The Widow of Windsor

Chapter XIX ‘THE KISS OF DEATH’

Mr Gladstone was making himself a nuisance to the government. But then didn’t opposition leaders always criticise those who were in power? The Queen would have thought Mr Gladstone would have had more principle; it would have been some compensation for his lack of charm. Mr Disraeli, on whom she was relying more and more, and who never failed to amuse and please her however awkward the matter with which they had to deal, cared passionately for the prestige of England and was determined not only to maintain but increase it. How proud he had been when he had had her proclaimed Empress of India. ‘Victoria Regina et Imperatrix,’ he had announced, making her a sweeping bow; and she could not have been more delighted than he was.

‘How my Mary Anne would have rejoiced in this day,’ he told her lugubriously; and they both shed tears for their dear departed.

She stood firmly beside Mr Disraeli in all his endeavours. She had told him that she was worried about him.

‘You are no longer a young man,’ she told him severely, ‘and I am very concerned about your health.’

‘Dear Madam,’ he cried, ‘you are not going to suggest that I retire?’

‘That is the very thing which I am anxious to avoid. But leading the House of Commons is too much for you and I am sure Mary Anne would have agreed with me when I say that I do not wish you to do so any longer. So I am offering you a peerage. I am sure the Earl of Beaconsfield will continue to serve me for many more years from the House of Lords than would have been possible in the Commons.’

He was elated yet melancholy. Here he was at the very pinnacle of success. Not even in his wildest dreams could he have visualised a greater glory. He was the Queen’s dearest friend and although he referred to her now and then to his intimates as ‘The Faery’ in a rather mocking mood, he loved her. Not in the romantic, tender way in which Melbourne had loved the young girl; but with a great affection tinged with irony; he stood back and laughed at himself – a very old man with dyed hair and touched-up complexion pretending to be a gallant admirer of a plump though still graceful mother of nine, never beautiful, now very plain, scorning as she did all adjuncts to beauty, in her widow’s garb to which she persistently clung. She was the only person in the world who was important to him. He came home to the house where Mary Anne used to wait for him and he thought of recounting to her his conversation with the Queen; how delighted she would have been. ‘But with Mary Anne gone,’ he said to one friend, ‘I am dead … dead though in the Elysian fields.’

What a prop Lord Beaconsfield was in the troubles that followed! thought the Queen. He reminded her of Lord Palmerston in his political outlook – not in any other way, of course; she had never liked Lord Palmerston. There was trouble between Turkey and Russia as there had been in the days of that most unsatisfactory Crimean War when Palmerston had acted so promptly. Lord Beaconsfield wanted to protect Turkey from Russia; Mr Gladstone was against English help to Turkey and indeed he did all he could to embarrass Lord Beaconsfield and the government. There was a point when the country was on the brink of war with Russia for Lord Beaconsfield had assured her that on no account must Russia get a hold on the Baltic ports; how magnificently he had extricated the country from that affair and brought about, as he said so succinctly, ‘Peace with honour.’

She was so relieved. She hated war; she could never forget the sufferings endured by the poor soldiers and in the end it almost always turned out to have been so unnecessary. In addition, there was also the family conflict – Alix’s sister Dagmar being Russian now through her marriage. How very awkward it would have been for the two sisters if there had been war between the countries into which they had married. And Alix was so fiercely loyal to her family – which was right of course, but when one married one’s family was one’s husband’s. People who were not royal were fortunate never to have to face problems like that.

