 Chapter 1 of Queen Victoria. Chapter 1. Antecedents. 1. On November 6, 1817, died the Princess Charlotte, only child of the Prince Regent and heir to the Crown of England. Her short life had hardly been a happy one. By nature impulsive, capricious and vehement, she had always longed for liberty, and she had never possessed it. She had been brought up among violent family quarrels, had been early separated from her disreputable and eccentric mother, and handed over to the care of her disreputable and selfish father. When she was seventeen he decided to marry her off to the Prince of Orange. She at first acquiesced, but suddenly falling in love with Prince Augustus of Prussia, she determined to break off the engagement. This was not her first love affair, for she had previously carried on a clandestine correspondence with a Captain Hess. Prince Augustus was already married, morganetically, but she did not know it, and he did not tell her. While she was spinning out the negotiations with the Prince of Orange, the allied sovereign, it was June 1814, arrived in London to celebrate their victory. Among them, in the suite of the Emperor of Russia, was the young and handsome Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. He made several attempts to attract the notice of the Princess, but she, with her heart elsewhere, paid very little attention. Next month the Prince Regent, discovering that his daughter was having secret meetings with Prince Augustus, suddenly appeared upon the scene, and after dismissing her household, sentenced her to a strict seclusion in Windsor Park. God Almighty grant me patience, she exclaimed, falling on her knees in an agony of agitation. Then she jumped up, ran down the back stairs and out into the street, hailed the passing cab, and drove to her mother's house in Bayswater. She was discovered, pursued, and at length yielding to the persuasions of her uncles, the dukes of York and Sussex, of Broham and of the Bishop of Salisbury, she returned to Carleton House at two o'clock in the morning. She was immured at Windsor, but no more was heard of the Prince of Orange. Prince Augustus too disappeared. The way was at last open to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. This Prince was clever enough to get round the Regent, to impress the ministers, and to make friends with another of the Princess's uncles, the Duke of Kent. Through the Duke he was able to communicate privately with the Princess, who now declared that he was necessary to her happiness. When, after Waterloo, he was in Paris, the Duke's aide-de-camp carried letters backwards and forwards across the Channel. In January 1816 he was invited to England, and in May the marriage took place. The character of Prince Leopold contrasted strangely with that of his wife. The younger son of a German Princeling, he was at this time twenty-six years of age. He had served with distinction in the war against Napoleon. He had shown considerable diplomatic skill at the Congress of Vienna. And he was now to try his hand at the task of taming a tumultuous Princess. Cold and formal in manner, collected in speech, careful in action, he soon dominated the wild, impetuous, generous creature by his side. There was much in her, he found, of which he could not approve. She quizzed, she stamped, she roared with laughter, she had very little of that self-command, which is especially required of princes. Her manners were abominable. Of the latter he was a good judge having moved as he himself explained to his niece many years later, in the best society of Europe, being in fact what is called in French de la fleur des pois. There was continual friction, but every scene ended in the same way. Standing before him like a rebellious boy in petticoats, her body pushed forward, her hands behind her back with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes, she would declare at last that she was ready to do whatever he wanted. "'If you wish it, I will do it,' she would say. "'I want nothing for myself.'" He invariably answered, "'When I press something on you, it is from a conviction that it is for your interest and for your good.' Among the members of the household at Clermont, near Escher, where the royal pair were established, was a young German physician, Christian Friedrich Stockmar. He was the son of a minor magistrate in Coburg, and after taking part as a medical officer in the war, he had settled down as a doctor in his native town. Here he had met Prince Leopold, who had been struck by his ability, and on his marriage, brought him to England as his personal physician. A curious fate awaited this young man. Many were the gifts which the future held in store for him, many in various—influence, power, mystery, unhappiness, a broken heart. At Clermont his position was a very humble one, but the princess took a fancy to him, called him stocky, and romped with him along the corridors. Dispeptic by constitution, melancholic by temperament, he could yet be lively on occasion, and was known as a wit in Coburg. He was virtuous, too, and served the royal menage with approbation. My master, he wrote in his diary, is the best of all husbands in all the five quarters of the globe, and his wife bears him an amount of love, the greatness of which can only be compared with the English national debt. Before long he gave proof of another quality, a quality which was to color the whole of his life cautious sagacity. When in the spring of 1817 it was known that the princess was expecting a child, the post of one of her physicians in ordinary was offered to him, and he had the good sense to refuse it. He perceived that his colleagues would be jealous of him, that