I
Meanwhile in Victoria's private life many changes and developments had
taken place. With the marriages of her elder children her family
circle widened; grandchildren appeared; and a multitude of new domestic
interests sprang up. The death of King Leopold in 1865 had removed the
predominant figure of the older generation, and the functions he had
performed as the centre and adviser of a large group of relatives in
Germany and in England devolved upon Victoria. These functions
she discharged with unremitting industry, carrying on an enormous
correspondence, and following with absorbed interest every detail in the
lives of the ever-ramifying cousinhood. And she tasted to the full
both the joys and the pains of family affection. She took a particular
delight in her grandchildren, to whom she showed an indulgence which
their parents had not always enjoyed, though, even to her grandchildren,
she could be, when the occasion demanded it, severe. The eldest of them,
the little Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, was a remarkably headstrong child;
he dared to be impertinent even to his grandmother; and once, when she
told him to bow to a visitor at Osborne, he disobeyed her outright.
This would not do: the order was sternly repeated, and the naughty boy,
noticing that his grandmama had suddenly turned into a most terrifying
lady, submitted his will to hers, and bowed very low indeed.
It would have been well if all the Queen's domestic troubles could
have been got over as easily. Among her more serious distresses was the
conduct of the Prince of Wales. The young man was now independent and
married; he had shaken the parental yoke from his shoulders; he was
positively beginning to do as he liked. Victoria was much perturbed,
and her worst fears seemed to be justified when in 1870 he appeared as
a witness in a society divorce case. It was clear that the heir to the
throne had been mixing with people of whom she did not at all approve.
What was to be done? She saw that it was not only her son that was to
blame--that it was the whole system of society; and so she despatched
a letter to Mr. Delane, the editor of The Times, asking him if he would
"frequently WRITE articles pointing out the IMMENSE danger and evil of
the wretched frivolity and levity of the views and lives of the Higher
Classes." And five years later Mr. Delane did write an article upon that
very subject. Yet it seemed to have very little effect.
Ah! if only the Higher Classes would learn to live as she lived in the
domestic sobriety of her sanctuary at Balmoral! For more and more
did she find solace and refreshment in her Highland domain; and twice
yearly, in the spring and in the autumn, with a sigh of relief, she set
her face northwards, in spite of the humble protests of Ministers, who
murmured vainly in the royal ears that to transact the affairs of State
over an interval of six hundred miles added considerably to the cares
of government. Her ladies, too, felt occasionally a slight reluctance to
set out, for, especially in the early days, the long pilgrimage was not
without its drawbacks. For many years the Queen's conservatism forbade
the continuation of the railway up Deeside, so that the last stages
of the journey had to be accomplished in carriages. But, after all,
carriages had their good points; they were easy, for instance, to get
in and out of, which was an important consideration, for the royal train
remained for long immune from modern conveniences, and when it drew up,
on some border moorland, far from any platform, the highbred dames were
obliged to descend to earth by the perilous foot-board, the only pair
of folding steps being reserved for Her Majesty's saloon. In the days of
crinolines such moments were sometimes awkward; and it was occasionally
necessary to summon Mr. Johnstone, the short and sturdy Manager of the
Caledonian Railway, who, more than once, in a high gale and drenching
rain with great difficulty "pushed up"--as he himself described it--some
unlucky Lady Blanche or Lady Agatha into her compartment. But Victoria
cared for none of these things. She was only intent upon regaining, with
the utmost swiftness, her enchanted Castle, where every spot was charged
with memories, where every memory was sacred, and where life was passed
in an incessant and delightful round of absolutely trivial events.
And it was not only the place that she loved; she was equally attached
to "the simple mountaineers," from whom, she said, "she learnt many
a lesson of resignation and faith." Smith and Grant and Ross and
Thompson--she was devoted to them all; but, beyond the rest, she was
devoted to John Brown. The Prince's gillie had now become the Queen's
personal attendant--a body servant from whom she was never parted, who
accompanied her on her drives, waited on her during the day, and
slept in a neighbouring chamber at night. She liked his strength, his
solidity, the sense he gave her of physical security; she even liked his
rugged manners and his rough unaccommodating speech. She allowed him to
take liberties with her which would have been unthinkable from anybody
else. To bully the Queen, to order her about, to reprimand her--who
could dream of venturing upon such audacities? And yet, when she
received such treatment from John Brown, she positively seemed to enjoy
it. The eccentricity appeared to be extraordinary; but, after all, it
is no uncommon thing for an autocratic dowager to allow some trusted
indispensable servant to adopt towards her an attitude of authority
which is jealously forbidden to relatives or friends: the power of a
dependent still remains, by a psychological sleight-of-hand, one's own
power, even when it is exercised over oneself. When Victoria meekly
obeyed the abrupt commands of her henchman to get off her pony or put on
her shawl, was she not displaying, and in the highest degree, the force
of her volition? People might wonder; she could not help that; this was
the manner in which it pleased her to act, and there was an end of it.
To have submitted her judgment to a son or a Minister might have seemed
wiser or more natural; but if she had done so, she instinctively felt,
she would indeed have lost her independence. And yet upon somebody
she longed to depend. Her days were heavy with the long process of
domination. As she drove in silence over the moors she leaned back in
the carriage, oppressed and weary; but what a relief--John Brown was
behind on the rumble, and his strong arm would be there for her to lean
upon when she got out.
He had, too, in her mind, a special connection with Albert. In their
expeditions the Prince had always trusted him more than anyone; the
gruff, kind, hairy Scotsman was, she felt, in some mysterious way,
a legacy from the dead. She came to believe at last--or so it
appeared--that the spirit of Albert was nearer when Brown was near.
Often, when seeking inspiration over some complicated question of
political or domestic import, she would gaze with deep concentration at
her late husband's bust. But it was also noticed that sometimes in such
moments of doubt and hesitation Her Majesty's looks would fix themselves
upon John Brown.
Eventually, the "simple mountaineer" became almost a state personage.
