CHILDHOOD
I
The child who, in these not very impressive circumstances, appeared in
the world, received but scant attention. There was small reason to
foresee her destiny. The Duchess of Clarence, two months before, had
given birth to a daughter; this infant, indeed, had died almost
immediately; but it seemed highly probable that the Duchess would again
become a mother; and so it actually fell out. More than this, the
Duchess of Kent was young, and the Duke was strong; there was every
likelihood that before long a brother would follow, to snatch her faint
chance of the succession from the little princess.
Nevertheless, the Duke had other views: there were prophecies.... At
any rate, he would christen the child Elizabeth, a name of happy
augury. In this, however, he reckoned without the Regent, who, seeing
a chance of annoying his brother, suddenly announced that he himself
would be present at the baptism, and signified at the same time that
one of the godfathers was to be the Emperor Alexander of Russia. And
so when the ceremony took place, and the Archbishop of Canterbury asked
by what name he was to baptise the child, the Regent replied
'Alexandrina.' At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another name
might be {19} added. 'Certainly,' said the Regent; 'Georgina?' 'Or
Elizabeth?' said the Duke. There was a pause, during which the
Archbishop, with the baby in his lawn sleeves, looked with some
uneasiness from one Prince to the other. 'Very well, then,' said the
Regent at last, 'call her after her mother. But Alexandrina must come
first.' Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened
Alexandrina Victoria.[1]
[Illustration: PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1836. _From the Portrait by F.
Winterhalter._]
The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meagre grant of the
Commons had by no means put an end to his financial distresses. It was
to be feared that his services were not appreciated by the nation. His
debts continued to grow. For many years he had lived upon L7000 a
year; but now his expenses were exactly doubled; he could make no
further reductions; as it was, there was not a single servant in his
establishment who was idle for a moment from morning to night. He
poured out his griefs in a long letter to Robert Owen, whose sympathy
had the great merit of being practical. 'I now candidly state,' he
wrote, 'that, after viewing the subject in every possible way, I am
satisfied that, to continue to live in England, even in the quiet way
in which we are going on, _without splendour, and without show, nothing
short of doubling the seven thousand pounds will do_, REDUCTION BEING
IMPOSSIBLE.' It was clear that he would be obliged to sell his house
for L51,300: if that failed, he would go and live on the Continent.
'If my services are useful to my country, it surely becomes _those who
have the power_ to support me in substantiating those just claims I
have for the very extensive losses and privations I have experienced,
during the very long period of my professional servitude in the
Colonies; and if this is not {20} attainable, _it is a clear proof to
me that they are not appreciated_; and under that impression I shall
not scruple, in due time, to resume my retirement abroad, when the
Duchess and myself shall have fulfilled our duties in establishing the
_English_ birth of my child, and giving it maternal nutriment on the
soil of Old England; and which we shall certainly repeat, if Providence
destines to give us any further increase of family.'[2]
In the meantime, he decided to spend the winter at Sidmouth, 'in
order,' he told Owen, 'that the Duchess may have the benefit of tepid
sea bathing, and our infant that of sea air, on the fine coast of
Devonshire, during the months of the year that are so odious in
London.'[3] In December the move was made. With the new year, the
Duke remembered another prophecy. In 1820, a fortune-teller had told
him, two members of the Royal Family would die. Who would they be? He
speculated on the various possibilities: the King, it was plain, could
not live much longer; and the Duchess of York had been attacked by a
mortal disease. Probably it would be the King and the Duchess of York;
or perhaps the King and the Duke of York; or the King and the Regent.
He himself was one of the healthiest men in England.[4] 'My brothers,'
he declared, 'are not so strong as I am; I have lived a regular life.
I shall outlive them all. The crown will come to me and my
children.'[5] He went out for a walk, and got his feet wet. On coming
home, he neglected to change his stockings. He caught cold,
inflammation of the lungs set in, and on January 22 he was a dying man.
By a curious chance, young Dr. Stockmar was staying in the house at the
time; two {21} years before, he had stood by the death-bed of the
Princess Charlotte; and now he was watching the Duke of Kent in his
agony. On Stockmar's advice, a will was hastily prepared. The Duke's
earthly possessions were of a negative character; but it was important
that the guardianship of the unwitting child, whose fortunes were now
so strangely changing, should be assured to the Duchess. The Duke was
just able to understand the document, and to append his signature.
Having inquired whether his writing was perfectly clear, he became
unconscious, and breathed his last on the following morning.[6] Six
days later came the fulfilment of the second half of the gipsy's
prophecy. The long, unhappy, and inglorious life of George the Third
of England was ended.
II
Such was the confusion of affairs at Sidmouth, that the Duchess found
herself without the means of returning to London. Prince Leopold
hurried down, and himself conducted his sister and her family, by slow
and bitter stages, to Kensington. The widowed lady, in her voluminous
blacks, needed all her equanimity to support her. Her prospects were
more dubious than ever. She had L6000 a year of her own; but her
husband's debts loomed before her like a mountain. Soon she learnt
that the Duchess of Clarence was once more expecting a child. What had
she to look forward to in England? Why should she remain in a foreign
country, among strangers, whose language she could not speak, whose
customs she could not understand? Surely it would be best to {22}
return to Amorbach, and there, among her own people, bring up her
daughters in economical obscurity. But she was an inveterate optimist;
she had spent her life in struggles, and would not be daunted now. And
besides, she adored her baby. 'C'est mon bonheur, mes delices, mon
existence,' she declared; the darling should be brought up as an
English princess, whatever lot awaited her. Prince Leopold came
forward nobly with an offer of an additional L3000 a year; and the
Duchess remained at Kensington.[7]
The child herself was extremely fat, and bore a remarkable resemblance
to her grandfather. 'C'est l'image du feu Roi!' exclaimed the Duchess.
