The Widow of Windsor

Chapter XIII DIZZY’S BEACONSFIELD

How pleasant it was to have a Prime Minister on whom she could not only rely but who was able to charm her at the same time. The relationship was ripening fast; she looked forward to his letters, which she answered with pleasure. It was like Lord Melbourne all over again, and yet different in a way because dear Lord M. had treated her as though she had been a beloved daughter; for Disraeli she was not exactly that. He behaved as though she were not only the Queen, possessed of statesmanlike qualities, but a very attractive woman as well. He made her feel as she had when Albert was alive – desirable, charming, feminine, though Albert had never flattered her as her Prime Minister did and it really was rather pleasant – although Albert would not really have approved – to let oneself be persuaded that one was still a woman.

To him she could confide her fears about Bertie. He mixed with such a rackety set, she said. She had never liked some of those University friends of his. There was for example Sir Frederick Johnstone – a very wild young man. When Bertie had run away from Cambridge he had been on the point of joining Sir Frederick and some of his other cronies who were at Oxford. Disraeli was sympathetic. It was a great worry to the Queen in view of all her other responsibilities, he understood; but he believed that she should not concern herself too much over the Prince’s high spirits. He would settle down in due course. Young men often believed they had to sow their wild oats. He himself had been no exception.

How very amusing, thought the Queen, and when her Prime Minister called and they had discussed State matters she would enjoy settling down to hear of his early struggles and the great excitement he had felt when his book Vivian Grey was published.

He told her how he had met Lord Melbourne at Caroline Norton’s house.

‘Dear Lord Melbourne,’ said the Queen.

‘A very civilised gentleman,’ commented Disraeli. ‘He asked me what I wanted to be in life and I said Prime Minister.’

‘How prophetic!’

Then he told her of his marriage and his devotion to Mary Anne, which touched the Queen deeply. It was wonderful, she said, in this age to find a really happily married couple.

She spoke of Bertie and hoped all was well between him and Alix. Did the Prime Minister think that the Princess of Wales was somewhat neglected by her husband and were people noticing that this was so?

The Prime Minister replied that the Prince of Wales always behaved with the utmost consideration to his wife in public.

‘Ah, but in private?’ insisted the Queen.

‘I am sure the Prince would never be anything but charming, in private or public.’

‘Is it possible to neglect charmingly?’

‘Absolutely!’ said the Prime Minister smiling so that the Queen felt she had been very witty.

‘All the same,’ she went on, ‘I do not like his friendship with the Mordaunts. The wife I have heard is rather flighty and the Prince is seen with her more than with her husband. And then there is that actress: what’s her name? Hortense Schneider.’

‘The Prince is gregarious by nature.’

‘His father would be grieved if he were here. At least it is a relief that he doesn’t have to suffer that.’

‘And if he were here how delighted he would be by your book, M’am.’

The Queen smiled. She really was rather delighted with her venture into authorship. Arthur Helps, a very clever man and so useful, as his name implied, had edited it for her and Messrs Smith, Elder and Company had just produced her Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands, which was taken of course from what she had written at the time. It was enjoying a success which gave her great pleasure.

‘Ah,’ said Disraeli roguishly. ‘I know exactly how we authors feel when we see our work in print and the public all agog to read it.’

The term ‘we authors’ gave her such pleasure, for after all it was true. She was not of course an author in the sense that Mr Disraeli was, but nevertheless she had produced Leaves.

‘I found the dedication so poignant,’ said Disraeli and he quoted in a very moving voice: ‘To the dear memory of him who made the life of the writer bright and happy, these simple records are lovingly and gratefully inscribed.’

‘So you remembered it word for word,’ said the Queen softly.

‘M’am, I can never forget it. So much is said in so few words. In that seemingly simple sentence is compressed twenty years of perfect marriage.’

‘How well you understand! But then you are as fortunate as I was.’

Disraeli wiped his eyes with perfect composure.

It was so pleasant to have such a man for her friend, thought the Queen.