his advice would probably not be taken, but that if anything were to go wrong it would be certainly the foreign doctor who would be blamed. Very soon, indeed, he came to the opinion that the low diet and constant bleeding to which the unfortunate princess was subjected were an error. He drew the prince aside and begged him to communicate this opinion to the English doctors, but it was useless. The fashionable lowering treatment was continued for months. On November 5th, at nine o'clock in the evening, after a labor of over fifty hours, the princess was delivered of a dead boy. At midnight her exhausted strength gave way. When at last Stockmar consented to see her, he went in and found her obviously dying, while the doctors were plying her with wine. She seized his hand and pressed it. "'They have made me tipsy,' she said. After a little he left her, and was already in the next room when he heard her call out in her loud voice, "'Stocky! Stocky!' as he ran back the death-rattle was in her throat. She tossed herself violently from side to side, then suddenly drew up her legs, and it was over. The prince, after hours of watching, had left the room for a few moments rest, and Stockmar had now to tell him that his wife was dead. At first he could not be made to realize what had happened. On their way to her room he sank down on a chair, while Stockmar knelt beside him. It was all a dream. It was impossible. At last by the bed he too knelt down and kissed the cold hands. Then, rising and exclaiming, "'Now I am quite desolate,' promised me never to leave me,' he threw himself into Stockmar's arms. II. The tragedy at Clermont was of a most upsetting kind. The royal kaleidoscope had suddenly shifted, and nobody could tell how the new pattern would arrange itself. The succession to the throne, which had seemed so satisfactorily settled, now became a matter of urgent doubt. George III was still living, an aged lunatic at Windsor, completely impervious to the impressions of the outer world. Of his seven sons the youngest was of more than middle age, and none had legitimate offspring. The outlook, therefore, was ambiguous. It seemed highly improbable that the prince-regent, who had lately been obliged to abandon his stays and presented a preposterous figure of debauched obesity, could ever again, even on the supposition that he divorced his wife and remarried, become the father of a family. Besides the Duke of Kent, who must be noticed separately, the other brothers, in order of seniority, were the dukes of York, Clarence, Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge. Their situations and prospects require a brief description. The Duke of York, whose escapades in times past with Mrs. Clark and the army had brought him into trouble, now divided his life between London and a large, extravagantly ordered and extremely uncomfortable country house where he occupied himself with racing, wist, and improper stories. He was remarkable among the princes for one reason. He was the only one of them, so we are informed by a highly competent observer, who had the feelings of a gentleman. He had been long married to the Princess Royal of Prussia, a lady who rarely went to bed, and was perpetually surrounded by vast numbers of dogs, parrots, and monkeys. They had no children. The Duke of Clarence had lived for many years in complete obscurity with Mrs. Jordan, the actress, in Bushey Park. By her he had had a large family of sons and daughters, and had appeared, in effect, to be married to her, when he suddenly separated from her and offered to marry Miss Wycombe, a crazy woman of large fortune, who, however, would have nothing to say to him. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Jordan died in distressed circumstances in Paris. The Duke of Cumberland was probably the most unpopular man in England. Hideously ugly, with a distorted eye, he was bad tempered and vindictive and private, a violent reactionary in politics, and was subsequently suspected of murdering his valet and having carried on an amorous intrigue of an extremely scandalous kind. He had lately married a German princess, but there were as yet no children by the marriage. The Duke of Sussex had mildly literary tastes and collected books. He had married Lady Augusta Murray, by whom he had two children, but the marriage under the Royal Marriages Act was declared void. On Lady Augusta's death he married Lady Cecilia Buggin. She changed her name to Underwood, but this marriage was also void. Of the Duke of Cambridge, the youngest of the brothers not very much was known. He lived in Hanover, wore a blond wig, chattered and fidgeted a great deal, and was unmarried. Besides his seven sons, George III had five surviving daughters. Of these, two, the Queen of Württemberg and the Duchess of Gloucester, were married and childless. The three unmarried princesses, Augusta, Elizabeth and Sophia, were all over forty. The fourth son of George III was Edward, Duke of Kent. He was now fifty years of age, a tall stout, vigorous man, highly colored, with bushy eyebrows, a bald top to his head, and what hair he had carefully dyed a glossy black. His dress was extremely neat, and in his whole appearance there was a rigidity which did not belie his character. He had spent his early life in the army at Gibraltar in Canada in the West Indies, and under the influence of military training had become at first a disciplinarian and at last a martinet. In 1802, having been sent to Gibraltar to restore order in a mutinous garrison, he was recalled for undue severity, and his active career had come to an end. Since then he had spent his life regulating his domestic arrangements with great