognisant of the act done in its name, or that it might
be willing to atone by honourable means for a violation of
international law--enough to provoke the withdrawal of the English
ambassador from Washington, and a declaration of war between the two
countries.
Cabinet councils were summoned and a dispatch prepared. A draft of the
dispatch was forwarded to Windsor to be read by the Queen, when it
struck both her and, the Prince that it was less temperate and
conciliatory than it might have been, while still consistent with
perfect dignity. The Prince Consort's last public work for his Queen
and country was to amend this draft. He rose as usual at seven
o'clock, and faint and ill as he was, scarcely able to hold a pen,
drew out an improved version of the dispatch, which was highly
approved of by the Ministers and favourably received by the American
Government. As the world knows, the President, in the name of his
countrymen, declared that Captain Wilkes had acted without official
instructions, and ordered the release of the gentlemen who had been
taken prisoners.
In the meantime the shadows were darkening round the royal home which
had been so supremely blest. The Prince was worse. Still he walked out
on one of the terraces, and wrapped in a coat lined with fur he
witnessed a review of the Eton College volunteers, from which his
absence would have been remarked. The ill-omened chilly feeling
continued, but there were guests at the Castle and he appeared at
dinner. On Sunday, the 1st of December, the Prince walked out again on
the terrace and attended service in the chapel, insisting "on going
through all the kneeling," though very unwell.
Next morning something was said by the doctors of low fever. No wonder
the Queen was distressed after the recent calamity at Lisbon, but
concealing her feelings as such watchers must, she strove to soothe
and amuse her sick husband. The members of the household who had been
at Lisbon arrived with the particulars of the young King of Portugal's
death. After listening to them the Prince said "that it was well his
illness was not fever, as that, he felt sure, would be fatal to him."
One of the guests at the Castle was Lord Palmerston. In spite of his
natural buoyancy of temperament he became so much alarmed by what he
heard that he suggested another physician should be called in. Her
Majesty had not been prepared for this step, and when she appealed to
the two medical men in attendance, Sir James Clark and Dr. Jenner,
they comforted her by their opinion that there was nothing to alarm
her, and that the low fever which had been feared might pass off.
The next few days were spent in alternations of hope and fear. Which
of us is so happy as not to have known that desperate faith when to
doubt would be to despair? The Prince liked to be read to, but "no
book suited him." The readers were the Queen and Princess Alice, who
sought to cheat themselves by substituting Trollope for George Eliot,
and Lever for Trollop, and by speaking confidently of trying Sir
Walter Scott "to-morrow." To-morrow brought no improvement. Sir James
Clark, though still sanguine, began to drop words which were not
without their significance. He _hoped_ there would be no fever,
which all dreaded, with too sure a presentiment of what would follow.
The Prince _must_ eat, and he was to be told so; his illness was
likely to be tedious, and completely starving himself would not do.
As if the whole atmosphere was heavy with sorrow, and all the tidings
which came from the world without in these days only reflected the
ache of the hearts within, the news came from Calcutta of the death of
the wife of the Governor-General, beautiful, gifted Lady Canning, so
long the Queen's lady-in-waiting and close companion.
The doctors began to sit up with the patient, another stage of the
terrible illness. When her Majesty came to the Prince at eight in the
morning she found him sitting up in his dressing-room, and was struck
with "a strange wild look" which he had, while he talked in a baffled
way, unlike him, of what his illness could be, and how long it might
last. But that day there was a rally; he ate and slept a little,
rested, and liked to be read to by Princess Alice. He was quite
himself again when the Queen came in with his little pet child,
Princess Beatrice, in whom he had taken such delight. He kissed her,
held her hand, laughed at her new French verses, and "dozed off," as
if he only wanted sleep to restore him.
The doctor in attendance was anxious that the Prince should undress
and go to bed, but this he would not do. Throughout the attack, with
his old habit of not giving way and of mastering his bodily feelings
by sheer force of will, he had resisted yielding to his weakness and
submitting to the ordinary routine of a sick-room. After it was too
late the doctor's compliance with the Prince's wishes in this respect
was viewed by the public as rash and unwise. On this particular
occasion he walked to his dressing-room and lay down there, saying he
would have a good night--an expectation doomed to disappointment. His
restlessness not only kept him from sleeping, it caused him to change
his room more than once during the night.
The morning found him up and seated in his sitting-room as before. But
he was worse, and talked with a certain incoherence when he told the
Queen that he had been listening to the little birds, and they had
reminded him of those he had heard at the Rosenau in his childhood.
She felt a quick recoil, and when the doctors showed that their
favourable opinion of the day before had undergone a change, she went
to her room and it seemed to her as if her heart would break.
Fever had now declared itself unmistakably. The fact was gently broken
to the Queen, and she was warned that the illness must run its course,
while the knowledge of its nature was to be kept from the Prince. She
called to mind every thought that could give her courage; and Princess
Alice, her father's true daughter, capable of rising to heights of
duty and tenderness the moment she was put to the test, grew brave in
her loving demotion, and already afforded the support which the
husband and father was no longer fit to give.
Happily for her Majesty, the daily duties of her position as a
sovereign, which she could not lay aside though they were no longer
shared by the friend of more than twenty years, still occupied a
considerable portion of her time. But she wrote in her diary that in
fulfilling her task she seemed to live "in a dreadful dream." Do we
not also know, many of us, this cruel double life in which the
obligations which belong to our circumstances and to old habits
contend for mastery with new misery? When she was not thus engaged the
Queen sat by her husband, weeping when she could do so unseen.