When she left for Osborne, she asked him to continue to write to her, not only on political matters – just his clever chatty letters which told her so much. A Queen did not want to be left in the dark.

He promised and of course he kept his promise. Her letters were a delight, he told her. It was two writers who communicated though a Queen and a Prime Minister.

When the primroses were out at Osborne she gathered a quantity and sent them to him.

‘I thought you might like these, particularly as I gathered them myself.’

He had always delighted in them, he told her, and from now on they would be his favourite flower.

The Irish question which obsessed Mr Gladstone was threatening the first Disraeli ministry. Gladstone wished to dis-establish the Irish Church and there was a great deal of opposition in Ireland. As for Disraeli, he told the Queen that the Irish question had not really been acute since the famine and he was certain that the Fenian uprisings had been aggravated by foreigners and that they would die out of their own accord. His idea was to let the Irish solve their own problems without too much interference from Her Majesty’s Government. Mr Gladstone did not agree with him.

It was a very uneasy situation for the new government and none knew better than the Prime Minister how insecure was his position.

He had an idea that if the Prince and Princess of Wales visited Ireland some good might come of it.

The Queen said she was always uneasy when Bertie was out of the country for she could never be sure what he was up to.

‘His Highness has been remarkably successful as our ambassador abroad and the Princess is so attractive that no one, not even the Irish, could fail to be charmed by her.’

‘She is pregnant, you know,’ said the Queen.

‘But the child is not due until July.’

The Queen hesitated; she could usually be persuaded by the Prime Minister who made her feel that the suggestion in the first place had been in her mind.

‘I am sure a great deal of good will come of it,’ went on Disraeli. ‘His Highness’s method of living does not appeal to Your Majesty because it’s shall we say a little riotous now and then, but I know you are thinking, M’am, with me that it is an excellent plan for the Prince to do something at which he excels and he has proved himself to be a wonderful ambassador.’

‘The government would have to pay his expenses.’

Disraeli wilted a little; then he said: ‘I am sure this could be agreed upon.’

And so on the 15th of April Alix and Bertie boarded the Victoria and Albert at Holyhead bound for Kingstown.

The Irish visit was a great success. Bertie was charming as usual and managed to say the right thing at the appropriate time and his gaiety very quickly endeared him to the Irish. His appearances at the races were applauded; so was his natural bonhomie. The Prince of Wales was a good fellow and for a time the Irish were ready to forget their grievances. The brilliant banquets and balls which were given in his honour were a long way from the hungry forties and Disraeli calling on the Queen congratulated her on the inspired notion to send the Prince to Ireland.

‘Which was your notion,’ said the Queen with a smile.

‘I sensed it was in Your Majesty’s mind,’ replied the Prime Minister, ‘laying it on with a trowel’, as he would have said.

She was far too sensible and honest to believe him but it was gallant and courteous to put it like that.

When the royal pair arrived home the Queen sent for them to come to Windsor and she congratulated them on the success of their tour.

‘Mr Disraeli is so pleased,’ she told them.

She studied Alix anxiously. The dear sweet girl seemed so much better, although she confessed that her knee was still stiff. She walked with a limp which because of her elegance was somehow attractive.

Others thought so too because it became quite a fashion to walk with what began to be called the Alexandra Limp.

Poor Mr Disraeli was going through a very uneasy time and this caused a great deal of worry to the Queen. That irritating Mr Gladstone would interfere in Ireland and he insisted on bringing forward his Bill for the dis-establishment of the Irish Church. Disraeli, who had taken over a weak ministry from Lord Derby, was in no position to resist.

He came to see her at Windsor. He kissed her hand fervently and gazed at her with mournful eyes which warned her that this idyll which had begun to mean so much to them both was threatened.

‘Alas, M’am,’ said Mr Disraeli. ‘Gladstone has defeated us on the Irish question with a majority of sixty-five.’

‘This is intolerable.’

‘It has to be tolerated, I fear.’

‘What do you propose to do?’

‘Offer my resignation.’

‘Which would mean that That Man would be my Prime Minister.’