The family brought her constant anxiety, but she was beginning to think that her children had not turned out so badly. She was growing a little fonder of Bertie who had such a good nature and was so eager to please; he was frivolous and she supposed in his pursuit of women rather wicked but now that memories of Albert were fading a little – although she did not care to admit this and now and then tried to convince herself that this was not so – she had begun to take rather a lenient view of Bertie’s peccadilloes. Alfred she would not easily forgive for behaving so rudely to faithful Brown and calling him a servant to his face; poor Alice was not well; the dear child seemed to have troubles and Louis was rather a weak man. Leopold was a constant anxiety because of his weakness through that disease which she was discovering was in the family. Some of the boys seemed to have it although the girls eluded it. She was terrified that Leopold would one day bleed to death. Arthur was a very good young man – more like Albert than any of them; he did not seem to get into those scrapes which her other sons seemed to find irresistible – strange as it was in the sons of Albert. She trusted Louise was happy with Lorne, but she was not sure; however, they all had their own lives to lead and she herself was very busy with her own. Fortunately she had her dear Lord Beaconsfield to assist her in public life and faithful Brown in private; so she was really quite fortunate.

And when Vicky wrote to her about the behaviour of her eldest son Wilhelm, she realised that she was indeed lucky. Wilhelm was turning out to be a very arrogant young man. She had always suspected that arrogance was his besetting sin; she remembered how he had wanted the place of honour in the pony carriage and how he had driven about at Balmoral and Osborne as though he were the Sovereign.

He always signed himself in family letters as Wilhelm Prince of Prussia, which since his father never signed himself Prince, seemed strange. Wilhelm was more like his grandfather and of course he had been brought up in the shadow of Bismarck.

What hurt Vicky more than anything was that he seemed to have taken a dislike to her and the reason was that she was English. Wilhelm hated the English; he could not bear that England was of more importance in the world than the new German Empire; he dreamed grand dreams fostered by Bismarck. Vicky wrote to her mother that he would allow people to talk in a disrespectful manner about her and instead of reproving them sniggered with them.

‘That is quite shocking,’ replied the Queen. ‘I cannot imagine what Dearest Papa would say if he could know of it. And to think that Wilhelm was his first and favourite grandchild. I suppose it is due to that arm of his. What a tragedy.’

Then Arthur became engaged to Princess Louise Margaret of Prussia. This was rather a shock because the Queen had never thought of Arthur’s marrying. There had seemed to be no need for him to hurry into marriage or indeed to marry at all. He was so good that it was clear he could live quite happily without women – unlike his brothers. So why marry? and if he must, why not wait until a more suitable bride could be chosen? But when she saw the bride she was enchanted by her looks, and susceptible as she was to beauty she immediately forgot her misgivings.

Alice was the one who caused her the greatest concern. The Queen imperiously told Alice that she, with Louis and the children, must take a holiday and there could be nowhere more beneficial than a seaside holiday in England. They should all go to Eastbourne for a few weeks and the sea air and sunshine would do them a world of good. She remembered how much good it had always done to her.

So Alice and her family went to Eastbourne and when they visited the Queen she was still concerned about Alice’s health. Alice was so devoted to her family; she was always engaged in good works. Alice and Arthur were the two who took most after their father.

The Queen lectured Alice on taking greater care of her health and spoke sternly to Louis. Alice had always taken her duties seriously. She was the one who had nursed her dearest Papa and later Bertie; and had worked so hard during the dreadful Franco–Prussian war. She was so clever; she had translated into German some of Octavia Hill’s essays about the London poor; and her reason for doing so was that she hoped the German authorities might take some notice of what had been done in London to alleviate suffering and follow the example in Germany.

Dear Alice! Yes, she and Arthur were the good ones, and apt to be overlooked when compared with the more forceful Vicky and gay and fascinating Bertie.

The sad season was approaching. December must always be a month of mourning, when she shut herself away with her journals and went over her past life, reading what she had written at the time and trying to recapture some of that rapture which she assured herself living with Albert had been. It was so long ago. Seventeen years ago since that dreadful December day when she had sat by his bed and known that he had left her for ever.

November came and with it a telegram from Alice to say that her daughter Victoria had caught diphtheria and was very ill.

The Queen was disturbed; she immediately wrote pages of advice to Alice. She must not wear herself out with nursing. She knew her daughter and she, the Queen, was not pleased with the wan looks which she had noticed during the summer. The Queen implored, no commanded, Alice to take great care and as diphtheria was catching, she must not expose herself to infection.