The influence which he wielded was not to be overlooked. Lord
Beaconsfield was careful, from time to time, to send courteous messages
to "Mr. Brown" in his letters to the Queen, and the French Government
took particular pains to provide for his comfort during the visits of
the English Sovereign to France. It was only natural that among the
elder members of the royal family he should not have been popular, and
that his failings--for failings he had, though Victoria would never
notice his too acute appreciation of Scotch whisky--should have been
the subject of acrimonious comment at Court. But he served his mistress
faithfully, and to ignore him would be a sign of disrespect to her
biographer. For the Queen, far from making a secret of her affectionate
friendship, took care to publish it to the world. By her orders two
gold medals were struck in his honour; on his death, in 1883, a long and
eulogistic obituary notice of him appeared in the Court Circular; and a
Brown memorial brooch--of gold, with the late gillie's head on one side
and the royal monogram on the other--was designed by Her Majesty for
presentation to her Highland servants and cottagers, to be worn by them
on the anniversary of his death, with a mourning scarf and pins. In the
second series of extracts from the Queen's Highland Journal, published
in 1884, her "devoted personal attendant and faithful friend" appears
upon almost every page, and is in effect the hero of the book. With an
absence of reticence remarkable in royal persons, Victoria seemed to
demand, in this private and delicate matter, the sympathy of the whole
nation; and yet--such is the world--there were those who actually
treated the relations between their Sovereign and her servant as a theme
for ribald jests.
II
The busy years hastened away; the traces of Time's unimaginable touch
grew manifest; and old age, approaching, laid a gentle hold upon
Victoria. The grey hair whitened; the mature features mellowed; the
short firm figure amplified and moved more slowly, supported by a stick.
And, simultaneously, in the whole tenour of the Queen's existence an
extraordinary transformation came to pass. The nation's attitude
towards her, critical and even hostile as it had been for so many years,
altogether changed; while there was a corresponding alteration in the
temper of--Victoria's own mind.
Many causes led to this result. Among them were the repeated strokes of
personal misfortune which befell the Queen during a cruelly short space
of years. In 1878 the Princess Alice, who had married in 1862 the Prince
Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt, died in tragic circumstances. In the following
year the Prince Imperial, the only son of the Empress Eugenie, to whom
Victoria, since the catastrophe of 1870, had become devotedly attached,
was killed in the Zulu War. Two years later, in 1881, the Queen lost
Lord Beaconsfield, and, in 1883, John Brown. In 1884 the Prince Leopold,
Duke of Albany, who had been an invalid from birth, died prematurely,
shortly after his marriage. Victoria's cup of sorrows was indeed
overflowing; and the public, as it watched the widowed mother weeping
for her children and her friends, displayed a constantly increasing
sympathy.
An event which occurred in 1882 revealed and accentuated the feelings of
the nation. As the Queen, at Windsor, was walking from the train to her
carriage, a youth named Roderick Maclean fired a pistol at her from a
distance of a few yards. An Eton boy struck up Maclean's arm with an
umbrella before the pistol went off; no damage was done, and the culprit
was at once arrested. This was the last of a series of seven attempts
upon the Queen--attempts which, taking place at sporadic intervals over
a period of forty years, resembled one another in a curious manner. All,
with a single exception, were perpetrated by adolescents, whose motives
were apparently not murderous, since, save in the case of Maclean, none
of their pistols was loaded. These unhappy youths, who, after buying
their cheap weapons, stuffed them with gunpowder and paper, and then
went off, with the certainty of immediate detection, to click them in
the face of royalty, present a strange problem to the psychologist. But,
though in each case their actions and their purposes seemed to be so
similar, their fates were remarkably varied. The first of them, Edward
Oxford, who fired at Victoria within a few months of her marriage, was
tried for high treason, declared to be insane, and sent to an asylum for
life. It appears, however, that this sentence did not commend itself to
Albert, for when, two years later, John Francis committed the same of
fence, and was tried upon the same charge, the Prince propounced that
there was no insanity in the matter. "The wretched creature," he told
his father, was "not out of his mind, but a thorough scamp." "I hope,"
he added, "his trial will be conducted with the greatest strictness."
Apparently it was; at any rate, the jury shared the view of the Prince,
the plea of insanity was, set aside, and Francis was found guilty of
high treason and condemned to death; but, as there was no proof of
an intent to kill or even to wound, this sentence, after a lengthened
deliberation between the Home Secretary and the Judges, was commuted for
one of transportation for life. As the law stood, these assaults, futile
as they were, could only be treated as high treason; the discrepancy
between the actual deed and the tremendous penalties involved was
obviously grotesque; and it was, besides, clear that a jury, knowing
that a verdict of guilty implied a sentence of death, would tend to
the alternative course, and find the prisoner not guilty but insane--a
conclusion which, on the face of it, would have appeared to be the more
reasonable. In 1842, therefore, an Act was passed making any attempt
to hurt the Queen a misdemeanor, punishable by transportation for seven
years, or imprisonment, with or without hard labour, for a term not
exceeding three years--the misdemeanant, at the discretion of the Court,
"to be publicly or privately whipped, as often, and in such manner
and form, as the Court shall direct, not exceeding thrice." The four
subsequent attempts were all dealt with under this new law; William
Bean, in 1842, was sentenced to eighteen months' imprisonment; William
Hamilton, in 1849, was transported for seven years; and, in 1850, the
same sentence was passed upon Lieutenant Robert Pate, who struck the
Queen on the head with his cane in Piccadilly. Pate, alone among these
delinquents, was of mature years; he had held a commission in the Army,
dressed himself as a dandy, and was, the Prince declared, "manifestly
deranged." In 1872 Arthur O'Connor, a youth of seventeen, fired
an unloaded pistol at the Queen outside Buckingham Palace; he
was immediately seized by John Brown, and sentenced to one year's
imprisonment and twenty strokes of the birch rod. It was for his bravery
upon this occasion that Brown was presented with one of his gold medals.
In all these cases the jury had refused to allow the plea of insanity;
but Roderick Maclean's attempt in 1882 had a different issue. On this
occasion the pistol was found to have been loaded, and the public
indignation, emphasised as it was by Victoria's growing popularity,
was particularly great. Either for this or for some other reason the
procedure of the last forty years was abandoned, and Maclean was tried
for high treason. The result was what might have been expected: the jury
brought in a verdict of "not guilty, but insane"; and the prisoner was
sent to an asylum during Her Majesty's pleasure. Their verdict, however,
produced a remarkable consequence. Victoria, who doubtless carried in
her mind some memory of Albert's disapproval of a similar verdict in
the case of Oxford, was very much annoyed. What did the jury mean, she
asked, by saying that Maclean was not guilty? It was perfectly clear
that he was guilty--she had seen him fire off the pistol herself. It was
in vain that Her Majesty's constitutional advisers reminded her of the
principle of English law which lays down that no man can be found
guilty of a crime unless he be proved to have had a criminal intention.
Victoria was quite unconvinced. "If that is the law," she said, "the law
must be altered:" and altered it was. In 1883 an Act was passed changing
the form of the verdict in cases of insanity, and the confusing anomaly
remains upon the Statute Book to this day.