‘I fear so, M’am.’

‘I should not like that at all.’

‘Alas, but it is a state of affairs which Your Majesty would be forced to accept. There is only one alternative. Your Majesty could refuse to accept my resignation. Then there would have to be a general election. This could not take place for six months because that time would be needed to arrange the new constituencies which are the result of the new Reform Bill.’

‘That is the answer,’ said the Queen. ‘You have offered me your resignation, which I refuse to accept. You will remain in office until the election in which time perhaps opinions may have changed.’

Disraeli bowed.

‘Very well, M’am. I shall continue for a little longer to be Your Majesty’s Prime Minister.’

How much longer would these pleasant têtes-à-têtes continue? It reminded her so much of the past when Lord Melbourne had been defeated in the House by Sir Robert Peel. How she had disliked Sir Robert although she had come to respect him. Albert had made her see Sir Robert differently. But she would never feel that respect for Mr Gladstone. There was a man whom she could never like. His wife was a quiet, pleasant creature; she had been Catherine Glynne before the marriage, a member of a very good Whig family who owned Hawarden Castle in Flintshire. It was said that she was devoted to her husband. Poor Mrs Gladstone!

John Brown told her that she was foolish to be so drear. He implied of course that as long as he was there to see to her needs she would be well looked after. It was true, she knew; but she would miss Mr Disraeli; and the idea of his party replaced by Mr Gladstone’s was most depressing.

As if she had not enough to worry about without Mr Gladstone’s bringing in his dis-establishment of the Irish Church! It always came back to Bertie. He was becoming just a little truculent. Success went to his head and he had been over-congratulated about the Irish tour.

She was really worried about him. She was constantly hearing snippets of gossip, and she did wonder, as was often suggested to her, whether they were a little exaggerated.

The idea of the heir to the throne – her throne – dancing attendance on an actress as he apparently did on that Hortense Schneider and prowling round her dressing-room when The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein, in which the enchanting actress was appearing, was over. And it was not as though this actress was the only one; Alix should really try to keep a firm hold on him. Alix was a little careless. Her inability to appear anywhere on time was really rather trying. That … and Bertie’s escapades together with the dissension the terrible wars had caused in the family, and the impending ministerial crises made life very hard to bear.

Now Bertie was writing to her in a very arrogant way, merely because for his own good she had remonstrated with him about attending the Ascot races every day. It was not necessary, she pointed out. Put in an appearance, yes. But to be there every day and gamble as he did was quite unnecessary – more than that it was undesirable.

He pointed out that every year she gave him a lecture on the races and it was a ceremony to which the people looked forward especially when the royal carriages were driven up the course. It would be very uncivil if he stayed at home and would be frowned on.

Was this a reproach to her because she shut herself away so much? Bertie was the last one to understand how she suffered over the loss of Beloved Albert. After all if he had not gone to Cambridge to remonstrate with Bertie he might be here today. He had written:

‘I am always most anxious to meet your wishes, dear Mama, in every respect, and I always regret if we are not quite

d’accord

– but as I am past twenty-eight and have some knowledge of the world and society you will, I am sure, at least I trust, allow me to use my own discretion in matters of this kind …’

If only Albert were here, how different it would be. She and Bertie would never be d’accord, as he put it.

She felt sad and lonely. The children were all growing up and away from her. Louise would be the next to marry. And now Mr Disraeli was going to be replaced by unsympathetic Mr Gladstone whom she could never like.

John Brown came in and found her sitting in the gloom.

He lighted the lamps and said: ‘It does ye no good mawthering in the dark, woman.’

He saw the traces of tears on her cheeks and brought out that which in his opinion was the never-failing remedy – a wee dram of good Scotch whisky.

She found herself smiling. ‘Now, Brown, you’ll be making me bashful.’

‘Not you,’ said Brown, ‘ye’ve never been near bashful in your life.’

He was affectionately contemptuous. Dear honest Brown! He did her so much good.