exactitude, busying himself with the affairs of his numerous dependents, designing clocks, and struggling to restore order to his finances. Four, in spite of his being, as someone said who knew him well, reglai com du papier à musique, and in spite of an income of twenty-four thousand pounds a year, he was hopelessly in debt. He had quarrelled with most of his brothers, particularly with the Prince Regent, and it was only natural that he should have joined the political opposition and become a pillar of the Whigs. What his political opinions may actually have been is open to doubt. It has often been asserted that he was a liberal or even a radical, and if we are to believe Robert Owen, he was a necessitarian socialist. His relations with Owen, the shrewd, gullible, high-minded, wrong-headed, illustrious, and preposterous father of socialism and cooperation, were curious and characteristic. He talked of visiting the mills at New Lanark. He did in fact preside at one of Owen's public meetings. He corresponded with him on confidential terms, and he even, so Owen assures us, returned after his death from the sphere of spirits to give encouragement to the Owenites on earth. In a special manner, says Owen, I have to name the very anxious feelings of the spirit of his royal highness, the late Duke of Kent, who early informed me that there were no titles in the spiritual spheres into which he had entered, to benefit not a class, a sect, a party, or any particular country, but the whole of the human race through futurity. His whole spirit proceeding with me has been most beautiful, Owen adds, making his own appointments, and never in one instance has this spirit not been punctual to the minute he had named. But Owen was of a sanguine temperament. He also numbered among his proselytes President Jefferson, Prince Metinich, and Napoleon, so that some uncertainty must still linger over the Duke of Kent's views. But there is no uncertainty about another circumstance. His royal highness borrowed from Robert Owen on various occasions various sums of money which were never repaid, and amounted in all to several hundred pounds. After the death of the Princess Charlotte it was clearly important for more than one reason that the Duke of Kent should marry. From the point of view of the nation the lack of heirs in the reigning family seemed to make the step almost obligatory. It was also likely to be highly expedient from the point of view of the Duke. To marry is a public duty for the sake of the royal succession who would surely deserve some recognition from a grateful country. When the Duke of York had married he had received a settlement of twenty-five thousand pounds a year. Why should not the Duke of Kent look forward to an equal sum? But the situation was not quite simple. There was the Duke of Clarence to be considered. He was the elder brother, and if he married would clearly have the prior claim. On the other hand if the Duke of Kent married it was important to remember that he would be making a serious sacrifice. A lady was involved. The Duke reflecting upon all these matters with careful attention happened about a month after his niece's death to visit Brussels and learned that Mr. Creavy was staying in the town. Mr. Creavy was a close friend of the leading wigs and an inveterate gossip, and it occurred to the Duke that there could be no better channel through which to communicate his views upon the situation to political circles at home. Apparently it did not occur to him that Mr. Creavy was malicious and might keep a diary. He therefore sent for him on some trivial pretext and a remarkable conversation ensued. After referring to the death of the Princess, to the improbability of the regent seeking a divorce, to the childlessness of the Duke of York and to the possibility of the Duke of Clarence marrying, the Duke inverted to his own position. Should the Duke of Clarence not marry, he said, the next Prince in succession is myself. And though I trust I shall be at all times ready to obey and recall my country may make upon me, God only knows the sacrifice it will be to make, whenever I shall think at my duty to become a married man. It is now seven and twenty years that Madame Saint Laurent and I have lived together. We are of the same age and have been in all climates and in all difficulties together, and you may well imagine Mr. Creavy the pang it will occasion me to part with her. I put it to your own feelings. In the event of any separation between you and Mrs. Creavy, as for Madame Saint Laurent herself, I protest I don't know what is to become of her if a marriage is to be forced upon me. Her feelings are already so agitated upon the subject. The Duke went on to describe how one morning, a day or two after the Princess Charlotte's death, a paragraph had appeared in the morning chronicle alluding to the possibility of his marriage. He had received the newspaper and breakfast together with his letters, and, quote, I did as is my constant practice, I threw the newspaper across the table to Madame Saint Laurent and began to open and read my letters. I had not done so but a very short time when my attention was called to an extraordinary noise and a strong convulsive movement in Madame Saint Laurent's throat. For a short time I entertained serious apprehensions for her safety, and when upon her recovery I inquired into the occasion of this attack she pointed to the article in the morning chronicle, unquote. The Duke then returned to the subject of the Duke of Clarence. My brother, the Duke of Clarence, is the elder brother, and has certainly the right to marry if he chooses, and I would not interfere with him on any account. If he