'C'est le Roi Georges en jupons,' echoed the surrounding ladies, as the
little creature waddled with difficulty from one to the other.[8]
Before long, the world began to be slightly interested in the nursery
at Kensington. When, early in 1821, the Duchess of Clarence's second
child, the Princess Elizabeth, died within three months of its birth,
the interest increased. Great forces and fierce anatgonisms seemed to
be moving, obscurely, about the royal cradle. It was a time of faction
and anger, of violent repression and profound discontent. A powerful
movement, which had for long been checked by adverse circumstances, was
now spreading throughout the country. New passions, new desires, were
abroad; or rather, old passions and old desires, reincarnated with a
new potency: love of freedom, hatred of injustice, hope for the future
of man. The mighty still sat proudly in their seats, dispensing their
ancient tyranny; but a storm was gathering out of the darkness, and
already there was {23} lightning in the sky. But the vastest forces
must needs operate through frail human instruments; and it seemed for
many years as if the great cause of English liberalism hung upon the
life of the little girl at Kensington. She alone stood between the
country and her terrible uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, the hideous
embodiment of reaction. Inevitably, the Duchess of Kent threw in her
lot with her husband's party; Whig leaders, Radical agitators, rallied
round her; she was intimate with the bold Lord Durham, she was on
friendly terms with the redoubtable O'Connell himself. She received
Wilberforce--though, to be sure, she did not ask him to sit down.[9]
She declared in public that she put her faith in 'the liberties of the
People.'[10] It was certain that the young Princess would be brought
up in the way that she should go; yet there, close behind the throne,
waiting, sinister, was the Duke of Cumberland. Brougham, looking
forward into the future in his scurrilous fashion, hinted at dreadful
possibilities. 'I never prayed so heartily for a Prince before,' he
wrote, on hearing that George IV had been attacked by illness. 'If he
had gone, all the troubles of these villains [the Tory Ministers] went
with him, and they had Fred. I [the Duke of York] their own man for his
life.... He (Fred. I) won't live long either; that Prince of
Blackguards, "Brother William," is as bad a life, so we come in the
course of nature to be _assassinated_ by King Ernest I or Regent Ernest
[the Duke of Cumberland].'[11] Such thoughts were not peculiar to
Brougham; in the seething state of public feeling, they constantly
leapt to the surface; and, even so late as the year previous to her
accession, the Radical newspapers were full of {24} suggestions that
the Princess Victoria was in danger from the machinations of her wicked
uncle.[12]
But no echo of these conflicts and forebodings reached the little
Drina--for so she was called in the family circle--as she played with
her dolls, or scampered down the passages, or rode on the donkey her
uncle York had given her[13] along the avenues of Kensington Gardens.
The fair-haired, blue-eyed child was idolised by her nurses, and her
mother's ladies, and her sister Feodora; and for a few years there was
a danger, in spite of her mother's strictness, of her being spoilt.
From time to time, she would fly into a violent passion, stamp her
little foot, and set everyone at defiance; whatever they might say, she
would not learn her letters--no, she _would not_; afterwards, she was
very sorry, and burst into tears; but her letters remained unlearnt.
When she was five years old, however, a change came, with the
appearance of Fraeulein Lehzen. This lady, who was the daughter of a
Hanoverian clergyman and had previously been the Princess Feodora's
governess, soon succeeded in instilling a new spirit into her charge.
At first, indeed, she was appalled by the little Princess's outbursts
of temper; never in her life, she declared, had she seen such a
passionate and naughty child. Then she observed something else; the
child was extraordinarily truthful; whatever punishment might follow,
she never told a lie.[14] Firm, very firm, the new governess yet had
the sense to see that all the firmness in the world would be useless,
unless she could win her way into little Drina's heart. She did so,
and there were no more difficulties. Drina learnt her letters like an
angel; and she learnt other things as well. The {25} Baroness de Spaeth
taught her how to make little cardboard boxes and decorate them with
tinsel and painted flowers;[15] her mother taught her religion.
Sitting in the pew every Sunday morning, the child of six was seen
listening in rapt attention to the clergyman's endless sermon, for she
was to be examined upon it in the afternoon.[16] The Duchess was
determined that her daughter, from the earliest possible moment, should
be prepared for her high station in a way that would commend itself to
the most respectable; her good, plain, thrifty German mind recoiled
with horror and amazement from the shameless junketings at Carlton
House; Drina should never be allowed to forget for a moment the virtues
of simplicity, regularity, propriety, and devotion. The little girl,
however, was really in small need of such lessons, for she was
naturally simple and orderly, she was pious without difficulty, and her
sense of propriety was keen. She understood very well the niceties of
her own position. When, a child of six, Lady Jane Ellice was taken by
her grandmother to Kensington Palace, she was put to play with the
Princess Victoria, who was the same age as herself. The young visitor,
ignorant of etiquette, began to make free with the toys on the floor,
in a way which was a little too familiar; but 'You must not touch
those,' she was quickly told, 'they are mine; and I may call you Jane,
but you must not call me Victoria.'[17] The Princess's most constant
playmate was Victoire, the daughter of Sir John Conroy, the Duchess's
major-domo. The two girls were very fond of one another; they would
walk hand in hand together in Kensington Gardens. But little Drina was
perfectly aware for which of them {26} it was that they were followed,
at a respectful distance, by a gigantic scarlet flunkey.[18]
Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Lehzen, and she loved her
dear Feodora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Spaeth. And
her dear Mamma ... of course, she loved her too; it was her duty; and
yet--she could not tell why it was--she was always happier when she was
staying with her Uncle Leopold at Claremont. There old Mrs. Louis,
who, years ago, had waited on her cousin Charlotte, petted her to her
heart's content; and her uncle himself was wonderfully kind to her,
talking to her seriously and gently, almost as if she were a grown-up
person. She and Feodora invariably wept when the too short visit was
over, and they were obliged to return to the dutiful monotony and the
affectionate supervision of Kensington. But sometimes when her mother
had to stay at home, she was allowed to go out driving all alone with
her dear Feodora and her dear Lehzen, and she could talk and look as
she liked, and it was very delightful.[19]
The visits to Claremont were frequent enough; but one day, on a special
occasion, she paid one of a rarer and more exciting kind. When she was
seven years old, she and her mother and sister were asked by the King
to go down to Windsor. George IV, who had transferred his fraternal
ill-temper to his sister-in-law and her family, had at last grown tired
of sulking, and decided to be agreeable. The old rip, bewigged and
gouty, ornate and enormous, with his jewelled mistress by his side and
his flaunting court about him, received the tiny creature who was one