Prince Alfred whose somewhat gay life had given the Queen many a qualm, returned home from abroad that July and a concert was held at the Crystal Palace in order to celebrate his arrival. Bertie and he went to the concert and rather to the surprise of the audience Alix joined the royal party. This greatly pleased the people for she was heavily pregnant and not expected at such a time. There was a great ovation for her. The leading singers were Patti and Mario and the Princess applauded with great enthusiasm. After the concert there was to be a firework display and as the celebrations were in honour of Alfred, the great moment was to be when a model of the ship Galatea, on which he had sailed, was illuminated. Alix stood on the balcony with the rest of the party and although she was feeling rather tired she would not leave until the display was over.

Two days later her child was born a little prematurely, but all seemed to be well. The child was a girl and Alix was delighted. She now had her pleasant little family of four – two boys and two girls – four-year-old Eddy, three-year-old Georgie, one-year-old Louise and now the baby.

As she sat dreaming there, thinking of her own childhood and how excited they had all been at the arrival of a new baby, she felt a wave of nostalgia for the simple life.

Bertie came in, the proud father, and he was delighted with the child. He wanted to bring Eddy and George in to see their new sister. ‘I promised them,’ he said.

And so they came and stood wonderingly by the bed, and Bertie lifted them up on to his knee and she was touched by his tenderness towards them. Bertie had suffered in his own childhood and he was going to make certain that he was as different a father from his own as it was possible for a man to be. The boys loved him with a devotion which fear could never have put there and he charmed them in his good-natured way exactly as he did the people whom he met.

But it was their mother who had first place in their hearts and Eddy was apprehensive that the newcomer might take up too much of her time and affection and Georgie was feeling the same.

How she wished that she could have devoted her time entirely to them. However, for a time, she could forget that she was the Princess of Wales and enjoy being a mother.

So she talked of the new baby and showed her to her little sons and even Louise was carried in from the nursery to join them.

When the children had gone Bertie sat with her for a while and he said that what she needed was a good long holiday away from everything.

Her eyes sparkled. ‘How I should love to go to Copenhagen and take the children with me. I’m longing to show them Rumpenheim and Bernstorff and I know my parents would love to see the babies.’

Bertie grimaced inwardly at the thought of Rumpenheim and Bernstorff; they were so dull and his parents-in-law didn’t know how to give the kind of parties he enjoyed, but he pretended to be enthusiastic. While Alix and the children were in Denmark he might slip off somewhere else – perhaps even to his delightful Paris.

‘Copenhagen yes,’ he said. ‘But I meant a long leisurely tour – say to the Middle East … somewhere where you can enjoy the sun and get rid of all those rheumaticky pains.’

‘It would be very pleasant, Bertie,’ she said. ‘Is it possible?’

‘I’m sure there’d be no difficulty from the P.M.,’ said Bertie. ‘Nor any of his colleagues. Of course, there is Mama.’ He grimaced openly. ‘You can imagine the dismay such a suggestion would rouse from that quarter. I have already put my foot down about the races. Really, Mama is quite cut off from real life. What can she know about what the people expect shut away with only that odious Brown to talk to?’

‘She’ll not agree, I’m sure,’ said Alix.

‘Leave it to me,’ said Bertie. ‘You’re going to show your parents the children, I promise you.’

The following month the new baby was christened Victoria Alexandra Olga Mary; her sponsors were headed by Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Russia, and the Queens of Greece and Denmark.

The Queen had moved a little out of seclusion that summer. She had held the first Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace since Albert’s death, had given a party in the grounds of the Palace and reviewed twenty-seven thousand volunteers in Windsor Park. This had been achieved by the gentle persuasion of Mr Disraeli. In August following the christening of the new baby she went to Switzerland.

‘No fuss,’ she had said. ‘Unlike Bertie I like to go about incognito.’ So she travelled as the Countess of Kent, stayed at the Embassy in Paris and was rather pleased when the Empress Eugénie came to see her without any formality; then she went to Lucerne and rented the Villa Pension Wallace which was right on the lake and charming. She spent a very pleasant week or so there with John Brown in attendance driving her when she wished to be driven, taking care of her comfort generally; and when she returned home she went almost immediately to Balmoral.

