Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (59 page)

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

T
HEN SOMETHING HAPPENED THAT TOOK PEOPLE'S MINDS OFF
mutiny. A man called Felice Orsini, in company with three others, had attempted to assassinate Napoleon III. We were horrified. Apparently the Emperor and Empress were in their carriage on the way to the opera when these men threw three bombs at the carriage. Although the Emperor and Empress were unhurt, ten people were killed and a hundred and fifty wounded. The men responsible were arrested; and the unfortunate fact was that Orsini had been living in England and the bombs had been made in our country, which drew us into it in a measure and I should have been more comfortable if they had been somewhere else, for the incident created a distinct coolness between us and the French, which was disappointing after all the efforts we had made to bring about friendly relations.

Orsini was a revolutionary and his great object was to bring Italy to revolt. In his opinion Napoleon was one of those who had helped to prevent it. Hence his desire to kill him.

It was a horrible incident to have taken place, just as we were about to celebrate the wedding. I was so relieved that the Emperor had survived this wicked attack, and sent dispatches congratulating him on his escape.

We could not however let all this prevent our going ahead with the preparations for Vicky's wedding, which was fixed for the twenty-fifth of January; and a week or so before that, members of Albert's family began to arrive at Buckingham Palace. It was very touching to see dear Uncle Leopold again. He had aged considerably. Aunt Louise's death had been a great blow to him, and before that there had been all the trouble about her father's fall from power. It was sad what the years could do. Albert's brother, Ernest, was present, as debonair as ever and Albert was delighted to see him. The bridegroom's parents were naturally among the guests. What a large gathering it was! I must say that, though I found the older
German relations very pleasant, I did not greatly care for the younger men with their exaggerated mustaches and saber cuts on their faces of which they were so proud because they had received them in dueling. Honorable scars, they called them. I called them evidence of folly!

Poor Albert was torn between the delight of seeing his family and the prospect of losing Vicky, which was making him more and more depressed every day.

There was a state dinner party, which was a very grand affair; a gala performance of
Macbeth
was given at Her Majesty's Theater in honor of the wedding; and there was a grand ball.

And then the great day had come. I could not but be reminded of my own wedding day. So much had happened since that glorious day when Albert and I were married. I had grown so far from that frivolous, pleasure-loving girl who thought the height of bliss was to stay up dancing into the early hours of morning. Albert had taught me so much. What a lot I owed him. What a lot the country owed him. However could I have lived through those years without him! And now here I was, Queen of this beloved country, mother of nine children. No wonder I was overcome with emotion; it was happy emotion. Not so Albert's. He could not bear the thought of parting with his daughter.

I wrote a note to Vicky as soon as I awoke. I found such relief in writing; it was always so much easier to say what I had in my mind if I put it on paper. I told her how important marriage was; it was a holy and intimate union, and that I believed it meant more to women than to men.

Vicky came in while I was dressing; she kissed me with emotion and thanked me for my note. She gave me a brooch containing a lock of her hair, and said she hoped she would be worthy of me, which touched me deeply.

She wanted to be dressed in my room so that I could tell her if all was well. How enchanting she looked in her white silk gown trimmed with Honiton lace. Albert came in and Vicky was daguerreotyped with us. It was very moving and I could not keep still, and so it came out rather blurred. And then it was time to go.

When we left Buckingham Palace for St. James's, the streets were filled with cheering crowds. It was so like that other day eighteen years ago—and yet so different. Memories were certain to come on such a day. In Vicky's place I saw myself—a young and innocent girl, perhaps more innocent than Vicky. Young people were more advanced than they used to be, and I had led a very sheltered life. Oh yes, changes indeed. Lord
Palmerston carried the Sword of State. I could not help being reminded of my poor dear Lord Melbourne who had been so proud of me on that day. I remembered how he had looked at me with tears in his eyes, and afterward he had said, “You did splendidly, Ma'am.” Such a wonderful comfort that had been to me.

And now it was Vicky's turn.

I was glad to see Mama there looking so splendid in violet-colored velvet trimmed with ermine, and white and violet silk. Trust Mama to wear royal colors! I could not help recalling how, at the time of my wedding, we had not been good friends. How everything had changed! Albert had taught me—and perhaps Mama as well—to be more tolerant, and how much happier we were now that we were good friends! Mama's great delight was in the children; she loved them dearly and when they were naughty she used to beg that they should not be punished because their crying hurt her so. How different she had been with her own daughter! I shall never forget the sudden sharp jab of the holly I had been forced to wear under my chin.

I kept Arthur and Leopold beside me. I had impressed on them the solemnity of the occasion and the necessity for good behavior. They were very impressed.

Then I saw Vicky come forward between Albert and Uncle Leopold, and Fritz looking pale and agitated but very tender.

It was moving to see those two dear young people now married, walking down the aisle to the strains of Mr. Mendelssohn's “Wedding March.”

Then back to Buckingham Palace, and we stepped through the celebrated window while below the crowds cheered wildly.

It was a wonderful day of mixed emotions. Later the young couple drove off to Windsor for a few days' honeymoon.