But it was not only through the feelings--commiserating or indignant--of
personal sympathy that the Queen and her people were being drawn more
nearly together; they were beginning, at last, to come to a close and
permanent agreement upon the conduct of public affairs. Mr. Gladstone's
second administration (1880-85) was a succession of failures, ending in
disaster and disgrace; liberalism fell into discredit with the country,
and Victoria perceived with joy that her distrust of her Ministers was
shared by an ever-increasing number of her subjects. During the crisis
in the Sudan, the popular temper was her own. She had been among the
first to urge the necessity of an expedition to Khartoum, and, when the
news came of the catastrophic death of General Gordon, her voice led the
chorus of denunciation which raved against the Government. In her rage,
she despatched a fulminating telegram to Mr. Gladstone, not in the usual
cypher, but open; and her letter of condolence to Miss Gordon, in which
she attacked her Ministers for breach of faith, was widely published.
It was rumoured that she had sent for Lord Hartington, the Secretary
of State for War, and vehemently upbraided him. "She rated me," he was
reported to have told a friend, "as if I'd been a footman." "Why didn't
she send for the butler?" asked his friend. "Oh," was the reply, "the
butler generally manages to keep out of the way on such occasions."
But the day came when it was impossible to keep out of the way any
longer. Mr. Gladstone was defeated, and resigned. Victoria, at a
final interview, received him with her usual amenity, but, besides the
formalities demanded by the occasion, the only remark which she made
to him of a personal nature was to the effect that she supposed Mr.
Gladstone would now require some rest. He remembered with regret how,
at a similar audience in 1874, she had expressed her trust in him as a
supporter of the throne; but he noted the change without surprise. "Her
mind and opinions," he wrote in his diary afterwards, "have since that
day been seriously warped."
Such was Mr. Gladstone's view,; but the majority of the nation by no
means agreed with him; and, in the General Election of 1886, they
showed decisively that Victoria's politics were identical with theirs
by casting forth the contrivers of Home Rule--that abomination of
desolation--into outer darkness, and placing Lord Salisbury in
power. Victoria's satisfaction was profound. A flood of new unwonted
hopefulness swept over her, stimulating her vital spirits with a
surprising force. Her habit of life was suddenly altered; abandoning
the long seclusion which Disraeli's persuasions had only momentarily
interrupted, she threw herself vigorously into a multitude of public
activities. She appeared at drawing-rooms, at concerts, at reviews; she
laid foundation-stones; she went to Liverpool to open an international
exhibition, driving through the streets in her open carriage in heavy
rain amid vast applauding crowds. Delighted by the welcome which met
her everywhere, she warmed to her work. She visited Edinburgh, where the
ovation of Liverpool was repeated and surpassed. In London, she opened
in high state the Colonial and Indian Exhibition at South Kensington.
On this occasion the ceremonial was particularly magnificent; a blare
of trumpets announced the approach of Her Majesty; the "Natiohal Anthem"
followed; and the Queen, seated on a gorgeous throne of hammered gold,
replied with her own lips to the address that was presented to her. Then
she rose, and, advancing upon the platform with regal port, acknowledged
the acclamations of the great assembly by a succession of curtseys, of
elaborate and commanding grace.
Next year was the fiftieth of her reign, and in June the splendid
anniversary was celebrated in solemn pomp. Victoria, surrounded by the
highest dignitaries of her realm, escorted by a glittering galaxy of
kings and princes, drove through the crowded enthusiasm of the capital
to render thanks to God in Westminster Abbey. In that triumphant hour
the last remaining traces of past antipathies and past disagreements
were altogether swept away. The Queen was hailed at once as the mother
of her people and as the embodied symbol of their imperial greatness;
and she responded to the double sentiment with all the ardour of her
spirit. England and the people of England, she knew it, she felt it,
were, in some wonderful and yet quite simple manner, hers. Exultation,
affection, gratitude, a profound sense of obligation, an unbounded
pride--such were her emotions; and, colouring and intensifying the
rest, there was something else. At last, after so long,
happiness--fragmentary, perhaps, and charged with gravity, but true
and unmistakable none the less--had returned to her. The unaccustomed
feeling filled and warmed her consciousness. When, at Buckingham Palace
again, the long ceremony over, she was asked how she was, "I am very
tired, but very happy," she said.
III
And so, after the toils and tempests of the day, a long evening
followed--mild, serene, and lighted with a golden glory. For an
unexampled atmosphere of success and adoration invested the last period
of Victoria's life. Her triumph was the summary, the crown, of a greater
triumph--the culminating prosperity of a nation. The solid splendour of
the decade between Victoria's two jubilees can hardly be paralleled in
the annals of England. The sage counsels of Lord Salisbury seemed to
bring with them not only wealth and power, but security; and the country
settled down, with calm assurance, to the enjoyment of an established
grandeur. And--it was only natural--Victoria settled down too. For
she was a part of the establishment--an essential part as it seemed--a
fixture--a magnificent, immovable sideboard in the huge saloon of
state. Without her the heaped-up banquet of 1890 would have lost
its distinctive quality--the comfortable order of the substantial
unambiguous dishes, with their background of weighty glamour, half out
of sight.
Her own existence came to harmonise more and more with what was around
her. Gradually, imperceptibly, Albert receded. It was not that he was
forgotten--that would have been impossible--but that the void created
by his absence grew less agonising, and even, at last, less obvious.
At last Victoria found it possible to regret the bad weather without
immediately reflecting that her "dear Albert always said we could not
alter it, but must leave it as it was;" she could even enjoy a good
breakfast without considering how "dear Albert" would have liked the
buttered eggs. And, as that figure slowly faded, its place was taken,
inevitably, by Victoria's own. Her being, revolving for so many years
round an external object, now changed its motion and found its centre
in itself. It had to be so: her domestic position, the pressure of
her public work, her indomitable sense of duty, made anything else
impossible. Her egotism proclaimed its rights. Her age increased still
further the surrounding deference; and her force of character, emerging
at length in all its plenitude, imposed absolutely upon its environment
by the conscious effort of an imperious will.
Little by little it was noticed that the outward vestiges of Albert's
posthumous domination grew less complete. At Court the stringency of
mourning was relaxed. As the Queen drove through the Park in her open
carriage with her Highlanders behind her, nursery-maids canvassed
eagerly the growing patch of violet velvet in the bonnet with its jet
appurtenances on the small bowing head.