wishes to be king, to be married and have children, poor man, God help him, let him do so. For myself I am a man of no ambition and wish only to remain as I am. Easter, you know, falls very early this year, the 22nd of March. If the Duke of Clarence does not take any step before that time I must find some pretext to reconcile Madame Saint Laurent to my going to England for a short time. When once there it will be easy for me to consult with my friends as to the proper steps to be taken. Should the Duke of Clarence do nothing before that time as to marrying it will become my duty no doubt to take some measures upon the subject myself. Two names the Duke said had been mentioned in this connection. Those are the Princess of Baden and the Princess of Saxe-Coburg. The latter, he thought, would perhaps be the better of the two, from the circumstance of Prince Leopold being so popular with the nation. But before any other steps were taken he hoped and expected to see justice done to Madame Saint Laurent. She is, he explained, a very good family and has never been an actress and I am the first and only person who ever lived with her. Her disinterestedness, too, has been equal to her fidelity. When she first came to me it was upon one hundred pounds a year. That some was afterwards raised to four hundred pounds and finally to a thousand pounds. But when my debts made it necessary for me to sacrifice a great part of my income Madame Saint Laurent insisted upon again returning to her income of four hundred pounds a year. If Madame Saint Laurent is to return to live amongst her friends it must be in such a state of independence as to command their respect. I shall not require very much, but a certain number of servants and a carriage are essentials. As to his own settlement the Duke observed that he would expect the Duke of York's marriage to be considered the precedent. That, he said, was a marriage for the succession and twenty-five thousand pounds for income was settled in addition to all his other income purely on that account. I shall be contented with the same arrangement without making any demands grounded on the difference of the value of money in 1792 and at present. As for the payment of my debts the Duke concluded, I don't call them great. The nation on the contrary is greatly my debtor. Here a clock struck and seemed to remind the Duke that he had an appointment. He rose and Mr. Creavy left him. Who could keep such a communication secret? Certainly not Mr. Creavy. He hurried off to tell the Duke of Wellington, who was very much amused, and he wrote a long account of it to Lord Sefton, who received the letter, quote, very apropos, while a surgeon was sounding his bladder to ascertain whether he had a stone. I never saw a fellow more astonished than he was, wrote Lord Sefton in his reply, at seeing me laugh as soon as the operation was over. Nothing could be more first-rate than the royal Edwards in genuineness. One does not know which to admire most. The delicacy of his attachment to Madame Saint Laurent, the refinement of his sentiments toward the Duke of Clarence, or his own perfect disinterestedness in pecuniary matters, unquote. As it turned out, both the brothers decided to marry. The Duke of Kent, selecting the Princess of Saxe-Coburg in preference to the Princess of Bodden, was united to her on May 29, 1818. On June 11 the Duke of Clarence followed suit with the daughter of the Duke of Saxe Meiningen, but they were disappointed in their financial expectations. For though the government brought forward proposals to increase their allowances, together with that of the Duke of Cumberland, the motions were defeated in the House of Commons. At this the Duke of Wellington was not surprised. By God, he said, there is a great deal to be said about that. They are the damnedest millstones about the neck of any government that can be imagined. They have insulted, personally insulted, two-thirds of the gentlemen of England. And how can it be wondered at that they take the revenge upon them in the House of Commons? It is their only opportunity, and I think by God they are quite right to use it. Eventually, however, Parliament increased the Duke of Kent's annuity by six thousand pounds. The subsequent history of Madame Saint Laurent has not transpired. Four. The new Duchess of Kent, Victoria Mary Louisa, was a daughter of Francis Duke of Saxe-Coburg Zollfeld and a sister of Prince Leopold. The family was an ancient one, being a branch of the great House of Letten, which since the 11th century had ruled over the March of Mison on the Elba. In the 15th century, the whole possessions of the House had been divided between the Albertine and Ernestine branches. From the former descended the electors and kings of Saxony, the latter, ruling over Thuringia, became further subdivided into five branches, of which the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg was one. This principality was very small, containing about sixty thousand inhabitants, but it enjoyed independent and sovereign rights. During the disturbed years which followed the French Revolution, its affairs became terribly involved. The Duke was extravagant and kept open house for the swarms of refugees who fled eastward over Germany as the French power advanced. Among these was the Prince of Leiningen, an elderly beau whose domains on the Mosul had been seized by the French, but who was granted in compensation the territory of Amorbach in lower Franconia. In 1803 he married the Princess Victoria, at that time seventeen years of age. Three years later Duke Francis died, a ruined man. The Napoleonic Harrow passed over Saxe-Coburg, the Duchy was seized by the French, and