day to hold in those same halls a very different state. 'Give me your
little {27} paw,' he said; and two ages touched. Next morning, driving
in his phaeton with the Duchess of Gloucester, he met the Duchess of
Kent and her child in the Park. 'Pop her in,' were his orders, which,
to the terror of the mother and the delight of the daughter, were
immediately obeyed. Off they dashed to Virginia Water, where there was
a great barge, full of lords and ladies fishing, and another barge with
a band; and the King ogled Feodora, and praised her manners, and then
turned to his own small niece. 'What is your favourite tune? The band
shall play it.' 'God save the King, sir,' was the instant answer. The
Princess's reply has been praised as an early example of a tact which
was afterwards famous. But she was a very truthful child, and perhaps
it was her genuine opinion.[20]
III
In 1827 the Duke of York, who had found some consolation for the loss
of his wife in the sympathy of the Duchess of Rutland, died, leaving
behind him the unfinished immensity of Stafford House and L200,000
worth of debts. Three years later George IV also disappeared, and the
Duke of Clarence reigned in his stead. The new Queen, it was now
clear, would in all probability never again be a mother; the Princess
Victoria, therefore, was recognised by Parliament as heir-presumptive;
and the Duchess of Kent, whose annuity had been doubled five years
previously, was now given an additional L10,000 for the maintenance of
the Princess, and was appointed regent, in case of the death of the
King before the majority of her daughter. At the same time a great
convulsion took {28} place in the constitution of the State. The power
of the Tories, who had dominated England for more than forty years,
suddenly began to crumble. In the tremendous struggle that followed,
it seemed for a moment as if the tradition of generations might be
snapped, as if the blind tenacity of the reactionaries and the
determined fury of their enemies could have no other issue than
revolution. But the forces of compromise triumphed: the Reform Bill
was passed. The centre of gravity in the constitution was shifted
towards the middle classes; the Whigs came into power; and the
complexion of the Government assumed a Liberal tinge. One of the
results of this new state of affairs was a change in the position of
the Duchess of Kent and her daughter. From being the _protegees_ of an
opposition clique, they became assets of the official majority of the
nation. The Princess Victoria was henceforward the living symbol of
the victory of the middle classes.
The Duke of Cumberland, on the other hand, suffered a corresponding
eclipse: his claws had been pared by the Reform Act. He grew
insignificant and almost harmless, though his ugliness remained; he was
the wicked uncle still--but only of a story.
The Duchess's own liberalism was not very profound. She followed
naturally in the footsteps of her husband, repeating with conviction
the catchwords of her husband's clever friends and the generalisations
of her clever brother Leopold. She herself had no pretensions to
cleverness; she did not understand very much about the Poor Law and the
Slave Trade and Political Economy; but she hoped that she did her duty;
and she hoped--she ardently hoped--that the same might be said of
Victoria. Her educational conceptions were {29} those of Dr. Arnold,
whose views were just then beginning to permeate society. Dr. Arnold's
object was, first and foremost, to make his pupils 'in the highest and
truest sense of the words, Christian gentlemen'; intellectual
refinements might follow. The Duchess felt convinced that it was her
supreme duty in life to make quite sure that her daughter should grow
up into a Christian queen. To this task she bent all her energies;
and, as the child developed, she flattered herself that her efforts
were not unsuccessful. When the Princess was eleven, she desired the
Bishops of London and Lincoln to submit her daughter to an examination,
and report upon the progress that had been made. 'I feel the time to
be now come,' the Duchess explained, in a letter obviously drawn up by
her own hand, 'that what has been done should be put to some test, that
if anything has been done in error of judgment it may be corrected, and
that the plan for the future should be open to consideration and
revision.... I attend almost always myself every lesson, or a part;
and as the lady about the Princess is a competent person, she assists
Her in preparing Her lessons, for the various masters, as I resolved to
act in that manner so as to be Her governess myself.... When she was
at a proper age she commenced attending Divine Service regularly with
me, and I have every feeling that she has religion at Her heart, that
she is morally impressed with it to that degree, that she is less
liable to error by its application to her feelings as a Child capable
of reflection.' 'The general bent of Her character,' added the
Duchess, 'is strength of intellect, capable of receiving with ease,
information, and with a peculiar readiness in coming to a very just and
benignant decision on any point Her opinion is asked on. Her adherence
to {30} truth is of so marked a character that I feel no apprehension
of that Bulwark being broken down by any circumstances.' The Bishops
attended at the Palace, and the result of their examination was all
that could be wished. 'In answering a great variety of questions
proposed to her,' they reported, 'the Princess displayed an accurate
knowledge of the most important features of Scripture History, and of
the leading truths and precepts of the Christian Religion as taught by
the Church of England, as well as an acquaintance with the Chronology
and principal facts of English History remarkable in so young a person.
To questions in Geography, the use of the Globes, Arithmetic, and Latin
Grammar, the answers which the Princess returned were equally
satisfactory.' They did not believe that the Duchess's plan of
education was susceptible of any improvement; and the Archbishop of
Canterbury, who was also consulted, came to the same gratifying
conclusion.[21]
One important step, however, remained to be taken. So far, as the
Duchess explained to the Bishops, the Princess had been kept in
ignorance of the station that she was likely to fill. 'She is aware of
its duties, and that a Sovereign should live for others; so that when
Her innocent mind receives the impression of Her future fate, she
receives it with a mind formed to be sensible of what is to be expected
from Her, and it is to be hoped, she will be too well grounded in Her
principles to be dazzled with the station she is to look to.'[22] In
the following year it was decided that she should be enlightened on
this point. The well-known scene followed: the history lesson, the
genealogical table of the Kings of England slipped beforehand by the
{31} governess into the book, the Princess's surprise, her inquiries,
her final realisation of the facts. When the child at last understood,
she was silent for a moment, and then she spoke: 'I will be good,' she
said. The words were something more than a conventional protestation,
something more than the expression of a superimposed desire; they were,
in their limitation and their intensity, their egotism and their
humility, an instinctive summary of the dominating qualities of a life.
'I cried much on learning it,' her Majesty noted long afterwards. No
doubt, while the others were present, even her dear Lehzen, the little
girl kept up her self-command; and then crept away somewhere to ease
her heart of an inward, unfamiliar agitation, with a handkerchief, out
of her mother's sight.[23]
But her mother's sight was by no means an easy thing to escape.