It was in her family that Victoria's ascendancy reached its highest
point. All her offspring were married; the number of her descendants
rapidly increased; there were many marriages in the third generation;
and no fewer than thirty-seven of her great-grandchildren were living at
the time of her death. A picture of the period displays the royal family
collected together in one of the great rooms at Windsor--a crowded
company of more than fifty persons, with the imperial matriarch in
their midst. Over them all she ruled with a most potent sway. The small
concerns of the youngest aroused her passionate interest; and the oldest
she treated as if they were children still. The Prince of Wales, in
particular, stood in tremendous awe of his mother. She had steadily
refused to allow him the slightest participation in the business of
government; and he had occupied himself in other ways. Nor could it
be denied that he enjoyed himself--out of her sight; but, in that
redoubtable presence, his abounding manhood suffered a miserable
eclipse. Once, at Osborne, when, owing to no fault of his, he was too
late for a dinner party, he was observed standing behind a pillar and
wiping the sweat from his forehead, trying to nerve himself to go up to
the Queen. When at last he did so, she gave him a stiff nod, whereupon
he vanished immediately behind another pillar, and remained there until
the party broke up. At the time of this incident the Prince of Wales was
over fifty years of age.
It was inevitable that the Queen's domestic activities should
occasionally trench upon the domain of high diplomacy; and this was
especially the case when the interests of her eldest daughter, the
Crown Princess of Prussia, were at stake. The Crown Prince held liberal
opinions; he was much influenced by his wife; and both were detested by
Bismarck, who declared with scurrilous emphasis that the Englishwoman
and her mother were a menace to the Prussian State. The feud was still
further intensified when, on the death of the old Emperor (1888), the
Crown Prince succeeded to the throne. A family entanglement brought on
a violent crisis. One of the daughters of the new Empress had become
betrothed to Prince Alexander of Battenberg, who had lately been
ejected from the throne of Bulgaria owing to the hostility of the Tsar.
Victoria, as well as the Empress, highly approved of the match. Of the
two brothers of Prince Alexander, the elder had married another of her
grand-daughters, and the younger was the husband of her daughter, the
Princess Beatrice; she was devoted to the handsome young man; and she
was delighted by the prospect of the third brother--on the whole the
handsomest, she thought, of the three--also becoming a member of her
family. Unfortunately, however, Bismarck was opposed to the scheme.
He perceived that the marriage would endanger the friendship between
Germany and Russia, which was vital to his foreign policy, and he
announced that it must not take place. A fierce struggle between the
Empress and the Chancellor followed. Victoria, whose hatred of her
daughter's enemy was unbounded, came over to Charlottenburg to join in
the fray. Bismarck, over his pipe and lager, snorted out his alarm. The
Queen of England's object, he said, was clearly political--she wished to
estrange Germany and Russia--and very likely she would have her way. "In
family matters," he added, "she is not used to contradiction;" she would
"bring the parson with her in her travelling bag and the bridegroom in
her trunk, and the marriage would come off on the spot." But the man
of blood and iron was not to be thwarted so easily, and he asked for a
private interview with the Queen. The details of their conversation are
unknown; but it is certain that in the course of it Victoria was forced
to realise the meaning of resistance to that formidable personage, and
that she promised to use all her influence to prevent the marriage. The
engagement was broken off; and in the following year Prince Alexander of
Battenberg united himself to Fraulein Loisinger, an actress at the court
theatre of Darmstad.
But such painful incidents were rare. Victoria was growing very old;
with no Albert to guide her, with no Beaconsfield to enflame her, she
was willing enough to abandon the dangerous questions of diplomacy
to the wisdom of Lord Salisbury, and to concentrate her energies upon
objects which touched her more nearly and over which she could
exercise an undisputed control. Her home--her court--the monuments
at Balmoral--the livestock at Windsor--the organisation of her
engagements--the supervision of the multitudinous details of her daily
routine--such matters played now an even greater part in her existence
than before. Her life passed in an extraordinary exactitude. Every
moment of her day was mapped out beforehand; the succession of her
engagements was immutably fixed; the dates of her journeys--to Osborne,
to Balmoral, to the South of France, to Windsor, to London--were hardly
altered from year to year. She demanded from those who surrounded her
a rigid precision in details, and she was preternaturally quick in
detecting the slightest deviation from the rules which she had laid
down. Such was the irresistible potency of her personality, that
anything but the most implicit obedience to her wishes was felt to be
impossible; but sometimes somebody was unpunctual; and unpunctuality
was one of the most heinous of sins. Then her displeasure--her dreadful
displeasure--became all too visible. At such moments there seemed
nothing surprising in her having been the daughter of a martinet.
But these storms, unnerving as they were while they lasted, were quickly
over, and they grew more and more exceptional. With the return of
happiness a gentle benignity flowed from the aged Queen. Her smile, once
so rare a visitant to those saddened features, flitted over them with an
easy alacrity; the blue eyes beamed; the whole face, starting suddenly
from its pendulous expressionlessness, brightened and softened and cast
over those who watched it an unforgettable charm. For in her last years
there was a fascination in Victoria's amiability which had been lacking
even from the vivid impulse of her youth. Over all who approached
her--or very nearly all--she threw a peculiar spell. Her grandchildren
adored her; her ladies waited upon her with a reverential love. The
honour of serving her obliterated a thousand inconveniences--the
monotony of a court existence, the fatigue of standing, the necessity
for a superhuman attentiveness to the minutia: of time and space. As one
did one's wonderful duty one could forget that one's legs were aching
from the infinitude of the passages at Windsor, or that one's bare arms
were turning blue in the Balmoral cold.
What, above all, seemed to make such service delightful was the detailed
interest which the Queen took in the circumstances of those around
her. Her absorbing passion for the comfortable commonplaces, the small
crises, the recurrent sentimentalities, of domestic life constantly
demanded wider fields for its activity; the sphere of her own family,
vast as it was, was not enough; she became the eager confidante of
the household affairs of her ladies; her sympathies reached out to
the palace domestics; even the housemaids and scullions--so it
appeared--were the objects of her searching inquiries, and of her
heartfelt solicitude when their lovers were ordered to a foreign
station, or their aunts suffered from an attack of rheumatism which was
more than usually acute.
Nevertheless the due distinctions of rank were immaculately preserved.
The Queen's mere presence was enough to ensure that; but, in addition,
the dominion of court etiquette was paramount. For that elaborate code,
which had kept Lord Melbourne stiff upon the sofa and ranged the other
guests in silence about the round table according to the order of
precedence, was as punctiliously enforced as ever. Every evening after
dinner, the hearth-rug, sacred to royalty, loomed before the profane in
inaccessible glory, or, on one or two terrific occasions, actually lured
them magnetically forward to the very edge of the abyss. The Queen, at
the fitting moment, moved towards her guests; one after the other they
were led up to her; and, while dialogue followed dialogue in constraint
and embarrassment, the rest of the assembly stood still, without a word.