the Ducal family were reduced to beggary, almost to starvation. At the same time the little principality of Amorbach was devastated by the French, Russian and Austrian armies marching and counter-marching across it. For years there was hardly a cow in the country or enough grass to feed a flock of geese. Such was the desperate plight of the family which a generation later was to have gained a foothold in half the reigning houses of Europe. The Napoleonic Harrow had indeed done its work, the seed was planted, and the crop would have surprised Napoleon. Prince Leopold, thrown upon his own resources at fifteen, made a career for himself and married the heiress of England. The Princess of Leiningen, struggling at Amorbach with poverty, military requisitions, and a futile husband, developed an independence of character and a tenacity of purpose which were to prove useful in very different circumstances. In 1814 her husband died, leaving her with two children and the regency of the principality. After her brother's marriage with the Princess Charlotte it was proposed that she should marry the Duke of Kent, but she declined on the ground that the guardianship of her children and the management of her domains made other ties undesirable. The Princess Charlotte's death, however, altered the case, and when the Duke of Kent renewed his offer she accepted it. She was thirty-two years old, short, stout, with brown eyes and hair and rosy cheeks, cheerful and voluble, and gorgeously attired in rustling silks and bright velvets. She was certainly fortunate in her contented disposition, for she was faded all through her life to have much to put up with. Her second marriage, with its dubious prospects, seemed at first to be chiefly a source of difficulties and discomforts. The Duke, declaring that he was still too poor to live in England, moved about with uneasy precision through Belgium and Germany, attending parades and inspecting barracks in a neat military camp. While the English notabilities looked a scance, and the Duke of Wellington dubbed him the Corporal. God damn, he exclaimed to Mr. Trevee, do you know what his sisters call him? By God they call him Joseph's Surface. At Velossien, where there was a review and a great dinner, the Duchess arrived with an old and ugly lady in waiting, and the Duke of Wellington found himself in a difficulty. Who the devil is to take out the maid of honour, he kept asking, but at last he thought of a solution. Bam, Fremantle, find out the mayor and let him do it. So the mayor of Velossien was brought up for the purpose, and, so he learned from Mr. Trevee, a capital figure he was. A few days later, at Brussels, Mr. Trevee himself had an unfortunate experience. The military school was to be inspected, before breakfast. The company assembled, everything was highly satisfactory, but the Duke of Kent continued for so long, examining every detail and asking meticulous question after meticulous question, that Mr. Trevee at last could bear it no longer, and whispered to his neighbour that he was damped, hungry. The Duke of Wellington heard him, and was delighted. I recommend you, he said, whenever you start with the royal family in a morning, and particularly with the corporal, always to breakfast first. He and his staff, it turned out, had taken that precaution, and the great man amused himself while the stream of royal inquiries poured on, by pointing at Mr. Trevee from time to time with the remark, Settle down at last at Amorbach, the time hung heavily on the Duke's hands. The establishment was small, the country was impoverished, even clock-making grew tedious at last. He brooded, for in spite of his piety the Duke was not without a vein of superstition, over the prophecy of a gypsy at Gibraltar, who told him that he was to have many losses and losses, that he was to die in happiness, and that his only child was to be a great queen. Before long it became clear that a child was to be expected. The Duke decided that it should be born in England. Funds were lacking for the journey, but his determination was not to be set aside. Come what might, he declared, his child must be English-born. A carriage was hired, and the Duke himself mounted the box. Inside were the Duchess, her daughter Ferdora, a girl of fourteen, with maids, nurses, lapdogs, and canaries. Off they drove. Through Germany, through France, bad roads, cheap ins, were nothing to the rigorous Duke, and the equitable, abundant Duchess. The channel was crossed, London was reached in safety. The authorities provided a set of rooms in Kensington Palace, and there, on May 24th, 1819, a female infant was born. CHAPTER II CHILDHOOD One. 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, and 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 in the Archbishop of Canterbury asked by what name he was to baptize the child, the regent replied, Alexandria. At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another name might be 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 Alexandria must come first. Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened, Alexandria Victoria. The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meager 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 seven thousand pounds 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 meager grant 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 splendor 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 fifty-one thousand three hundred pounds. 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 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 material nutriment on the soil of old England, and which we shall certainly repeat, if Providence destines to give us any further increase of family. 