Some time before she had discussed with Brown the possibility of finding a little house where she could enjoy even greater seclusion than she did at Balmoral, for Balmoral was in fact a castle and there were so many servants and it was impossible to live simply as she so often longed to do.

Brown knew the spot. It had been a favourite one for Prince Albert who had often gone to the Loch Muick; it was isolated and she would be sure of not being worried there. So she built a little cottage there where she could live with just a few servants – those who were old friends like Brown and Annie MacDonald, who could forget that she was the Queen and treat her without that homage which she felt was replaced by loyalty and love.

‘This will be somewhere which will not be haunted by him,’ she said. ‘Somewhere entirely new which he has had no hand in building.’

It was a beautiful spot, known as Glassalt Shiel, which meant Darkness and Sorrow, and that, she said, was so appropriate to her mood. She could never look on that scene without experiencing a great excitement. The scenery was almost terrifying in its grandeur and she would stand for hours watching the Glassalt burn falling headlong down the mountainside into the forbidding Loch Muick.

So she had her house – her ‘Widow’s House’ she called it and although members of her family tried to dissuade her from living even for a short while in such a lonely spot, she did find to some extent what she sought there – peace.

The Queen was at Glassalt Shiel when she received a note from Bertie suggesting that Alix needed some relaxation and that she wished to take the children to see their grandparents in Denmark. The six months’ tour of Europe and the Middle East had been voted desirable by the government but the Queen could not approve of Alix’s taking the children out of the country.

She wrote to Bertie: ‘They are the children of the country, which seems to have been forgotten, and while you and Alix are away they should be left in the care of one person only and that is the Queen.’

It was rather selfish of Alix to wish to take them with her. She was going to see her parents. That should be enough for her.

Bertie, always bold when he did not have to come face to face with his stern mama, wrote back in the vein he was beginning to adopt. Alix was certainly not selfish, he replied. She was devoted to her children and he could not understand why obstacles should be put in the way of a proud young mother who wished to take her children to see her parents.

The Queen – always fair – saw the point of this and decided that the three elder children might go; it was of course impossible for such a young baby to travel. At the same time the Queen criticised the way the Wales children were being brought up.

‘Papa always believed in discipline,’ she wrote. ‘It is an absolute necessity in the bringing up of children. I fear, Bertie, that your children are allowed to run wild, and what the result of that will be I cannot imagine.’

Bertie, bold from afar, hinted that it had not always had the desired effect and that neither he nor Alfred who had been submitted to it had turned out very satisfactory from her point of view. He believed that if children were treated severely they grew shy and instead of loving their parents feared them. Of one thing he was determined, his children were not going to be afraid of him. They were not now and they never should be.

The Queen could do nothing. Bertie had always been unmanageable; and she had to admit that Eddy and George were two dear little boys even though there was such a lack of parental control.

Meanwhile Alix and Bertie set off with the three elder children and after a stay in Copenhagen where they had spent Christmas the children were sent home while their parents continued their tour visiting Egypt, Russia and Greece.

The Queen was at Balmoral while the general election was taking place. She would not believe that the country could really pass over Disraeli for the sake of Mr Gladstone although Mr Disraeli had feared this would be the case; and she was very despondent when she heard that Mr Gladstone’s government were in power with a majority of one hundred and twenty-eight.

Now she would have to return to London and what was worse send for Mr Gladstone and ask him to form a ministry, at the same time saying good-bye to dear Mr Disraeli.

She would not behave as she had in the past when Lord Melbourne had resigned; she understood that she had been rather foolish then; Albert had taught her that this was something she had to accept. It was none the more palatable for that.

When Mr Disraeli came to see her she almost wept with sorrow and anger.

This was going to be a terrible wrench she feared; she felt such confidence in him; and to think that he was to be replaced by that unsympathetic Mr Gladstone was most upsetting.