Only in one particular was the severity of the etiquette allowed to
lapse. Throughout the greater part of the reign the rule that ministers
must stand during their audiences with the Queen had been absolute. When
Lord Derby, the Prime Minister, had an audience of Her Majesty after
a serious illness, he mentioned it afterwards, as a proof of the royal
favour, that the Queen had remarked "How sorry she was she could not ask
him to be seated." Subsequently, Disraeli, after an attack of gout
and in a moment of extreme expansion on the part of Victoria, had
been offered a chair; but he had thought it wise humbly to decline the
privilege. In her later years, however, the Queen invariably asked Mr.
Gladstone and Lord Salisbury to sit down.
Sometimes the solemnity of the evening was diversified by a concert, an
opera, or even a play. One of the most marked indications of
Victoria's enfranchisement from the thraldom of widowhood had been
her resumption--after an interval of thirty years--of the custom of
commanding dramatic companies from London to perform before the Court at
Windsor. On such occasions her spirits rose high. She loved acting; she
loved a good plot; above all, she loved a farce. Engrossed by everything
that passed upon the stage she would follow, with childlike innocence,
the unwinding of the story; or she would assume an air of knowing
superiority and exclaim in triumph, "There! You didn't expect that, did
you?" when the denouement came. Her sense of humour was of a vigorous
though primitive kind. She had been one of the very few persons who had
always been able to appreciate the Prince Consort's jokes; and, when
those were cracked no more, she could still roar with laughter, in the
privacy of her household, over some small piece of fun--some oddity of
an ambassador, or some ignorant Minister's faux pas. When the jest grew
subtle she was less pleased; but, if it approached the confines of the
indecorous, the danger was serious. To take a liberty called down at
once Her Majesty's most crushing disapprobation; and to say something
improper was to take the greatest liberty of all. Then the royal
lips sank down at the corners, the royal eyes stared in astonished
protrusion, and in fact, the royal countenance became inauspicious in
the highest degree. The transgressor shuddered into silence, while the
awful "We are not amused" annihilated the dinner table. Afterwards,
in her private entourage, the Queen would observe that the person in
question was, she very much feared, "not discreet"; it was a verdict
from which there was no appeal.
In general, her aesthetic tastes had remained unchanged since the days
of Mendelssohn, Landseer, and Lablache. She still delighted in the
roulades of Italian opera; she still demanded a high standard in the
execution of a pianoforte duet. Her views on painting were decided;
Sir Edwin, she declared, was perfect; she was much impressed by Lord
Leighton's manners; and she profoundly distrusted Mr. Watts. From time
to time she ordered engraved portraits to be taken of members of
the royal family; on these occasions she would have the first proofs
submitted to her, and, having inspected them with minute particularity,
she would point out their mistakes to the artists, indicating at the
same time how they might be corrected. The artists invariably discovered
that Her Majesty's suggestions were of the highest value. In literature
her interests were more restricted. She was devoted to Lord Tennyson;
and, as the Prince Consort had admired George Eliot, she perused
"Middlemarch:" she was disappointed. There is reason to believe,
however, that the romances of another female writer, whose popularity
among the humbler classes of Her Majesty's subjects was at one time
enormous, secured, no less, the approval of Her Majesty. Otherwise she
did not read very much.
Once, however, the Queen's attention was drawn to a publication which it
was impossible for her to ignore. "The Greville Memoirs," filled with a
mass of historical information of extraordinary importance, but filled
also with descriptions, which were by no means flattering, of George
IV, William IV, and other royal persons, was brought out by Mr. Reeve.
Victoria read the book, and was appalled. It was, she declared, a
"dreadful and really scandalous book," and she could not say "how
HORRIFIED and INDIGNANT" she was at Greville's "indiscretion,
indelicacy, ingratitude towards friends, betrayal of confidence and
shameful disloyalty towards his Sovereign." She wrote to Disraeli to
tell him that in her opinion it was "VERY IMPORTANT that the book should
be severely censured and discredited." "The tone in which he speaks of
royalty," she added, "is unlike anything one sees in history even,
and is most reprehensible." Her anger was directed with almost equal
vehemence against Mr. Reeve for his having published "such an abominable
book," and she charged Sir Arthur Helps to convey to him her deep
displeasure. Mr. Reeve, however, was impenitent. When Sir Arthur told
him that, in the Queen's opinion, "the book degraded royalty," he
replied: "Not at all; it elevates it by the contrast it offers between
the present and the defunct state of affairs." But this adroit defence
failed to make any impression upon Victoria; and Mr. Reeve, when he
retired from the public service, did not receive the knighthood which
custom entitled him to expect. Perhaps if the Queen had known how many
caustic comments upon herself Mr. Reeve had quietly suppressed in the
published Memoirs, she would have been almost grateful to him; but, in
that case, what would she have said of Greville? Imagination boggles at
the thought. As for more modern essays upon the same topic, Her Majesty,
it is to be feared, would have characterised them as "not discreet."
But as a rule the leisure hours of that active life were occupied with
recreations of a less intangible quality than the study of literature or
the appreciation of art. Victoria was a woman not only of vast property
but of innumerable possessions. She had inherited an immense quantity
of furniture, of ornaments, of china, of plate, of valuable objects of
every kind; her purchases, throughout a long life, made a formidable
addition to these stores; and there flowed in upon her, besides, from
every quarter of the globe, a constant stream of gifts. Over this
enormous mass she exercised an unceasing and minute supervision, and the
arrangement and the contemplation of it, in all its details, filled her
with an intimate satisfaction. The collecting instinct has its roots in
the very depths of human nature; and, in the case of Victoria, it seemed
to owe its force to two of her dominating impulses--the intense sense,
which had always been hers, of her own personality, and the craving
which, growing with the years, had become in her old age almost an
obsession, for fixity, for solidity, for the setting up of palpable
barriers against the outrages of change and time. When she considered
the multitudinous objects which belonged to her, or, better still, when,
choosing out some section of them as the fancy took her, she actually
savoured the vivid richness of their individual qualities, she saw
herself deliciously reflected from a million facets, felt herself
magnified miraculously over a boundless area, and was well pleased.
That was just as it should be; but then came the dismaying
thought--everything slips away, crumbles, vanishes; Sevres
dinner-services get broken; even golden basins go unaccountably astray;
even one's self, with all the recollections and experiences that make
up one's being, fluctuates, perishes, dissolves... But no! It could
not, should not be so! There should be no changes and no losses! Nothing
should ever move--neither the past nor the present--and she herself
least of all! And so the tenacious woman, hoarding her valuables,
decreed their immortality with all the resolution of her soul. She would
not lose one memory or one pin.