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-baying, and our infant, out of sea air, on the fine coast of Devonshire during the months of the year that are so odious in London. 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 in the Regent. He himself was one of the healthiest men in England. 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. 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 22nd he was a dying man. By a curious chance, young Dr. Stockmar was staying in the house at the time. Two years before he had stood by the bed of the Princess Charlotte, and now he was watching the Duke of Kent in his agony. On Stockmar's advice the will was hastily prepared. The Duke's early 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. Six days later came the fulfilment of the second half of the Gypsy's prophecy. The long, unhappy, and inglorious life of George III of England was ended. 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 six thousand pounds a year of her own, but her husband's debts loomed before her like a mountain. Soon she learned 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 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 délices, 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 three thousand pounds a year, and the Duchess remained at Kensington. 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, un jupon, echoed the surrounding ladies, as the little creature waddled with difficulty from one to the other. 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 antagonism 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 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. She declared in public that she put her faith in the liberties of the people. 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 Blaggards. Brother William is his battle life, so we come in the course of nature to be assassinated by King Ernest I or Regent Ernest, the Duke of Cumberland. 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 suggestions that the princess Victoria was in danger from the machinations of her wicked uncle. But no echo of these conflicts and forebodings reached the little Dreena, 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 along the avenues of Kensington Gardens. The fair-haired blue-eyed child was idolized by her nurses and her mother's ladies and her sister Ferdora, and for a few years there was danger in spite of her mother's strictness of her being spoiled. 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. Afterward she was very sorry and burst into tears, but her letters remained unlearned. When she was five years old, however, a change came, with the appearance of foiline Leitzen. This lady, who was the daughter of a Hanoverian clergyman, and had previously been the princess Ferdora'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. 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 learned her letters like an angel, and she learned other things as well. The barrenness despath taught her how to make little board-boxes and decorate them with tinsel and painted flowers. 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. 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 Carleton 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 Ellis, 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. 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 it was, that they were followed, at a respectful distance, by a gigantic, scarlet flunky. Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Leitzen, and she loved her dear Fayadora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Spath. And her dear Mama, 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 Clermont. Their old Mrs. Lewis, 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 Fayadora 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 Fayadora and her dear Leitzen, and she could talk and look as she liked, and it was very delightful. The visits to Clermont 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 gaudy, ornate and enormous, with his jeweled mistress by his side in 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 paw, he said, and two ages touched. Next morning, driving in his faton with the Duchess of Gloucester, he met the Duchess of Kent and her child in the park. Pop or 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 Fiodora and praised her manners, and then turned to his own small niece. What is your favorite 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. 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 £200,000 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 recognized by Parliament as air presumptive, and the Duchess of Kent, whose annuity had been doubled five years previously, was now given an additional £10,000 for the maintenance of the Princess, and was appointed regent, in case of the dead king before the majority of her daughter. At the same time a great convulsion took place in the Constitution of the State. The power of the Tories, who had dominated England for more than 40 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 toward the middle classes, the wigs 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 protégés 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 paired 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 generalizations 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 ardently hoped that the same might be said of Victoria. Her educational conceptions were 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 gentleman. 