T
HE DAY FOR
Vicky's departure was fast approaching. I was not looking forward to it because I knew how heartbreaking it was going to be to say goodbye to my daughter. I knew that at times I had wished she had not been a third party at those cozy dinners; but all the same she was my daughter; and the fact that she was now married seemed to bring her closer to me. I began to worry about the sort of life she would have in Prussia. She had been rather spoiled at home; I wondered whether her new family would be as doting as we—or rather Albert—had been.

The children wept bitterly and loudly when it was time to say goodbye
and I tried to hold back my tears. Albert looked wan and ill and really heartbroken. He was going with them to Gravesend where they would embark. He must be with his daughter for as long as he possibly could.

As the carriage drove away it began to snow, and I watched the flakes through a blur of tears thinking how alarmingly quickly time passed, and that my little daughter was now a married woman.

When Albert came back from saying goodbye I could see he was really stricken.

I tried to comfort him, to tell him that I shared his sorrow; but he did not believe that. He would remember my petty jealousy of my daughter. He believed that the great sorrow was his. He would like to shut himself away to mourn, but I would not let him do that. He looked so ill I must share his sorrow.

I went to his room. He was at the table writing and I knew to whom. There were tears on his cheeks. I went to him and put my arms about him, and looking over his shoulder read:

It was the letter a lover might have written, and Albert loved Vicky… deeply… perhaps more than he had ever loved anyone else.

I would not think of that. Vicky was gone; and Albert was
my
husband. I would comfort him. I would share his sorrow.

“Oh Albert,” I said, “let us comfort each other.”

And we clung together weeping.

I
WAS WRITING
to Vicky every day. I felt there was so much she ought to know. She wrote in return but not so frequently. She was romantic. No doubt she thought that marriage was all bliss; she would have to learn about the shadow side. I hoped she would not do that too soon.

I wanted confidences. I longed to help. I would have liked a detailed account of every day of her new life. How were they treating her, those Prussians? Did they appreciate the honor that had come to them
through marriage with British royalty? Were they giving her the respect due to her?

Vicky wrote back a little guardedly. She loved Fritz and that made everything all right. She was not sure what the Prussians thought of her. They did think she was rather small.

“Small!” I cried in indignation. “She is taller than I, and I am not a dwarf!”

I did feel she needed to be warned. I wrote to her telling her that even the noblest men could be self-centered when it came to marriage. Women were expected to be submissive to them and sometimes that could be humiliating.

I was disturbed when I heard that Vicky was pregnant.

“It is far too early,” I said.

Albert was so disturbed that he went to Prussia at the end of May to assure himself that she was all right.

He came back less worried. Vicky was well and looking forward to the birth of the child, which was due in January.

In August, Albert and I visited her. It was five months before the child was due and Vicky appeared to be in good health. It was good to be with her again though I should have liked to be there with her alone so that we could have shared confidences. It must have been the one time in my life when I had not wished for Albert's company.

I told Vicky that I longed to be at her bedside when her child was born. I said, “It is a right which the humblest mother can claim.”

“But you, dearest Mama, are not the humblest mother. You are the Queen.”

I sighed and contented myself with giving Vicky advice, warning her—without alarming her unduly—of the ordeal that lay ahead. When I looked back over my own experiences I thought how humiliating it was. Why hadn't nature thought of a different way of reproducing the race? Why should there be times in a woman's life when she must feel like an animal…a cow for instance.

When we returned I continued to write to Vicky daily; Albert told me that I should not do so.

“Do you not see that you are tiring Vicky with this perpetual correspondence?” he asked. “She has enough to think of. She cannot answer your letters. She is being well cared for. She does not need your advice.”

“I suppose,” I retorted, “
you
want to be the only one who writes to Vicky.”

He sighed. “I have heard from Stockmar that if you go on writing these letters to our daughter, she will be ill. You must stop meddling with these trivialities.”

“It is a very sad thing,” I replied, “when one writes in spite of fatigue and trouble to be told that it bores the person to whom one writes.”

Albert assumed the patient manner and called me his dear child. “Vicky is trying to adjust to life in a country that is not of her birth. She is going through a difficult time. Please, my love, do try to understand.”

“Do you think I don't understand? Do you think my thoughts are not with her every hour of the day?”

And so it went on.

But, of course, I did write less frequently to Vicky; but that did not stop my worrying about her.

It was strange but I was closer to her now that she was absent than I had been when she was with me.

In January, there was news from Prussia. Vicky had a son—Wilhelm—and hers had been a long and difficult labor.

I wrote to her at once: “My precious darling, you suffered much more than I ever did. How I wish I could have lightened your burden.”

I felt moved and angry that women should have to suffer so much.

W
E WERE SUDDENLY
in the middle of a ministerial crisis due to the reverberations of the Orsini affair. This was because it was proved without doubt that the conspirators had actually hatched their plot in England. The French Foreign Minister, Walewski, sent a strongly worded note to Lord Palmerston demanding that foreigners rebelling against their own countries should not be given refuge in England. Palmerston's response was to introduce a rather weak Bill making conspiracy to murder an offense.

Palmerston was still an unpopular politician at this time and his enemies—those who sought his post—saw a good excuse for getting rid of him. I thought it was a good Bill but the verdict was that Palmerston was weakly giving way to his old friend Napoleon; and the Bill was defeated. Palmerston resigned, and I had no alternative but to summon Lord Derby, who was able to form a ministry.