On the 8th of December the Prince appeared to be going on well, though
the desire for change continued strong in him, and he was removed at
his earnest request to larger and brighter rooms, adjoining those he
had hitherto occupied. According to Lady Bloomfield one of the rooms--
certainly called "the Kings' rooms"--into which the Prince was
carried, was that in which both William IV. and George IV. had died;
and the fact was remembered and referred to by the new tenant, when he
was placed where he too was destined to die. The Queen had only once
slept there, when her own rooms were being painted, and as it
happened, that single occasion was on the night before the day when
the Duchess of Kent had her last fatal seizure.
The Prince was pleased with the greater space and light and with the
winter sunshine. For the first time since his illness he asked for
music, "a fine chorale." A piano was brought into the room, and his
daughter played two hymns--one of them "_Ein fester burg ist unser
Gott_" to which he listened with tears in his eyes.
It was Sunday, and Charles Kingsley preached at the Castle. The Queen
was present, but she noted sadly that she did not hear a word.
The serious illness of the Prince Consort had become known and excited
much alarm, especially among the Cabinet Ministers. They united in
urging that fresh medical aid should be procured. Dr. Watson and Sir
Henry Holland were called in. These gentlemen concurred with the other
doctors in their opinion of the case as grave, but not presenting any
very bad symptoms. The increased tendency of the Prince to wander in
his mind was only what was to be expected. The listlessness and
irritability characteristic of the disease gave way to pleasure at
seeing the Queen and having her with him, to tender caresses, such as
stroking her cheek, and simple loving words, fondly cherished,
"_Liebes frauchen, gutes weibchen_." [Footnote: "Dear little
wife, good little wife."] The changes rung on the relationship which
had been so perfect and so satisfying.
On the 10th and the 11th the Prince was considered better. He was
wheeled into the next room, when he called attention to a picture of
the Madonna of which he was fond; he said that the sight of it helped
him through half the day.
On the evening of the 11th a slight change in the Prince's breathing
was perceptible and occasioned uneasiness. On the 12th it was too
evident the fever and shortness of breathing had increased, and on the
13th Dr. Jenner had to tell the Queen the symptom was serious, and
that there was a probability of congestion of the lungs. When the sick
man was wheeled into the next room as before, he failed to notice his
favourite picture, and in place of asking to be placed with his back
to the light as he had hitherto done, sat with his hands clasped,
gazing abstractedly out of the window. That night the Prince of Wales
was summoned from Cambridge, it was said by his sister, Princess
Alice, who took upon her the responsibility of bringing him to
Windsor.
All through the night at hourly intervals reports were brought to the
Queen that the Prince was doing well. At six in the morning Mr. Brown,
the Windsor medical attendant of the family for upwards of twenty
years, who was believed to be well acquainted with the Prince's
constitution, came to the Queen with the glad tidings "that he had no
hesitation in saying he thought the Prince was much better, and that
there was ground to hope the crisis was over." There are few
experiences more piteous than that last flash of life in the socket
which throws a parting gleam of hope on the approaching darkness of
death.
When the Queen entered the sick-room at seven o'clock on a fine winter
morning, she was struck with the unearthly beauty--another not
unfamiliar sign--of the face on which the rising sun shone. The eyes
unusually bright, gazing as it were on an unseen object, took no
notice of her entrance.
The doctors allowed they were "very, very anxious," but still they
would not give up hope. The Queen asked if she might go out for a
breath of air, and received an answer with a reservation--"Yes, just
close by, for a quarter of an hour." She walked on one of the terraces
with Princess Alice, but they heard a military band playing in the
distance, and at that sound, recalling such different scenes, the poor
Queen burst into tears, and returned to the Castle.
Sir James Clark said he had seen much worse cases from which there had
been recovery. But both the Queen and the doctors remarked the dusky
hue stealing over the hands and face, and there were acts which looked
like strange involuntary preparations for departure--folding of the
arms, arranging of the hair, &c.
The Queen was in great distress, and remained constantly either in the
sick-room or in the apartment next to it, where the doctors tried
still to speak words of hope to her, but could no longer conceal that
the life which was as her life was ebbing away. In the course of the
afternoon, when the Queen went up to the Prince, after he had been
wheeled into the middle of the room, he said the last loving words,
"_Gutes frauchen_," [Footnote: "Good little wife."] kissed her,
and with a little moaning sigh laid his head on her shoulder. He dozed
and wandered, speaking French sometimes. All his children who were in
the country came into the room, and one after the other took his hand,
Prince Arthur kissing it as he did so, but the Prince made no sign of
knowing them. He roused himself and asked for his private secretary,
but again slept. Three of the gentlemen of the household, who had been
much about the Prince's person, came up to him and kissed his hand
without attracting his attention. All of them were overcome; only she
who sat in her place by his side was quiet and still.
So long as enough air passed through the labouring lungs, the doctors
would not relinquish the last grain of hope. Even when the Queen found
the Prince bathed in the death-sweat, so near do life and death still
run, that the attendant medical men ventured to say it might be an
effort of nature to throw off the fever.
The Queen bent over the Prince and whispered "_Es ist kleins
Frauchen_." He recognised the voice and answered by bowing his head
and kissing her. He was quite calm, only drowsy, and not caring to be
disturbed, as he had been wont to be when weary and ill.
The Queen had gone into the next room to weep there when Sir James
Clark sent Princess Alice to bring her back. The end had come. With
his wife kneeling by his side and holding his hand, his children
kneeling around, the Queen's nephew, Prince Ernest Leiningen, the
gentlemen of the Prince's suite, General Bruce, General Grey, and Sir
Charles Phipps, the Dean of Windsor, and the Prince's favourite German
valet, Lohlein, reverently watching the scene, the true husband and
tender father, the wise prince and liberal-hearted statesman, the
noble Christian man, gently breathed his last. It was a quarter to
eleven o'clock on the 14th of December, 1861. He was aged forty-two
years.