She gave orders that nothing should be thrown away--and nothing was.
There, in drawer after drawer, in wardrobe after wardrobe, reposed the
dresses of seventy years. But not only the dresses--the furs and the
mantles and subsidiary frills and the muffs and the parasols and the
bonnets--all were ranged in chronological order, dated and complete. A
great cupboard was devoted to the dolls; in the china room at Windsor a
special table held the mugs of her childhood, and her children's mugs as
well. Mementoes of the past surrounded her in serried accumulations.
In every room the tables were powdered thick with the photographs of
relatives; their portraits, revealing them at all ages, covered the
walls; their figures, in solid marble, rose up from pedestals, or
gleamed from brackets in the form of gold and silver statuettes. The
dead, in every shape--in miniatures, in porcelain, in enormous life-size
oil-paintings--were perpetually about her. John Brown stood upon her
writing-table in solid gold. Her favourite horses and dogs, endowed with
a new durability, crowded round her footsteps. Sharp, in silver gilt,
dominated the dinner table; Boy and Boz lay together among unfading
flowers, in bronze. And it was not enough that each particle of the
past should be given the stability of metal or of marble: the whole
collection, in its arrangement, no less than its entity, should be
immutably fixed. There might be additions, but there might never be
alterations. No chintz might change, no carpet, no curtain, be replaced
by another; or, if long use at last made it necessary, the stuffs and
the patterns must be so identically reproduced that the keenest eye
might not detect the difference. No new picture could be hung upon the
walls at Windsor, for those already there had been put in their places
by Albert, whose decisions were eternal. So, indeed, were Victoria's.
To ensure that they should be the aid of the camera was called in. Every
single article in the Queen's possession was photographed from several
points of view. These photographs were submitted to Her Majesty, and
when, after careful inspection, she had approved of them, they were
placed in a series of albums, richly bound. Then, opposite each
photograph, an entry was made, indicating the number of the article, the
number of the room in which it was kept, its exact position in the room
and all its principal characteristics. The fate of every object which
had undergone this process was henceforth irrevocably sealed. The
whole multitude, once and for all, took up its steadfast station. And
Victoria, with a gigantic volume or two of the endless catalogue always
beside her, to look through, to ponder upon, to expatiate over, could
feel, with a double contentment, that the transitoriness of this world
had been arrested by the amplitude of her might.
Thus the collection, ever multiplying, ever encroaching upon new fields
of consciousness, ever rooting itself more firmly in the depths of
instinct, became one of the dominating influences of that strange
existence. It was a collection not merely of things and of thoughts,
but of states of mind and ways of living as well. The celebration of
anniversaries grew to be an important branch of it--of birthdays and
marriage days and death days, each of which demanded its appropriate
feeling, which, in its turn, must be itself expressed in an appropriate
outward form. And the form, of course--the ceremony of rejoicing
or lamentation--was stereotyped with the rest: it was part of the
collection. On a certain day, for instance, flowers must be strewn on
John Brown's monument at Balmoral; and the date of the yearly departure
for Scotland was fixed by that fact. Inevitably it was around the
central circumstance of death--death, the final witness to human
mutability--that these commemorative cravings clustered most thickly.
Might not even death itself be humbled, if one could recall enough--if
one asserted, with a sufficiently passionate and reiterated emphasis,
the eternity of love? Accordingly, every bed in which Victoria slept had
attached to it, at the back, on the right-hand side, above the pillow,
a photograph of the head and shoulders of Albert as he lay dead,
surmounted by a wreath of immortelles. At Balmoral, where memories came
crowding so closely, the solid signs of memory appeared in surprising
profusion. Obelisks, pyramids, tombs, statues, cairns, and seats of
inscribed granite, proclaimed Victoria's dedication to the dead. There,
twice a year, on the days that followed her arrival, a solemn
pilgrimage of inspection and meditation was performed. There, on August
26--Albert's birthday--at the foot of the bronze statue of him in
Highland dress, the Queen, her family, her Court, her servants, and her
tenantry, met together and in silence drank to the memory of the dead.
In England the tokens of remembrance pullulated hardly less. Not a
day passed without some addition to the multifold assemblage--a gold
statuette of Ross, the piper--a life-sized marble group of Victoria and
Albert, in medieval costume, inscribed upon the base with the words:
"Allured to brighter worlds and led the way-" a granite slab in the
shrubbery at Osborne, informing the visitor of "Waldmann: the very
favourite little dachshund of Queen Victoria; who brought him from
Baden, April 1872; died, July 11, 1881."
At Frogmore, the great mausoleum, perpetually enriched, was visited
almost daily by the Queen when the Court was at Windsor. But there was
another, a more secret and a hardly less holy shrine. The suite of rooms
which Albert had occupied in the Castle was kept for ever shut away
from the eyes of any save the most privileged. Within those precincts
everything remained as it had been at the Prince's death; but the
mysterious preoccupation of Victoria had commanded that her husband's
clothing should be laid afresh, each evening, upon the bed, and that,
each evening, the water should be set ready in the basin, as if he were
still alive; and this incredible rite was performed with scrupulous
regularity for nearly forty years.
Such was the inner worship; and still the flesh obeyed the spirit; still
the daily hours of labour proclaimed Victoria's consecration to duty
and to the ideal of the dead. Yet, with the years, the sense of
self-sacrifice faded; the natural energies of that ardent being
discharged themselves with satisfaction into the channel of public work;
the love of business which, from her girlhood, had been strong within
her, reasserted itself in all its vigour, and, in her old age, to
have been cut off from her papers and her boxes would have been, not a
relief, but an agony to Victoria. Thus, though toiling Ministers might
sigh and suffer, the whole process of government continued, till the
very end, to pass before her. Nor was that all; ancient precedent
had made the validity of an enormous number of official transactions
dependent upon the application of the royal sign-manual; and a great
proportion of the Queen's working hours was spent in this mechanical
task. Nor did she show any desire to diminish it. On the contrary, she
voluntarily resumed the duty of signing commissions in the army, from
which she had been set free by Act of Parliament, and from which,
during the years of middle life, she had abstained. In no case would she
countenance the proposal that she should use a stamp. But, at last, when
the increasing pressure of business made the delays of the antiquated
system intolerable, she consented that, for certain classes of
documents, her oral sanction should be sufficient. Each paper was read
aloud to her, and she said at the end "Approved." Often, for hours at a
time, she would sit, with Albert's bust in front of her, while the word
"Approved" issued at intervals from her lips. The word came forth with
a majestic sonority; for her voice now--how changed from the silvery
treble of her girlhood--was a contralto, full and strong.
