The Widow of Windsor

Chapter XX ‘HIS FAVOURITE FLOWER’

The Queen tried not to brood on the death of Alice. She died as she would have wished, she said, serving her family. It was what one would have expected of Alice.

Lord Beaconsfield suggested that Lord Lorne would be a good Governor-General of Canada which would mean that he and Louise would leave the country. She was a little dubious. She had just lost one daughter to death and she did not like to think of another being so far away; but that was the fate of royal children. Daughters were always taken from their parents.

There was a great deal in the country’s affairs to cause her anxiety. A war had broken out with the Zulu rising; and the Prince Imperial, son of the widowed Empress Eugénie, was slain in a very distressing way – he was hacked to pieces by the knives of savages. She hated war but Lord Beaconsfield pointed out that it was impossible to maintain a position as the leading world power possessed of an Indian Empire and colonies without being continually engaged in minor wars of this nature.

She saw the point of that and Lord Beaconsfield had made her fully aware of the growing Empire. Victoria Regina et Imperatrix was not mistress of a small state, she must remember; she was the mighty Queen and Empress who ruled a large proportion of the world. Lord Beaconsfield would like to see those boundaries grow wider and of course he was right.

‘I plan to see you at the head of the European community,’ he told her. ‘It is absolutely necessary to the peace and well-being of the world that you should be.’

Unfortunately Mr Gladstone was of the opposite view. He went about the country preaching peace. ‘Peace at any price,’ said the Queen. ‘Really, men like Mr Gladstone are dangerous.’

What she did not realise was that Mr Gladstone’s policies were winning approval and that since Mr Disraeli had become Lord Beaconsfield, his ministry had been considerably weakened.

No one was more aware of this than Lord Beaconsfield. He was old and tired and far from well, and decided that he could only carry on with an increased majority. He decided therefore to go to the polls.

The Queen felt that she must visit Alice’s stricken family and left for Hesse Darmstadt. Two of her granddaughters, Victoria and Ella, miraculously recovered from diphtheria, were to be confirmed and she wished to attend the ceremony.

How very sad it was to be greeted by the children in their deep mourning and the sadness in their faces. Poor motherless children! They only had Louis now, and he had never been a strong man.

She wanted to hear in detail an account of Alice’s passing and the children took her to the room in which their mother had died.

‘It is exactly the same as when she occupied it, Grandmama,’ said Ella. ‘We are going to keep it thus.’

‘I am glad,’ said the Queen. ‘Your dear grandpapa’s room is just as it was when he died in it although that is a very long time ago – it will soon be twenty years since he left me desolate and you children without the guidance of the best man in the world. Why, your mama and papa were married after his death … very shortly after. It was the saddest wedding I ever attended.’

The children looked suitably solemn and many tears were shed talking of their mother.

She continued to indulge in memories of the past and talked constantly of the saintly grandfather the children had never known. They could understand now that they had personal experience of the loss of a dear one.

When the results of the election were telegraphed to her she received a great shock. It could not be. This was a mighty defeat. The government had been trounced at the polls and the Liberal and Home Rule party had a majority of 166 over the Tories.

‘It is absolutely incredible,’ cried the Queen. ‘Has the country gone mad!’

She realised what this would mean – the loss of her Prime Minister. Her dear friend and comforter would be taken from her, because the new Prime Minister would never allow her to be constantly in the company of the Leader of the Opposition.

‘My government defeated,’ she mourned, ‘and what will replace it?’ She set her lips obstinately together. ‘One thing I shall not accept. I would abdicate rather than accept Mr Gladstone as my Prime Minister.’

Her secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, tried to put the case as tactfully as he could. It seemed almost inevitable that Gladstone would be the next Prime Minister. It was unfortunate that the Queen should so dislike him; but she had learned before that the will of the people would have to be obeyed.

Abdication, said the Queen, seemed the only answer. How could she possibly work with that man?

There were other possibilities, Sir Henry suggested. There was Hartington; there was Lord Granville.

‘I don’t like either of them,’ she said. ‘Granville has worked against my wishes. As for Hartington, he has been far too friendly with the Prince of Wales – one of the Prince’s friends whom I would rather he did not see so frequently. The whole world knows of his liaison with the Duchess of Manchester and do you think that is a pleasant way for a Prime Minister to behave? There have been other rumours about him too. Wasn’t he at one time enamoured of a creature called Skittles?’