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 resolve 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 as of the Duchess is strength of intellect capable of receiving with ease information and with a peculiar readiness in coming to a very just and indignant decision on any point her opinion is asked on. Her adherence to 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' plan of education was susceptible of any improvement, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was also consulted, came to the same gratifying conclusion. 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 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. 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 governess into the book, the princess' surprise, her inquiries, her final realization 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 Leitzen, 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. 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. 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. 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 little music and little dancing took their place. Taglione came to give grace and dignity to the figure, and La Blanche to train the piping treble upon his own 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, Princess's main achievement during her school days 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 Martyn O'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 Wren. 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 Clermont, delicious 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. Humor and imagination. La Baroness Leitzen, for she had been raised to that rank in the Hanoverian nobility by George IV before he died, was the real center of the princess's world. When Fyodorah married, when Uncle Leopold went to Belgium, the Baroness was left without a competitor. The princess gave her mother her dutiful regards, but Leitzen had her heart. The valuable 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 Leitzen, 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 engouement, were of the kind that clothed themselves naturally in underlinings and exclamation marks. It was a delightful ride. We cantered a good deal. Sweet little Rosie went beautifully. We came home at a quarter past one. At twenty minutes to seven we went out to the opera. Rubini came on and sang a song out of Annabelleina quite beautifully. We came home at half past eleven. 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 twenty minutes past nine. Madame de Sevignier'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 cavill at almost every paragraph. Layton gave it me on the Sunday that I took the sacrament. 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 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 mama in all her griefs, trials, and anxieties, and to become a dutiful and affectionate daughter to her. Also to be obedient to dear Leitzen, who has done so much for me. I was dressed in a white lace dress, with a white crepe bonnet, with a wreath of white roses rounded. I went in the chariot with my dear mama and the others followed in another carriage. 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 conventional 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 Wurttemberg, 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 in the house. They were always satisfied, always good-humored. Alexander took such care of me in getting out of the boat and rode next to me, and so did Ernst. 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 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. 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 as Ernest but stouter, is extremely handsome. His hair is about the same color 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. C'est à la foi full of goodness and sweetness, and very clever and intelligent. Both my cousins, she added, are so kind and good, they are much more formé 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 lorry, 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 Mama's gray 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 learned a good deal, and are very clever, naturally clever, 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 in fondled dash so funnily, too. Dearest Albert was playing on the piano when I came down. At eleven, dear uncle, my dearest beloved cousins and Charles left us, accompanied by Count Colorat. I embraced both my dearest cousins most warmly, as also my dear uncle. I cried bitterly, very bitterly. 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. End of Chapter 2, Part 1 Chapter 2, Part 2 of Queen Victoria This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 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 exuberance completely got the best 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 catch words. That's quite another thing! That's quite another thing! It's rattling indomitability. It's loud in discreteness. His speeches made repeatedly at the most inopportune junctures, and filled pel-mel 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 laggard, 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-humored 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 recognize the fact, to put her at once on a proper footing, to give her the precedence of a dowager princess of Wales with a large annuity from the privy purse. 