IV
The final years were years of apotheosis. In the dazzled imagination
of her subjects Victoria soared aloft towards the regions of divinity
through a nimbus of purest glory. Criticism fell dumb; deficiencies
which, twenty years earlier, would have been universally admitted, were
now as universally ignored. That the nation's idol was a very incomplete
representative of the nation was a circumstance that was hardly noticed,
and yet it was conspicuously true. For the vast changes which, out of
the England of 1837, had produced the England of 1897, seemed scarcely
to have touched the Queen. The immense industrial development of the
period, the significance of which had been so thoroughly understood
by Albert, meant little indeed to Victoria. The amazing scientific
movement, which Albert had appreciated no less, left Victoria perfectly
cold. Her conception of the universe, and of man's place in it, and of
the stupendous problems of nature and philosophy remained, throughout
her life, entirely unchanged. Her religion was the religion which she
had learnt from the Baroness Lehzen and the Duchess of Kent. Here, too,
it might have been supposed that Albert's views might have influenced
her. For Albert, in matters of religion, was advanced. Disbelieving
altogether in evil spirits, he had had his doubts about the miracle
of the Gaderene Swine. Stockmar, even, had thrown out, in a remarkable
memorandum on the education of the Prince of Wales, the suggestion that
while the child "must unquestionably be brought up in the creed of the
Church of England," it might nevertheless be in accordance with
the spirit of the times to exclude from his religious training the
inculcation of a belief in "the supernatural doctrines of Christianity."
This, however, would have been going too far; and all the royal children
were brought up in complete orthodoxy. Anything else would have grieved
Victoria, though her own conceptions of the orthodox were not very
precise. But her nature, in which imagination and subtlety held so small
a place, made her instinctively recoil from the intricate ecstasies
of High Anglicanism; and she seemed to feel most at home in the simple
faith of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland. This was what might have
been expected; for Lehzen was the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, and the
Lutherans and the Presbyterians have much in common. For many years Dr.
Norman Macleod, an innocent Scotch minister, was her principal spiritual
adviser; and, when he was taken from her, she drew much comfort from
quiet chats about life and death with the cottagers at Balmoral.
Her piety, absolutely genuine, found what it wanted in the sober
exhortations of old John Grant and the devout saws of Mrs. P.
Farquharson. They possessed the qualities, which, as a child of
fourteen, she had so sincerely admired in the Bishop of Chester's
"Exposition of the Gospel of St. Matthew;" they were "just plain and
comprehensible and full of truth and good feeling." The Queen, who gave
her name to the Age of Mill and of Darwin, never got any further than
that.
From the social movements of her time Victoria was equally remote.
Towards the smallest no less than towards the greatest changes she
remained inflexible. During her youth and middle age smoking had been
forbidden in polite society, and so long as she lived she would not
withdraw her anathema against it. Kings might protest; bishops and
ambassadors, invited to Windsor, might be reduced, in the privacy of
their bedrooms, to lie full-length upon the floor and smoke up the
chimney--the interdict continued! It might have been supposed that a
female sovereign would have lent her countenance to one of the most
vital of all the reforms to which her epoch gave birth--the emancipation
of women--but, on the contrary, the mere mention of such a proposal sent
the blood rushing to her head. In 1870, her eye having fallen upon the
report of a meeting in favour of Women's Suffrage, she wrote to Mr.
Martin in royal rage--"The Queen is most anxious to enlist everyone
who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of
'Woman's Rights,' with all its attendant horrors, on which her poor
feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly feeling and
propriety. Lady--ought to get a GOOD WHIPPING. It is a subject which
makes the Queen so furious that she cannot contain herself. God
created men and women different--then let them remain each in their own
position. Tennyson has some beautiful lines on the difference of men and
women in 'The Princess.' Woman would become the most hateful, heartless,
and disgusting of human beings were she allowed to unsex herself; and
where would be the protection which man was intended to give the weaker
sex? The Queen is sure that Mrs. Martin agrees with her." The argument
was irrefutable; Mrs. Martin agreed; and yet the canker spread.
In another direction Victoria's comprehension of the spirit of her age
has been constantly asserted. It was for long the custom for courtly
historians and polite politicians to compliment the Queen upon the
correctness of her attitude towards the Constitution. But such praises
seem hardly to be justified by the facts. In her later years Victoria
more than once alluded with regret to her conduct during the Bedchamber
crisis, and let it be understood that she had grown wiser since. Yet
in truth it is difficult to trace any fundamental change either in her
theory or her practice in constitutional matters throughout her life.
The same despotic and personal spirit which led her to break off the
negotiations with Peel is equally visible in her animosity towards
Palmerston, in her threats of abdication to Disraeli, and in her desire
to prosecute the Duke of Westminster for attending a meeting upon
Bulgarian atrocities. The complex and delicate principles of the
Constitution cannot be said to have come within the compass of her
mental faculties; and in the actual developments which it underwent
during her reign she played a passive part. From 1840 to 1861 the
power of the Crown steadily increased in England; from 1861 to 1901 it
steadily declined. The first process was due to the influence of the
Prince Consort, the second to that of a series of great Ministers.
During the first Victoria was in effect a mere accessory; during the
second the threads of power, which Albert had so laboriously collected,
inevitably fell from her hands into the vigorous grasp of Mr. Gladstone,
Lord Beaconsfield, and Lord Salisbury. Perhaps, absorbed as she was in
routine, and difficult as she found it to distinguish at all clearly
between the trivial and the essential, she was only dimly aware of what
was happening. Yet, at the end of her reign, the Crown was weaker than
at any other time in English history. Paradoxically enough, Victoria
received the highest eulogiums for assenting to a political evolution,
which, had she completely realised its import, would have filled her
with supreme displeasure.
Nevertheless it must not be supposed that she was a second George III.
Her desire to impose her will, vehement as it was, and unlimited by any
principle, was yet checked by a certain shrewdness. She might oppose
her Ministers with extraordinary violence, she might remain utterly
impervious to arguments and supplications; the pertinacity of her
resolution might seem to be unconquerable; but, at the very last moment
of all, her obstinacy would give way. Her innate respect and capacity
for business, and perhaps, too, the memory of Albert's scrupulous
avoidance of extreme courses, prevented her from ever entering an
impasse. By instinct she understood when the facts were too much for
her, and to them she invariably yielded. After all, what else could she
do?
But if, in all these ways, the Queen and her epoch were profoundly
separated, the points of contact between them also were not few.