After the tragic death of the child who had fallen from the window, Alice had only six children left – five daughters and one son. There was Victoria, who had diphtheria; Alice known as Alicky, Irene, Ella and baby May; Ernie was now the only son.

Every day the Queen waited impatiently for news; she found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. How she wished the family were still in England for she was certain that with dear Jenner at hand they would have been much safer.

The telegrams came and the news was not good. Alice’s husband, Duke Louis, had caught it; Alicky had it; in a very short time all of the family with the exception of Alice had succumbed to the terrible disease.

What could she do? Did Mama think that she would stand by and see her family ill? She was certainly going to nurse them.

‘The doctors have told me that I must be careful and of course I will. I must on no account kiss them or embrace them.’

‘My dearest child,’ wrote the Queen, ‘I beg of you take the greatest care of yourself.’

Poor Alice! She was doomed to be a martyr. It had always been the same in the nursery. Vicky had bullied her; even Bertie who had championed her had occasionally teased her, but she had always taken it stoically and without protest, never telling tales.

Five-year-old May, the baby and pet of the household, was now dangerously ill.

‘How I wish that I could be there with her,’ said the Queen.

It was terrible when little May had died. But there was worse to come. They were a devoted family and the death of baby May shocked them all and filled them with grief. They were all sick, with the exception of Alice, who had miraculously kept free of the dreaded disease.

When she had looked at that small beloved face and known that her youngest child was dead she had stared speechlessly before her. How could she tell them what had happened, they who were so sick themselves?

But the truth could not be kept from them. ‘Baby is dead.’ The news seeped out, a terrible melancholy fell upon the palace.

Ernie, who had loved his baby sister dearly and was himself very ill with the disease which had killed her, was nearly demented with grief.

‘It is not true, Mama,’ he said. ‘Tell me it is not true.’

Alice could say nothing. She could only gaze sorrowfully at her son.

‘She is dead …? Baby May dead …?’ he cried.

‘She is suffering no more, Ernie, my darling.’

‘Dead!’ said Ernie blankly. Then he looked up at his mother. ‘Am I going to die, Mama? Are we all going to die?’

He had flung himself into her arms and what could she do, but hold him against her. She kissed him; she tried to comfort him.

‘I am here, my son, Mama is here to nurse you, so you will get well.’

He held up his face to hers. How could she refuse to kiss her own son at such a moment?

Alice had caught the infection. When the Queen heard this news she was alarmed.

She sent for Bertie and Alix. ‘She looked so frail when she was here in the summer. I warned her. I should have commanded her to come here. That house of sickness was no place for her.’

‘She wouldn’t have come, Mama,’ pointed out Alix.

‘I trust my daughter would have obeyed me.’

Alix shook her head. ‘She would never have left her family.’

The Queen was silent; then she said suddenly: ‘Do you know what the date is?’ And she began to shiver.

‘Why, Mama,’ said Bertie, ‘it is the twelfth of December.’

‘In two days’ time,’ she said, ‘it will be the fourteenth – the anniversary of your father’s death. It was on the fourteenth of December that we feared so for you, Bertie. Your crisis came then when we had all but given you up. And in two days’ time it will be the fourteenth again and Alice lies close to death.’

‘Mama, it can’t be. How could it be?’ said Bertie.

But the Queen was sure. There was something malignant for her about the 14th of December. That day had been the most wretched of her life; on it she had lost the Beloved Being; life had ended for her on that day, she had often said. And wasn’t it true that on the 14th she had nearly lost her eldest son? A miracle had happened then. And now … Alice!

‘Mama,’ said Bertie, very tender as he knew how to be on such occasions, ‘a miracle will happen again.’

The Queen sat in her room, praying, waiting for the miracle. She read her journals of that dreadful day seventeen years ago – the first fateful 14th of December. She had sat by his bedside, refusing to believe it; turning away from the blank misery which opened at her feet like a deep yawning pit.