Morning and evening, day and night, there was no relaxation of the
maternal vigilance. The child grew into the girl, the girl into the
young woman; but still she slept in her mother's bedroom; still she had
no place allowed her where she might sit or work by herself.[24] An
extraordinary watchfulness surrounded her every step: up to the day of
her accession, she never went downstairs without someone beside her
holding her hand.[25] Plainness and regularity ruled the household.
The hours, the days, the years passed slowly and methodically by. The
dolls--the innumerable dolls, each one so neatly dressed, each one with
its name so punctiliously entered in the catalogue--were laid aside,
and a little music and a little dancing took their place. Taglioni
came, to give grace and dignity to the figure,[26] and Lablache, to
train the piping treble upon his own {32} rich bass. The Dean of
Chester, the official preceptor, continued his endless instruction in
Scripture history, while the Duchess of Northumberland, the official
governess, presided over every lesson with becoming solemnity. Without
doubt, the Princess's main achievement during her schooldays was
linguistic. German was naturally the first language with which she was
familiar; but English and French quickly followed; and she became
virtually trilingual, though her mastery of English grammar remained
incomplete. At the same time, she acquired a working knowledge of
Italian and some smattering of Latin. Nevertheless, she did not read
very much. It was not an occupation that she cared for; partly,
perhaps, because the books that were given her were all either sermons,
which were very dull, or poetry, which was incomprehensible. Novels
were strictly forbidden. Lord Durham persuaded her mother to get her
some of Miss Martineau's tales, illustrating the truths of Political
Economy, and they delighted her; but it is to be feared that it was the
unaccustomed pleasure of the story that filled her mind, and that she
never really mastered the theory of exchanges or the nature of rent.[27]
It was her misfortune that the mental atmosphere which surrounded her
during these years of adolescence was almost entirely feminine. No
father, no brother, was there to break in upon the gentle monotony of
the daily round with impetuosity, with rudeness, with careless laughter
and wafts of freedom from the outside world. The Princess was never
called by a voice that was loud and growling; never felt, as a matter
of course, a hard rough cheek on her own soft one; never climbed a wall
with a boy. The visits to Claremont--delicious {33} little escapes
into male society--came to an end when she was eleven years old and
Prince Leopold left England to be King of the Belgians. She loved him
still; he was still 'il mio secondo padre--or, rather, _solo_ padre,
for he is indeed like my real father, as I have none'; but his
fatherliness now came to her dimly and indirectly, through the cold
channel of correspondence. Henceforward female duty, female elegance,
female enthusiasm, hemmed her completely in; and her spirit, amid the
enclosing folds, was hardly reached by those two great influences,
without which no growing life can truly prosper--humour and
imagination. The Baroness Lehzen--for she had been raised to that rank
in the Hanoverian nobility by George IV before he died--was the real
centre of the Princess's world. When Feodora married, when uncle
Leopold went to Belgium, the Baroness was left without a competitor.
The Princess gave her mother her dutiful regards; but Lehzen had her
heart. The voluble, shrewd daughter of the pastor in Hanover,
lavishing her devotion on her royal charge, had reaped her reward in an
unbounded confidence and a passionate adoration. The girl would have
gone through fire for her '_precious_ Lehzen,' the 'best and truest
friend,' she declared, that she had had since her birth. Her journal,
begun when she was thirteen, where she registered day by day the small
succession of her doings and her sentiments, bears on every page of it
the traces of the Baroness and her circumambient influence. The young
creature that one sees there, self-depicted in ingenuous clarity, with
her sincerity, her simplicity, her quick affections and pious
resolutions, might almost have been the daughter of a German pastor
herself. Her enjoyments, her admirations, her _engouements_ were of
the kind that {34} clothed themselves naturally in underlinings and
exclamation marks. 'It was a _delightful_ ride. We cantered a good
deal. SWEET LITTLE ROSY went BEAUTIFULLY!! We came home at a 1/4 past
1.... At 20 minutes to 7 we went out to the Opera.... Rubini came on
and sang a song out of "Anna Boulena" _quite beautifully_. We came
home at 1/2 past 11.'[28] In her comments on her readings, the mind of
the Baroness is clearly revealed. One day, by some mistake, she was
allowed to take up a volume of memoirs by Fanny Kemble. 'It is
certainly very pertly and oddly written. One would imagine by the
style that the authoress must be very pert, and not well bred; for
there are so many vulgar expressions in it. It is a great pity that a
person endowed with so much talent, as Mrs. Butler really is, should
turn it to so little account and publish a book which is so full of
trash and nonsense which can only do her harm. I stayed up till 20
minutes past 9.' Madame de Sevigne's letters, which the Baroness read
aloud, met with more approval. 'How truly elegant and natural her
style is! It is so full of _naivete_, cleverness, and grace.' But her
highest admiration was reserved for the Bishop of Chester's 'Exposition
of the Gospel of St. Matthew.' 'It is a very fine book indeed. Just
the sort of one I like; which is just plain and comprehensible and full
of truth and good feeling. It is not one of those learned books in
which you have to cavil at almost every paragraph. Lehzen gave it me
on the Sunday that I took the Sacrament.'[29] A few weeks previously
she had been confirmed, and she described the event as follows: 'I felt
that my confirmation was one of the most solemn and important events
and acts in my life; and that I trusted that it might have a {35}
salutary effect on my mind. I felt deeply repentant for all what I had
done which was wrong and trusted in God Almighty to strengthen my heart
and mind; and to forsake all that is bad and follow all that is
virtuous and right. I went with the firm determination to become a
true Christian, to try and comfort my dear Mamma in all her griefs,
trials, and anxieties, and to become a dutiful and affectionate
daughter to her. Also to be obedient to _dear_ Lehzen, who has done so
much for me. I was dressed in a white lace dress, with a white crape
bonnet with a wreath of white roses round it. I went in the chariot
with my dear Mamma and the others followed in another carriage.'[30]
One seems to hold in one's hand a small smooth crystal pebble, without
a flaw and without a scintillation, and so transparent that one can see
through it at a glance.