Disraeli said that they must accept this trial and hope for better things.

‘It is the only thing left to do,’ said the Queen.

She received Mr Gladstone coolly. He was quite humble and she could not complain that he did not treat her with due respect, but he was so dull and made such boring speeches that she felt as though she were a public meeting. There was a slight compensation for the loss of Mr Disraeli because some of Mr Gladstone’s colleagues were good friends of hers. She had always been fond of Lord Clarendon who was now the Foreign Secretary as well as Lord Granville who was the Colonial Secretary; and with the Duke of Argyll who was the Secretary of India she was on terms of affection. As a matter of fact Louise and Argyll’s son, the Marquis of Lorne, were very friendly, and there was a possibility that they would wish to marry. If they did she would not stand in their way. She was so tired of all the family squabbles and members of it fighting on different sides in these dreadful wars. At least if Louise married Lorne they would be of one nationality; and she had always been especially fond of the Scots.

She sent for Disraeli and told him that she wanted to reward him for his services to her and the country. Would he accept an earldom?

He thanked her in the flowery manner at which he was an adept. He was honoured; he was flattered; he would never forget, etc.; but he declined the earldom.

‘Yet I have one thing for which I should be grateful.’

‘Please tell me what it is,’ said the Queen.

Then he told her that Mary Anne was ill – very ill. She was dying slowly.

Disraeli wept genuine tears and the Queen, greatly moved, wept with him.

She understood absolutely; her heart bled for him; she had suffered it all before him.

‘With Your Majesty it was a sharp blow – so much harder to bear,’ said her tactful ex-Prime Minister. ‘At least fate is giving me time to prepare myself.’

The Queen admitted this and wanted to know what it was that he desired.

‘It is for her. I should like her to be made a peeress in her own right.’

Oh, how devoted! How unselfish! The Queen could not hide her emotion.

A peerage for Mrs Disraeli – certainly.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘that you once dedicated a book to the perfect wife. I should like Mrs Disraeli to know that I believe her to have a perfect husband.’

Mary Anne – now the Countess of Beaconsfield – could not contain her delight. She displayed her coronet whenever possible. She called herself Dizzy’s Beaconsfield. What a wonderful husband she had!

She had perhaps two years to live – and not very pleasantly she knew. Each week the pain would grow a little more. Never mind, she would hide it as best she could. She would manage. She remembered that occasion not so long ago when she had been accompanying Dizzy to the House and he was going to make one of the most important speeches of his career. She had planned to drop him at the House and drive home to wait for him there. He had been a little nervous. That fearful Mr Gladstone with his heavy manner – not a bit witty like dear Dizzy – could be very formidable. All the way he had sat murmuring what he was going to say and when he alighted and slammed the door of the carriage he caught her hand in it. She did not cry out because she had known that would have disturbed him and he would have been worrying all the time how badly she was hurt. So while he said good-bye to her she sat with a smile on her face ignoring the agony and let the coachman drive on without telling him that her hand was caught in the door. As soon as Dizzy had disappeared she called the coachman to release her. Well, if she could hide pain then she could hide it now. She did not wish to worry him.

‘Poor Dizzy!’ she said now. ‘But you’re only out of office temporarily.’

‘Oh, only temporarily,’ he assured her.

‘What will you do? After all to be Leader of the Opposition will not demand half the time that a Prime Minister has to devote to his duties. There is one blessing, though. Your Beaconsfield will be able to see more of you.’

‘I look forward to it,’ he told her. ‘We’ll go down to Hughenden. I can finish my book and we can have a very cosy time together.’

‘Very nice,’ she said, ‘for Beaconsfield.’

‘And for Disraeli,’ he assured her.

He was reconciled. He wanted to spend time with Mary Anne. There was tragically little left, and he knew in his heart that he would one day take his place on the Government bench of the House – just as surely as he knew that when he did his beloved Beaconsfield would not be at hand to comfort him, to cherish him, to give him that which he had finally learned through her was the best thing that had ever happened to him.