‘Please, God,’ she prayed, ‘please, Albert, you saved Bertie. Leave me Alice.’

On the 13th there was no news from Hesse Darmstadt. The Queen went to the Blue Room in which Albert had died and she lived it all again and instead of that dearly beloved face on the pillows she saw that of Alice.

She had looked so ill even in the summer after the good air of Eastbourne. How would she have the strength to get through the illness? Only a miracle could save her. There must be a miracle.

She could not sleep that night. She kept saying: ‘Tomorrow will be the fourteenth.’ She could not stay in bed. She knelt by the bed in the Blue Room and prayed.

She must make a pretence of eating breakfast. Brown would scold her if she did not.

Brown came to her holding a telegram.

She snatched it.

‘I see by your face it’s nae good news,’ he grumbled and even at such a time she noticed the deep concern on his good honest face.

‘Ye’ll be ill yerself, woman,’ he said, ‘if you don’t give over grieving. Let me get you a cup of tea.’

And he got her what he called his special tea and in spite of everything she remembered how she had once complimented him on the best tea she had ever tasted. It was during one of their trips when they had boiled the water by the wayside. ‘It should be good,’ he had said with a grin, ‘it’s laced wi’ good Scotch whisky.’

And that was the sort of tea that Brown always made for her.

He made it now and she drank and felt a little comforted. But not for long.

There was another telegram.

At half past seven on the 14th of December, the seventeenth anniversary of her father’s passing, Alice had died.

The Queen called the family together and told them the terrible news. Leopold sobbed unashamedly, so did Alix, who could never bear tragedy in the family. Poor Bertie was heartbroken; Alice had always been a special favourite of his.

The story of how she had caught the infection was told and the Queen said how typical it was of her. Alice had always sacrificed herself.

How comforting was Lord Beaconsfield who lost no time in hurrying to the Queen to offer his condolences. They wept together and she told him of the virtues of Alice, so very much her father’s daughter. They had shared that quality of saint-liness, so rare in human beings. And they had both died young.

‘Alas, it is often so,’ said Lord Beaconsfield.

‘But fortunately not always,’ she assured him, gazing up into his wrinkled old face.

The speech he made in the House of Lords was so touching that she had a copy of it sent to her that she might read it again and again.

‘My lords, there is something wonderfully piteous in the immediate cause of her death. The physicians who permitted her to watch over her suffering family enjoined her under no circumstances to be tempted into an embrace. Her admirable self-constraint guarded her through the crisis of this terrible complaint into safety … She remembered and observed the injunctions of her physicians. But it became her lot to break to her son, quite a youth, the death of his youngest sister, to whom he was devotedly attached. The boy was so overcome with misery that the agitated mother clasped him in her arms, and thus she received the kiss of death.’

‘How beautiful,’ said the Queen. ‘Only Lord Beaconsfield could write so movingly.’

She thanked him and they talked at great length about the strangeness of the date. Lord Beaconsfield felt that there was some hand of fate in it. The Prince Consort, he was sure, was watching over her.

‘I like to believe that,’ she told him.

‘You may be assured of it, Madam.’

‘As Mary Anne is watching over you.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘He left you the Prince of Wales,’ he went on. ‘He escaped the fateful day; but for some reason the Princess Alice was taken from you.’

‘She is so young to die,’ protested the Queen.

‘As that beloved saint her father was.’

‘And on the same day,’ said the Queen in an awed whisper.

‘The fourteenth of December,’ murmured Lord Beaconsfield.

The Queen held out her hand to him; he took it and kissed it.

‘You are a great comfort to me, Lord Beaconsfield,’ she told him.

‘Life will only be important to me,’ he said earnestly, ‘while I can be so.’

Dear Lord Beaconsfield! When the time came she would send a very special message with the primroses which always went to him from Osborne – the first of the season, picked by her own hands.

She would never forget that beautiful speech of his about the kiss of death.