Yet perhaps, after all, to the discerning eye, the purity would not be
absolute. The careful searcher might detect, in the virgin soil, the
first faint traces of an unexpected vein. In that conventual existence
visits were exciting events; and, as the Duchess had many relatives,
they were not infrequent; aunts and uncles would often appear from
Germany, and cousins too. When the Princess was fourteen she was
delighted by the arrival of a couple of boys from Wuertemberg, the
Princes Alexander and Ernst, sons of her mother's sister and the
reigning duke. 'They are both _extremely tall_,' she noted; 'Alexander
is _very handsome_, and Ernst has a _very kind expression_. They are
both EXTREMELY _amiable_.' And their departure filled her with
corresponding regrets. 'We saw them get into the barge, and watched
them sailing away for some time on the beach. They were so amiable and
so pleasant to have {36} in the house; they were always _satisfied,
always good-humoured_; Alexander took such care of me in getting out of
the boat, and rode next to me; so did Ernst.'[31] Two years later, two
other cousins arrived, the Princes Ferdinand and Augustus. 'Dear
Ferdinand,' the Princess wrote, 'has elicited universal admiration from
all parties.... He is so very unaffected, and has such a very
distinguished appearance and carriage. They are both very dear and
charming young men. Augustus is very amiable too, and, when known,
shows much good sense.' On another occasion, 'Dear Ferdinand came and
sat near me and talked so dearly and sensibly. I do _so_ love him.
Dear Augustus sat near me and talked with me, and he is also a dear
good young man, and is very handsome.' She could not quite decide
which was the handsomer of the two. On the whole, she concluded, 'I
think Ferdinand handsomer than Augustus, his eyes are so beautiful, and
he has such a lively clever expression; _both_ have such a sweet
expression; Ferdinand has something _quite beautiful_ in his expression
when he speaks and smiles, and he is _so_ good.' However, it was
perhaps best to say that they were 'both very handsome and _very
dear_.'[32] But shortly afterwards two more cousins arrived, who threw
all the rest into the shade. These were the Princes Ernest and Albert,
sons of her mother's eldest brother, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg. This
time the Princess was more particular in her observations. 'Ernest,'
she remarked, 'is as tall as Ferdinand and Augustus; he has dark hair,
and fine dark eyes and eyebrows, but the nose and mouth are not good;
he has a most kind, honest and intelligent expression in his
countenance, and has a very good figure. Albert, who is just as tall
{37} as Ernest but stouter, is extremely handsome; his hair is about
the same colour as mine; his eyes are large and blue, and he has a
beautiful nose and a very sweet mouth with fine teeth; but the charm of
his countenance is his expression, which is most delightful; _cest a la
fois_ full of goodness and sweetness, and very clever and intelligent.'
'Both my cousins,' she added, 'are so kind and good; they are much more
_formes_ and men of the world than Augustus; they speak English very
well, and I speak it with them. Ernest will be 18 years old on the
21st of June, and Albert 17 on the 26th of August. Dear Uncle Ernest
made me the present of a most delightful _Lory_, which is so tame that
it remains on your hand and you may put your finger into its beak, or
do anything with it, without its ever attempting to bite. It is larger
than Mamma's grey parrot.' A little later, 'I sat between my dear
cousins on the sofa and we looked at drawings. They both draw very
well, particularly Albert, and are both exceedingly fond of music; they
play very nicely on the piano. The more I see them the more I am
delighted with them, and the more I love them.... It is delightful to
be with them; they are so fond of being occupied too; they are quite an
example for any young person.' When, after a stay of three weeks, the
time came for the young men and their father to return to Germany, the
moment of parting was a melancholy one. 'It was our last HAPPY HAPPY
breakfast, with this dear Uncle and those _dearest_ beloved cousins,
whom I _do_ love so VERY VERY dearly; _much more dearly_ than any other
cousins in the _world_. Dearly as I love Ferdinand, and also good
Augustus, I love Ernest and Albert more than them, oh yes, MUCH
_more_.... They have both learnt a good deal, and are very clever,
naturally clever, {38} particularly Albert, who is the most reflecting
of the two, and they like very much talking about serious and
instructive things and yet are so _very very_ merry and gay and happy,
like young people ought to be; Albert always used to have some fun and
some clever witty answer at breakfast and everywhere; he used to play
and fondle Dash so funnily too.... Dearest Albert was playing on the
piano when I came down. At 11 dear Uncle, my _dearest beloved_
cousins, and Charles, left us, accompanied by Count Kolowrat. I
embraced both my dearest cousins most warmly, as also my dear Uncle. I
cried bitterly, very bitterly.'[33] The Princes shared her ecstasies
and her italics between them; but it is clear enough where her secret
preference lay. 'Particularly Albert'! She was just seventeen; and
deep was the impression left upon that budding organism by the young
man's charm and goodness and accomplishments, and his large blue eyes
and beautiful nose, and his sweet mouth and fine teeth.
IV
King William could not away with his sister-in-law, and the Duchess
fully returned his antipathy. Without considerable tact and
considerable forbearance their relative positions were well calculated
to cause ill-feeling; and there was very little tact in the composition
of the Duchess, and no forbearance at all in that of his Majesty. A
bursting, bubbling old gentleman, with quarter-deck gestures, round
rolling eyes, and a head like a pineapple, his sudden elevation to the
throne after fifty-six years of utter insignificance had almost sent
him crazy. His natural {39} exuberance completely got the better of
him; he rushed about doing preposterous things in an extraordinary
manner, spreading amusement and terror in every direction, and talking
all the time. His tongue was decidedly Hanoverian, with its
repetitions, its catchwords--'That's quite another thing! That's quite
another thing!'--its rattling indomitability, its loud indiscreetness.
His speeches, made repeatedly at the most inopportune junctures, and
filled pell-mell with all the fancies and furies that happened at the
moment to be whisking about in his head, were the consternation of
Ministers. He was one part blackguard, people said, and three parts
buffoon; but those who knew him better could not help liking him--he
meant well; and he was really good-humoured and kind-hearted, if you
took him the right way. If you took him the wrong way, however, you
must look out for squalls, as the Duchess of Kent discovered.
She had no notion of how to deal with him--could not understand him in
the least. Occupied with her own position, her own responsibilities,
her duty, and her daughter, she had no attention to spare for the
peppery susceptibilities of a foolish, disreputable old man. She was
the mother of the heiress of England; and it was for him to recognise
the fact--to put her at once upon a proper footing--to give her the
precedence of a dowager Princess of Wales, with a large annuity from
the privy purse.[34] It did not occur to her that such pretensions
might be galling to a king who had no legitimate child of his own, and
who yet had not altogether abandoned the hope of having one. She
pressed on, with bulky vigour, along the course she had laid out. Sir
John Conroy, an Irishman with no {40} judgment and a great deal of
self-importance, was her intimate counsellor, and egged her on. It was
advisable that Victoria should become acquainted with the various
districts of England, and through several summers a succession of
tours--in the West, in the Midlands, in Wales--were arranged for her.