Sir Henry remarked that quite a number of gentlemen had been enamoured of that lady.

She knew that he was referring to Bertie, who had been one of the woman’s admirers. A very good-looking creature by all accounts, and Hartington had left the Duchess of Manchester for her but had returned to the Duchess when he had tired of the Skittles person. It really was rather disreputable.

There was nothing to be done but to return home immediately where at least she could see Lord Beaconsfield. He looked so pale and melancholy that she felt the need to comfort him. ‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield, this is my tragedy as well as yours,’ she told him.

He kissed her hand; there was sad longing in his eyes. He knew this was farewell to The Faery.

She talked of Mr Gladstone. ‘I would rather abdicate than accept him,’ she declared.

‘Dear Madam,’ said Lord Beaconsfield, tenderly reproachful. Then he advised her to send for Hartington. After all Gladstone had resigned the party leadership some time ago so she need not send for him. If she could reconcile herself to Harty Tarty she might give him a trial.

‘Such a ridiculous name! How could any man be serious with a name like that? He is a most immoral man too with his Skittles and his irregular union with the Manchester woman!’

To cheer her Lord Beaconsfield told her how Skittles had acquired her name; she had quarrelled with some soldiers and had threatened to knock them down like a row of skittles. ‘Only, of course, her language was such that I would not care to repeat to Your Majesty.’

‘And this is a woman with whom our would-be Prime Minister’s name has been linked!’

‘His Highness the Prince of Wales once carried out a practical joke on Hartington. I am sure Your Majesty would be amused to hear of it. The Prince and Princess were visiting Coventry (Hartington was in his suite) and the Prince had asked that when they toured the town they should be taken to a bowling alley. When they reached the alley the Mayor invited Hartington to show his skill. Hartington said he had no idea what had to be done at which the Mayor exclaimed: ‘But His Royal Highness was insistent that you should be brought here as a tribute to your Lordship’s love of skittles.’ The joke has been repeated up and down the country.’

The Queen could not repress a smile. She and Albert had been very fond of practical jokes, and Bertie had inherited their love of them. It was rather funny – though not the sort of joke that should be played out on a future Prime Minister.

Then she was melancholy thinking how pleasant it was chatting with dear Lord Beaconsfield and how he reminded her of long ago when Lord Melbourne had been her Prime Minister – and what was more important, her friend.

How could she ever feel friendship towards the ridiculous Harty Tarty, Granville (who had been given the equally ridiculous name of Puss) or worst of all Mr Gladstone, to whom no one could give a frivolous name but Gladdy – which was meant of course to be ironical.

She sent for Hartington; she sent for Granville. They could not take office, they explained. There was one man the people wanted. They called him The People’s William. They referred to Mr Gladstone.

She dismissed them; she brooded. Oh, if only Albert were here to guide her! She remembered the Bedchamber Affair before her marriage when she was a very young and inexperienced Queen.

She knew what was coming. A Queen must bow to the will of the people and the people wanted Gladstone.

She must do her duty. She could, of course, abdicate, she had threatened it often, but in her heart she knew she never would, so she sent for Mr Gladstone.

He took her hand and kissed it; she turned away that she might not look at him while this act, so necessary to etiquette, so repulsive to her personal feelings, was performed.

She noticed that he looked haggard. She was certainly not going to ask him to sit down. She addressed him coldly; there was a distant look in her eyes, when he talked, as though she were not listening; and all the time she was thinking: He defeated my government. They have taken Lord Beaconsfield from me and given me this man.

How she missed Lord Beaconsfield! She was anxious about him too because she knew that he was not well. She talked to John Brown about the excellence of that man and how different he was from The People’s William.

‘Aye,’ said Brown, ‘it’s been a fight between the Queen’s Benny and the People’s Willy.’

How quaintly he expressed himself; she could not help smiling; so he said he would make her a cup of tea with a dash of whisky in it to keep up her spirits.

That spring she picked primroses at Osborne and sent them to Lord Beaconsfield. What charming letters he wrote to her. He expressed his sentiments so graciously. Again how different from Mr Gladstone!

It was rather a shock to discover that Sir Charles Dilke had been given a post in the government – that radical who had thundered away declaring that a republic would be better for the country than a monarchy, and had tried to make inquiries into the manner in which her income was spent.