Victoria understood very well the meaning and the attractions of power
and property, and in such learning the English nation, too, had grown
to be more and more proficient. During the last fifteen years of the
reign--for the short Liberal Administration of 1892 was a mere interlude
imperialism was the dominant creed of the country. It was Victoria's
as well. In this direction, if in no other, she had allowed her mind to
develop. Under Disraeli's tutelage the British Dominions over the seas
had come to mean much more to her than ever before, and, in particular,
she had grown enamoured of the East. The thought of India fascinated
her; she set to, and learnt a little Hindustani; she engaged some Indian
servants, who became her inseparable attendants, and one of whom, Munshi
Abdul Karim, eventually almost succeeded to the position which had
once been John Brown's. At the same time, the imperialist temper of the
nation invested her office with a new significance exactly harmonising
with her own inmost proclivities. The English polity was in the main
a common-sense structure, but there was always a corner in it where
common-sense could not enter--where, somehow or other, the ordinary
measurements were not applicable and the ordinary rules did not apply.
So our ancestors had laid it down, giving scope, in their wisdom, to
that mystical element which, as it seems, can never quite be eradicated
from the affairs of men. Naturally it was in the Crown that the
mysticism of the English polity was concentrated--the Crown, with its
venerable antiquity, its sacred associations, its imposing spectacular
array. But, for nearly two centuries, common-sense had been predominant
in the great building, and the little, unexplored, inexplicable corner
had attracted small attention. Then, with the rise of imperialism, there
was a change. For imperialism is a faith as well as a business; as
it grew, the mysticism in English public life grew with it; and
simultaneously a new importance began to attach to the Crown. The
need for a symbol--a symbol of England's might, of England's worth,
of England's extraordinary and mysterious destiny--became felt more
urgently than ever before. The Crown was that symbol: and the Crown
rested upon the head of Victoria. Thus it happened that while by the end
of the reign the power of the sovereign had appreciably diminished, the
prestige of the sovereign had enormously grown.
Yet this prestige was not merely the outcome of public changes; it was
an intensely personal matter, too. Victoria was the Queen of England,
the Empress of India, the quintessential pivot round which the whole
magnificent machine was revolving--but how much more besides! For one
thing, she was of a great age--an almost indispensable qualification for
popularity in England. She had given proof of one of the most admired
characteristics of the race--persistent vitality. She had reigned for
sixty years, and she was not out. And then, she was a character. The
outlines of her nature were firmly drawn, and, even through the mists
which envelop royalty, clearly visible. In the popular imagination her
familiar figure filled, with satisfying ease, a distinct and memorable
place. It was, besides, the kind of figure which naturally called forth
the admiring sympathy of the great majority of the nation. Goodness they
prized above every other human quality; and Victoria, who had said
that she would be good at the age of twelve, had kept her word. Duty,
conscience, morality--yes! in the light of those high beacons the
Queen had always lived. She had passed her days in work and not in
pleasure--in public responsibilities and family cares. The standard
of solid virtue which had been set up so long ago amid the domestic
happiness of Osborne had never been lowered for an instant. For more
than half a century no divorced lady had approached the precincts of the
Court. Victoria, indeed, in her enthusiasm for wifely fidelity, had laid
down a still stricter ordinance: she frowned severely upon any widow
who married again. Considering that she herself was the offspring of
a widow's second marriage, this prohibition might be regarded as an
eccentricity; but, no doubt, it was an eccentricity on the right side.
The middle classes, firm in the triple brass of their respectability,
rejoiced with a special joy over the most respectable of Queens. They
almost claimed her, indeed, as one of themselves; but this would have
been an exaggeration. For, though many of her characteristics were most
often found among the middle classes, in other respects--in her manners,
for instance--Victoria was decidedly aristocratic. And, in one important
particular, she was neither aristocratic nor middle-class: her attitude
toward herself was simply regal.
Such qualities were obvious and important; but, in the impact of a
personality, it is something deeper, something fundamental and common to
all its qualities, that really tells. In Victoria, it is easy to discern
the nature of this underlying element: it was a peculiar sincerity. Her
truthfulness, her single-mindedness, the vividness of her emotions and
her unrestrained expression of them, were the varied forms which this
central characteristic assumed. It was her sincerity which gave her at
once her impressiveness, her charm, and her absurdity. She moved
through life with the imposing certitude of one to whom concealment was
impossible--either towards her surroundings or towards herself. There
she was, all of her--the Queen of England, complete and obvious; the
world might take her or leave her; she had nothing more to show, or to
explain, or to modify; and, with her peerless carriage, she swept along
her path. And not only was concealment out of the question; reticence,
reserve, even dignity itself, as it sometimes seemed, might be very well
dispensed with. As Lady Lyttelton said: "There is a transparency in her
truth that is very striking--not a shade of exaggeration in describing
feelings or facts; like very few other people I ever knew. Many may be
as true, but I think it goes often along with some reserve. She talks
all out; just as it is, no more and no less." She talked all out; and
she wrote all out, too. Her letters, in the surprising jet of their
expression, remind one of a turned-on tap. What is within pours forth
in an immediate, spontaneous rush. Her utterly unliterary style has at
least the merit of being a vehicle exactly suited to her thoughts and
feelings; and even the platitude of her phraseology carries with it a
curiously personal flavour. Undoubtedly it was through her writings that
she touched the heart of the public. Not only in her "Highland Journals"
where the mild chronicle of her private proceedings was laid bare
without a trace either of affectation or of embarrassment, but also in
those remarkable messages to the nation which, from time to time, she
published in the newspapers, her people found her very close to them
indeed. They felt instinctively Victoria's irresistible sincerity, and
they responded. And in truth it was an endearing trait.
The personality and the position, too--the wonderful combination of
them--that, perhaps, was what was finally fascinating in the case. The
little old lady, with her white hair and her plain mourning clothes,
in her wheeled chair or her donkey-carriage--one saw her so; and
then--close behind--with their immediate suggestion of singularity,
of mystery, and of power--the Indian servants. That was the familiar
vision, and it was admirable; but, at chosen moments, it was right that
the widow of Windsor should step forth apparent Queen. The last and the
most glorious of such occasions was the Jubilee of 1897. Then, as
the splendid procession passed along, escorting Victoria through the
thronged re-echoing streets of London on her progress of thanksgiving
to St. Paul's Cathedral, the greatness of her realm and the adoration
of her subjects blazed out together. The tears welled to her eyes, and,
while the multitude roared round her, "How kind they are to me! How kind
they are!" she repeated over and over again. That night her message flew
over the Empire: "From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless
them!" The long journey was nearly done. But the traveller, who had
come so far, and through such strange experiences, moved on with the
old unfaltering step. The girl, the wife, the aged woman, were the same:
vitality, conscientiousness, pride, and simplicity were hers to the
latest hour.