The intention of the plan was excellent, but its execution was
unfortunate. The journeys, advertised in the Press, attracting
enthusiastic crowds, and involving official receptions, took on the air
of royal progresses. Addresses were presented by loyal citizens; the
delighted Duchess, swelling in sweeping feathers and almost
obliterating the diminutive Princess, read aloud, in her German accent,
gracious replies prepared beforehand by Sir John, who, bustling and
ridiculous, seemed to be mingling the roles of major-domo and Prime
Minister. Naturally the King fumed over his newspaper at Windsor.
'That woman is a nuisance! That woman is a nuisance!' he exclaimed.
Poor Queen Adelaide, amiable though disappointed, did her best to
smooth things down, changed the subject, and wrote affectionate letters
to Victoria; but it was useless. News arrived that the Duchess of
Kent, sailing in the Solent, had insisted that whenever her yacht
appeared it should be received by royal salutes from all the men-of-war
and all the forts. The King declared that these continual poppings
must cease; the Premier and the First Lord of the Admiralty were
consulted; and they wrote privately to the Duchess, begging her to
waive her rights. But she would not hear of it; Sir John Conroy was
adamant. 'As her Royal Highness's _confidential adviser_,' he said, 'I
cannot recommend her to give way on this point.' Eventually the King,
in a great state of excitement, issued a special Order in {41} Council,
prohibiting the firing of royal salutes to any ships except those which
carried the reigning sovereign or his consort on board.[35]
When King William quarrelled with his Whig Ministers the situation grew
still more embittered, for now the Duchess, in addition to her other
shortcomings, was the political partisan of his enemies. In 1836 he
made an attempt to prepare the ground for a match between the Princess
Victoria and one of the sons of the Prince of Orange, and at the same
time did his best to prevent the visit of the young Coburg princes to
Kensington. He failed in both these objects; and the only result of
his efforts was to raise the anger of the King of the Belgians, who,
forgetting for a moment his royal reserve, addressed an indignant
letter on the subject to his niece. 'I am really _astonished_,' he
wrote, 'at the conduct of your old Uncle the King; this invitation of
the Prince of Orange and his sons, this forcing him on others, is very
extraordinary.... Not later than yesterday I got a half-official
communication from England, insinuating that it would be _highly_
desirable that the visit of your relatives _should not take place this
year_--qu'en dites-vous? The relations of the Queen and the King,
therefore, to the God-knows-what degree, are to come in shoals and rule
the land, when _your relations_ are to be _forbidden_ the country, and
that when, as you know, the whole of your relations have ever been very
dutiful and kind to the King. Really and truly I never heard or saw
anything like it, and I hope it will a little _rouse your spirit_; now
that slavery is even abolished in the British Colonies, I do not
comprehend _why your lot alone should be to be kept a white little
slavey in England_, for the pleasure of the {42} Court, who never
bought you, as I am not aware of their ever having gone to any expense
on that head, or the King's ever having _spent a sixpence for your
existence_.... Oh, consistency and political or _other honesty_, where
must one look for you!'[36]
Shortly afterwards King Leopold came to England himself, and his
reception was as cold at Windsor as it was warm at Kensington. 'To
hear dear Uncle speak on any subject,' the Princess wrote in her diary,
'is like reading a highly instructive book; his conversation is so
enlightened, so clear. He is universally admitted to be one of the
first politicians now extant. He speaks so mildly, yet firmly and
impartially, about politics. Uncle tells me that Belgium is quite a
pattern for its organisation, its industry, and prosperity; the
finances are in the greatest perfection. Uncle is so beloved and
revered by his Belgian subjects, that it must be a great compensation
for all his extreme trouble.'[37] But her other uncle by no means
shared her sentiments. He could not, he said, put up with a
water-drinker; and King Leopold would touch no wine. 'What's that
you're drinking, sir?' he asked him one day at dinner. 'Water, sir.'
'God damn it, sir!' was the rejoinder. 'Why don't you drink wine? I
never allow anybody to drink water at my table.'[38]
It was clear that before very long there would be a great explosion;
and in the hot days of August it came. The Duchess and the Princess
had gone down to stay at Windsor for the King's birthday party, and the
King himself, who was in London for the day to prorogue Parliament,
paid a visit at Kensington Palace in their absence. There he found
that the Duchess {43} had just appropriated, against his express
orders, a suite of seventeen apartments for her own use. He was
extremely angry, and, when he returned to Windsor, after greeting the
Princess with affection, he publicly rebuked the Duchess for what she
had done. But this was little to what followed. On the next day was
the birthday banquet; there were a hundred guests; the Duchess of Kent
sat on the King's right hand, and the Princess Victoria opposite. At
the end of the dinner, in reply to the toast of the King's health, he
rose, and, in a long, loud, passionate speech, poured out the vials of
his wrath upon the Duchess. She had, he declared, insulted
him--grossly and continually; she had kept the Princess away from him
in the most improper manner; she was surrounded by evil advisers, and
was incompetent to act with propriety in the high station which she
filled; but he would bear it no longer; he would have her to know he
was King; he was determined that his authority should be respected;
henceforward the Princess should attend at every Court function with
the utmost regularity; and he hoped to God that his life might be
spared for six months longer, so that the calamity of a regency might
be avoided, and the functions of the Crown pass directly to the
heiress-presumptive instead of into the hands of the 'person now near
him,' upon whose conduct and capacity no reliance whatever could be
placed. The flood of vituperation rushed on for what seemed an
interminable period, while the Queen blushed scarlet, the Princess
burst into tears, and the hundred guests sat aghast. The Duchess said
not a word until the tirade was over and the company had retired; then
in a tornado of rage and mortification, she called for her carriage and
announced her immediate return to {44} Kensington. It was only with
the utmost difficulty that some show of a reconciliation was patched
up, and the outraged lady was prevailed upon to put off her departure
till the morrow.[39]
Her troubles, however, were not over when she had shaken the dust of
Windsor from her feet. In her own household she was pursued by
bitterness and vexation of spirit. The apartments at Kensington were
seething with subdued disaffection, with jealousies and animosities
virulently intensified by long years of propinquity and spite.