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 vigor along the course she had laid out. Sir John Conroy, an Irishman with no 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, 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 advisor, 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 council, prohibiting the firing of royal salutes to any ships except those which carried the reigning sovereign or his consort on board. When King William quarreled with his wig 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 Coborg 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. The relations of the Queen and 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 slave in England, for the pleasure of the court who never bought you, as I am not aware they're ever having gone to any expense on that head, or the king's ever having spent a six pence for your existence. Oh, consistency and political or other honesty, where must one look for you? 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 organization, 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. 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. 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 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 passed 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 thy tuperation 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 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. 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 Lateson, 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, Madam Despath. Unfortunately, Madame Despath 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 demeanor. 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. Note! Greville, 421, and August 15th, 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 Spate, and Spate 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 Spate, and they would have got rid of Leitzen, too, if they had been able. But Leitzen, who knew very well what was going on, was prudent enough not to commit herself, and who was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and William IV, so that they did not dare to attempt to expel her. End of note! The duchess supported Sir John with all the abundance 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 Despath, and she adored her Leitzen. The duchess knew only too well that in this hard embroilment her daughter was against her. Chagrin, annoyance, moral reprobation, tossed her to and fro. She did her best to consult herself with Sir John's affectionate locosity, 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 heirs 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. Five. 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 Zicky, she noted in her diary, is very good looking in uniform, but not in plain clothes. Count Valstine looks remarkably well in his pretty Hungarian uniform. With latter young gentlemen 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 gallop, I could not dance with him. 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 quarreled 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. He now wrote her a letter, offering her an allowance of ten thousand pounds a year, which he proposed should be at her own disposal and independent of her mother. Lord Conningham, 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 Conningham begged her royal highnesses 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. Four thousand pounds a year, she said, would be quite enough for Victoria, as for the remaining six thousand pounds it would be only proper that she should have that herself. 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 ambassadors 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. 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 toward 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 lest your honor and reputation. On the functions of a monarch his views were unexceptionable. The business of the highest in a state, he wrote, is certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a spirit of justice for the good of all. At the same time the Princess's tastes were opening out. Though she was still passionately devoted to writing and dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of music as well, and to drink in the roulade and areas of the Italian opera with high enthusiasm. She even enjoyed reading poetry, at any rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott. When King Leopold learned 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 firm and courageous 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 amu apopo, and to continue her confidence in the wig administration. 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 deathbed 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 18th 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 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. 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. One other sunset he did live to see, and he died in the early hours of the following morning. It was on June 20th, 1837. When all was over, the Archbishop in 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. At six the Duchess woke up her daughter, and told her that the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conningham 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 Conningham 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 fulfill 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 right than I have. But there was scant time for resolutions and reflections. At once affairs were thick upon her. Stockmore came to breakfast and gave some good advice. She wrote a letter to her uncle Leopold, and a hurried note to her sister Faerdora. 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 Stockmore 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. 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 overall 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 was 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. End of chapter 2 part 2