It was quite humiliating. Strangest of all Dilke had struck up a friendship with Bertie. Didn’t Bertie realise that the man was an enemy of Royalty? She remonstrated with Bertie.

‘He is an extremely clever man, Mama. He’s very witty and has a wonderful flow of language when expressing himself that it’s quite a joy to listen to him.’

‘This man,’ she said, ‘has insulted me!’

‘He’s Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in Your Majesty’s government.’

‘What can one expect with Mr Gladstone in charge?’

‘Well, Mama, if he is a radical it is as well for me to find out what he is thinking.’

‘I do not care to see him entertained too frequently at Marlborough House,’ said the Queen.

‘Not really frequently,’ said Bertie, ‘only now and then; and since you live so aloof, it is necessary for me to meet these people.’

Bertie was right in a way; and of course he had a way with him which Lord Beaconsfield had admired.

All the same, she implied that she did not like this friendship with Sir Charles Dilke.

‘Ah, Mama,’ said Bertie, sadly, ‘I fear there are several of my friends whom you do not like.’

‘A fact which a dutiful son should surely try to rectify.’

‘Indeed yes, Mama, but I wish to take unpleasant burdens from your shoulders and entertain those who are offensive to you.’

She bowed her head. There was a good deal in what Bertie said.

The winter had been more than usually cold, and Lord Beaconsfield felt far from well. He went down to Hughenden and tried the quiet life to see if his health would improve; but everywhere were reminders of happy days spent there with Mary Anne and his melancholy increased. He was not meant to lead the quiet country life. He was lonely and bored and even his books could not hold his attention; his thoughts kept straying into the past.

He came back to London. It was March and the winds were icy; he caught a bad chill and took to his bed.

He felt old and feeble and since the death of Mary Anne the zest of life had gone. As he lay in his bed in the house in Curzon Street his mind drifted back to the past and he thought of those nights when he had come home from the House of Commons to find Mary Anne waiting for him with cold chicken and champagne. He could see himself leaning towards her talking earnestly about the success or the failure of the day; and he could see her eyes eternally young while they glowed with love for him.

A messenger came to the house bringing primroses from Osborne. The Queen had heard that he was indisposed and was anxious.

He wrote thanking her for her concern. He drew great pleasure from the primroses.

She wired every day from Windsor asking how he was.

‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield,’ she said to Brown, ‘I fear his end is near.’

And she shut herself away in the Blue Room where Albert had breathed his last; she thought of the terrible day which would live for ever in her mind; and she wept bitterly for she knew that she was about to lose a very dear friend.

April had come. He knew he was dying. It was time, he told himself. He had no more use for life. He had climbed to the very highest pinnacle. No one would have believed that the young Jew who had struggled so hard to make a living from his writing would have become Prime Minister, a peer, and the beloved friend of the Queen.

He had not left the house in Curzon Street for three weeks now, and he knew he never would again. It was gratifying to learn that in the streets people spoke his name in hushed whispers and asked each other how he was today.

‘Getting so close to the grave,’ he murmured. ‘Soon I shall be lying beside Mary Anne.’

His secretary came to his bedside.

‘Her Majesty would be pleased to come to see you if you were to ask,’ he was told.

He shook his head. ‘I am in no shape to receive Her Majesty. Besides,’ he added wryly, ‘she would ask me to take a message to Albert.’ He sighed. ‘I’d rather live,’ he said, ‘but I’m not afraid to die.’

Then he lay back, closed his eyes and did so.

The Queen wept. It was so sad. She could not imagine what it would be like without dear Lord Beaconsfield to come and talk to her. He was always so witty, so amusing and so respectful and affectionate. How she missed this in her present ministers.

‘His devotion to me, his wise counsels, his gentleness combined with firmness, his one thought of the honour and glory of the country make the death of my dear Lord Beaconsfield a national calamity,’ she said.

Mr Gladstone suggested that Lord Beaconsfield should be given a public funeral and be buried in Westminster Abbey. The Queen said this would please her and she thought it right and fitting. But she learned later that Beaconsfield had asked to be buried in the little church at Hughenden beside his wife, Mary Anne.

‘How characteristic,’ said the Queen with tears in her eyes.

So Lord Beaconsfield was buried in Hughenden churchyard. The Prince of Wales, representing the Queen, attended the funeral and a wreath of primroses was laid on his coffin and on this was attached a message written in the Queen’s hand: ‘His favourite flower.’