There was a deadly feud between Sir John Conroy and Baroness Lehzen.
But that was not all. The Duchess had grown too fond of her
major-domo. There were familiarities, and one day the Princess
Victoria discovered the fact. She confided what she had seen to the
Baroness, and to the Baroness's beloved ally, Madame de Spaeth.
Unfortunately, Madame de Spaeth could not hold her tongue, and was
actually foolish enough to reprove the Duchess; whereupon she was
instantly dismissed. It was not so easy to get rid of the Baroness.
That lady, prudent and reserved, maintained an irreproachable
demeanour. Her position was strongly entrenched; she had managed to
secure the support of the King; and Sir John found that he could do
nothing against her. But henceforward the household was divided into
two camps.[40] The Duchess {45} supported Sir John with all the
amplitude of her authority; but the Baroness, too, had an adherent who
could not be neglected. The Princess Victoria said nothing, but she
had been much attached to Madame de Spaeth, and she adored her Lehzen.
The Duchess knew only too well that in this horrid embroilment her
daughter was against her. Chagrin, annoyance, moral reprobation,
tossed her to and fro. She did her best to console herself with Sir
John's affectionate loquacity, or with the sharp remarks of Lady Flora
Hastings, one of her maids of honour, who had no love for the Baroness.
The subject lent itself to satire; for the pastor's daughter, with all
her airs of stiff superiority, had habits which betrayed her origin.
Her passion for caraway seeds, for instance, was uncontrollable.
Little bags of them came over to her from Hanover, and she sprinkled
them on her bread and butter, her cabbage, and even her roast beef.
Lady Flora could not resist a caustic observation; it was repeated to
the Baroness, who pursed her lips in fury; and so the mischief grew.[41]
V
The King had prayed that he might live till his niece was of age; and a
few days before her eighteenth birthday--the date of her legal
majority--a sudden attack of illness very nearly carried him off. He
recovered, however, and the Princess was able to go through her
birthday festivities--a state ball and a drawing-room--with unperturbed
enjoyment. 'Count {46} Zichy,' she noted in her diary, 'is very
good-looking in uniform, but not in plain clothes. Count Waldstein
looks remarkably well in his pretty Hungarian uniform.'[42] With the
latter young gentleman she wished to dance, but there was an
insurmountable difficulty. 'He could not dance quadrilles, and, as in
my station I unfortunately cannot valse and galop, I could not dance
with him.'[43] Her birthday present from the King was of a pleasing
nature, but it led to a painful domestic scene. In spite of the anger
of her Belgian uncle, she had remained upon good terms with her English
one. He had always been very kind to her, and the fact that he had
quarrelled with her mother did not appear to be a reason for disliking
him. He was, she said, 'odd, very odd and singular,' but 'his
intentions were often ill interpreted.'[44] He now wrote her a letter,
offering her an allowance of L10,000 a year, which he proposed should
be at her own disposal, and independent of her mother. Lord Conyngham,
the Lord Chamberlain, was instructed to deliver the letter into the
Princess's own hands. When he arrived at Kensington, he was ushered
into the presence of the Duchess and the Princess, and, when he
produced the letter, the Duchess put out her hand to take it. Lord
Conyngham begged her Royal Highness's pardon, and repeated the King's
commands. Thereupon the Duchess drew back, and the Princess took the
letter. She immediately wrote to her uncle, accepting his kind
proposal. The Duchess was much displeased; L4000 a year, she said,
would be quite enough for Victoria; as for the remaining L6000, it
would be only proper that she should have that herself.[45]
{47}
King William had thrown off his illness, and returned to his normal
life. Once more the royal circle at Windsor--their Majesties, the
elder Princesses, and some unfortunate Ambassadress or Minister's
wife--might be seen ranged for hours round a mahogany table, while the
Queen netted a purse, and the King slept, occasionally waking from his
slumbers to observe 'Exactly so, ma'am, exactly so!'[46] But this
recovery was of short duration. The old man suddenly collapsed; with
no specific symptoms besides an extreme weakness, he yet showed no
power of rallying; and it was clear to everyone that his death was now
close at hand.
All eyes, all thoughts, turned towards the Princess Victoria; but she
still remained, shut away in the seclusion of Kensington, a small,
unknown figure, lost in the large shadow of her mother's domination.
The preceding year had in fact been an important one in her
development. The soft tendrils of her mind had for the first time
begun to stretch out towards unchildish things. In this King Leopold
encouraged her. After his return to Brussels, he had resumed his
correspondence in a more serious strain; he discussed the details of
foreign politics; he laid down the duties of kingship; he pointed out
the iniquitous foolishness of the newspaper press. On the latter
subject, indeed, he wrote with some asperity. 'If all the editors,' he
said, 'of the papers in the countries where the liberty of the press
exists were to be assembled, we should have a _crew_ to which you would
_not_ confide a dog that you would value, still less your honour and
reputation.'[47] On the functions of a monarch, his views were
unexceptionable. 'The business of the highest in a State,' he wrote,
'is {48} certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a
spirit of justice for the good of all.'[48] At the same time the
Princess's tastes were opening out. Though she was still passionately
devoted to riding and dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of
music as well, and to drink in the roulades and arias of the Italian
opera with high enthusiasm. She even enjoyed reading poetry--at any
rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott.[49]
When King Leopold learnt that King William's death was approaching, he
wrote several long letters of excellent advice to his niece. 'In every
letter I shall write to you,' he said, 'I mean to repeat to you, as a
_fundamental rule, to be courageous, firm, and honest, as you have been
till now_.' For the rest, in the crisis that was approaching, she was
not to be alarmed, but to trust in her 'good natural sense and the
truth' of her character; she was to do nothing in a hurry; to hurt no
one's _amour-propre_, and to continue her confidence in the Whig
administration.[50] Not content with letters, however, King Leopold
determined that the Princess should not lack personal guidance, and
sent over to her aid the trusted friend whom, twenty years before, he
had taken to his heart by the death-bed at Claremont. Thus, once
again, as if in accordance with some preordained destiny, the figure of
Stockmar is discernible--inevitably present at a momentous hour.
On June 18, the King was visibly sinking. The Archbishop of Canterbury
was by his side, with all the comforts of the church. Nor did the holy
words fall upon a rebellious spirit; for many years his Majesty had
been a devout believer. 'When I was a young man,' he once explained at
a public banquet, 'as well {49} as I can remember, I believed in
nothing but pleasure and folly--nothing at all. But when I went to
sea, got into a gale, and saw the wonders of the mighty deep, then I
believed; and I have been a sincere Christian ever since.'[51] It was
the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and the dying man remembered
it. He should be glad to live, he said, over that day; he would never
see another sunset. 'I hope your Majesty may live to see many,' said
Dr. Chambers. 'Oh! that's quite another thing, that's quite another
thing,' was the answer.[52] One other sunset he did live to see; and
he died in the early hours of the following morning. It was June 20,
1837.
When all was over, the Archbishop and the Lord Chamberlain ordered a
carriage, and drove post-haste from Windsor to Kensington. They
arrived at the Palace at five o'clock, and it was only with
considerable difficulty that they gained admittance.[53] At six the
Duchess woke up her daughter, and told her that the Archbishop of
Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were there, and wished to see her. She
got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went, alone, into the
room where the messengers were standing. Lord Conyngham fell on his
knees, and officially announced the death of the King; the Archbishop
added some personal details. Looking at the bending, murmuring
dignitaries before her, she knew that she was Queen of England. 'Since
it has pleased Providence,' she wrote that day in her journal, 'to
place me in this station, I shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty
towards my country; I am very young, and perhaps in many, though not in
all things, inexperienced, but I am sure, that very few have more real
good will and more real desire to do what is fit and {50} right than I
have.'[54] But there was scant time for resolutions and reflections.
At once, affairs were thick upon her. Stockmar came to breakfast, and
gave some good advice. She wrote a letter to her uncle Leopold, and a
hurried note to her sister Feodora. A letter came from the Prime
Minister, Lord Melbourne, announcing his approaching arrival. He came
at nine, in full court dress, and kissed her hand. She saw him alone,
and repeated to him the lesson which, no doubt, the faithful Stockmar
had taught her at breakfast, 'It has long been my intention to retain
your Lordship and the rest of the present Ministry at the head of
affairs'; whereupon Lord Melbourne again kissed her hand and shortly
after left her. She then wrote a letter of condolence to Queen
Adelaide. At eleven, Lord Melbourne came again; and at half past
eleven she went downstairs into the red saloon to hold her first
Council.[55] The great assembly of lords and notables, bishops,
generals, and Ministers of State, saw the doors thrown open and a very
short, very slim girl in deep plain mourning come into the room alone
and move forward to her seat with extraordinary dignity and grace; they
saw a countenance, not beautiful, but prepossessing--fair hair, blue
prominent eyes, a small curved nose, an open mouth revealing the upper
teeth, a tiny chin, a clear complexion, and, over all, the strangely
mingled signs of innocence, of gravity, of youth, and of composure;
they heard a high unwavering voice reading aloud with perfect clarity;
and then, the ceremony over, they saw the small figure rise and, with
the same consummate grace, the same amazing dignity, pass out from
among them, as she had come in, alone.[56]
[1] Murray, 62-3; Lee, 11-12.
[2] Owen, Journal, No. 1, February, 1853, 28-9.
[3] _Ibid._, 31.
[4] Croker, I, 155.
[5] Stockmar, 113.
[6] Stockmar, 114-5.
[7] _Letters_, I, 15, 257-8; Grey, App. A.
[8] Granville, I, 168-9.
[9] _Wilberforce, William_, V, 71-2.
[10] _Letters_, I, 17.
[11] Creevey, I, 297-8.
[12] Jerrold, _Early Court_, 15-17.
[13] _Letters_, I, 10.
[14] _Ibid._, I, 14; _Girlhood_, I, 280.
[15] Crawford, 6.
[16] Smith, 21-2.
[17] _Cornhill Magazine_, LXXV, 730.
[18] Hunt, II, 257-8.
[19] _Letters_, I, 10, 18.
[20] _Letters_, I, 11-12; Lee, 26.
[21] _Letters_, I, 14-17.
[22] _Ibid._, I, 16.
[23] Martin, I, 13.
[24] _Letters_, I, 11.
[25] _Girlhood_, I, 42.
[26] Crawford, 87.
[27] Martineau, II, 118-9.
[28] _Girlhood_, I, 66-7.
[29] _Ibid._, I, 129.
[30] _Girlhood_, I, 124-5.
[31] _Girlhood_, I, 78, 82.
[32] _Ibid._, I, 150-3.
[33] _Girlhood_, I, 157-61.
[34] Greville, II, 195-6
[35] Greville, III, 321, 324.
[36] _Letters_, I, 47-8.
[37] _Girlhood_, I, 168.
[38] Greville, III, 377.
[39] Greville, III, 374-6.
[40] _Ibid._, IV, 21; and August 15, 1839 (unpublished). 'The cause of
the Queen's alienation from the Duchess and hatred of Conroy, the Duke
[of Wellington] said, was unquestionably owing to her having witnessed
some familiarities between them. What she had seen she repeated to
Baroness Spaeth, and Spaeth not only did not hold her tongue, but (he
thinks) remonstrated with the Duchess herself on the subject. The
consequence was that they got rid of Spaeth, and they would have got
rid of Lehzen, too, if they had been able, but Lehzen, who knew very
well what was going on, was prudent enough not to commit herself, and
she was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and William IV, so
that they did not dare to attempt to expel her.'
[41] Greville, IV, 21; Crawford, 128-9.
[42] _Girlhood_, I, 192-3.
[43] _Ibid._, I, 191.
[44] _Ibid._, I, 194.
[45] Greville, III, 407-8.
[46] Creevey, II, 262.
[47] _Letters_, I, 53.
[48] _Letters_, I, 61.
[49] _Girlhood_, I, 175.
[50] _Letters_, I, 70-1.
[51] Torrens, 419.
[52] Huish, 686.
[53] Wynn, 281.
[54] _Girlhood_, I, 195-6.
[55] _Ibid._, I, 196-7.
[56] Greville, III, 414-6.
[Illustration: LORD MELBOURNE. _From the Portrait by Sir Edwin
Landseer, R.A._]
{51}