Mr Birch read the letter and put it carefully away with the soldier.
So he was to be dismissed. His rule had been too lenient. His efforts were appreciated, his scholarship was not in question, but the Prince of Wales had an unfortunate nature.
He wanted to protest. The Prince of Wales is a normal boy. He wants love and understanding. It is true he is not as clever as his elder sister, but he has gifts which she lacks. He may not be intellectual, but he is kind-hearted, fond of fun. He has an ability to make himself loved which should not be warped by severity.
But how could one explain? The Queen and the Prince might know how to govern a country (through their Ministers) but they did not know how to bring up a child.
They were a wretched three weeks while Mr Gibbs was taking over from Mr Birch. Bertie was very unhappy, he cried himself to sleep every night; he left notes on Mr Birch’s pillow; and he hated Mr Gibbs, who soon made his views known, which were identical with those of the Prince and Stockmar.
The Baron had interviewed Mr Gibbs in the presence of Albert. They enumerated Bertie’s weaknesses. His temper was fierce and ungovernable; he was lazy; he was frivolous; he would at moments stutter, although recently this was less pronounced; when addressed he was inclined to hang his head and look at his feet. It was the Baron’s opinion that the cure for these faults was in renewed work and constant applications of the cane. The Baron did not criticise Mr Birch, who was a very learned gentleman, but his methods had been too mild – all very well when dealing with a clever child like the Princess Royal perhaps, but for such a miscreant as the Prince of Wales they were doomed to failure.
Mr Birch departed and the Prince of Wales watched him go, as well as his tears and a window steamed by his breath would let him.
Mr Birch had told him that the time would pass and he would soon escape from the schoolroom altogether; that was one of the great consolations of life. Nothing lasted for ever.
The carriage had gone. Desolation remained. Bertie was convulsed by his sobbing in which Alfred joined, for he too had loved Mr Birch and the fact that Bertie was broken-hearted meant that Alfred must be too.
Mr Gibbs’ first task was to explain to the Prince the awful task ahead of him. It must be work, work, work, because one day when some dire event should fall – the death of his mother – he would be the King. Bertie was a little bewildered. His mother was the Queen but his terrifying father was not the King. He couldn’t understand it.
His mother was the less terrifying of the trio which consisted of father, mother and Mr Gibbs. In fact there were times when she was quite different. When she laughed and showed her gums he forgot about her being on their side. And she could play games too, and when they did play it was fun. Then Papa would come and look on and spoil it, it was true, because he would say they weren’t doing something as it should be done, and then he for one would forget his lines simply because Papa was there.
So when he was walking with Mama in the grounds of Buckingham Palace and Papa wasn’t there, which seemed to make her more friendly, he asked: ‘Mama, why are you the Queen?’
She always liked to talk about the family. ‘Well, my Grandpapa was George III and he had several sons. The eldest of these was my uncle George who was George IV. He had a daughter, Charlotte, who would have been Queen but she died, so when George IV died his brother William IV was King. William had no heir so the next son was my father and as he had no children but me, I was the Queen.’
Bertie nodded gravely.
‘And,’ went on Mama, ‘your dear Papa and I married and you are our eldest son. So one day you will be King. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes. It was what I thought but …’
‘Well tell me, Bertie, if there is something you don’t understand.’
‘Can you and Papa make the next sovereign?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Can you say who it will be?’
‘It is not for anyone to say. It is the next in line of succession.’
‘Oh, I thought that it would be Vicky who was Queen and not me the King.’
‘No. If there is a boy, it is the boy.’
‘But I thought as you and Papa love Vicky so much you would want her to be Queen.’
Victoria was a little startled. She looked sharply at Bertie but that was true bewilderment she saw in his eyes and she felt her conscience vaguely disturbed.
Her impulse was to tell him that parents loved all their children equally if they were good, but that was not true and she was too honest to deceive herself.
All the same she would have liked to have embraced Bertie and to tell him that she wanted to love him; but Albert would say that was bad for him. He must be aware of his responsibilities and severity would make him so.
Bertie was behaving badly. He refused to do his sums; he was disobedient; he was caught putting his tongue out at Mr Gibbs’ back and he was inciting Alfred to behave as badly. His temper was in constant evidence; he called Mr Gibbs objectional names; he once threw stones at him.
All this was reported to Albert and Stockmar who congratulated themselves on having installed Mr Gibbs in time.
One could only get the attention of the Prince of Wales by story telling and play acting. For instance when Mr Gibbs had told the story of Robert the Bruce both Bertie and Alfred had sat listening entranced. Why could he not show the same interest in his studies?
When they did amateur theatricals Bertie was again amenable. He could learn his part as well as anyone, but when the children performed before their parents the Princess Royal so outshone him that he became rather sullen. The Princess, being so much bigger than her brother, played the masculine parts to perfection. ‘How well Vicky looks in her costume,’ the Queen was heard to say. ‘Poor Bertie’s swamped in his.’
Mr Gibbs must bring all possible accounts of Bertie’s shortcomings to Stockmar and his father. The remedy, said the Baron, was harder work and more canings.
The younger children copied Bertie. He was an evil example. Even Vicky was not always a paragon.
But as the Queen said to Albert: ‘Vicky was charmingly naughty.’ She repeated the latest account of Vicky’s charming naughtiness, when she was confined to her room in disgrace.
Albert, not feeling very well, had summoned a Windsor physician who was highly thought of in the neighbourhood instead of calling on Sir James Clark or one of the royal doctors. He was a Mr Brown and the Queen and Albert addressed him as Brown. The Princess Royal imitated her parents and referred to him as ‘Brown’ at which the Queen reprimanded her. He was Mr Brown, an eminent doctor, and the children must call him by his proper name.
Vicky, very conscious of her rank, which was partly due to her doting parents, addressed the doctor once more as ‘Brown’. After he had left the Queen sent for her to tell her that this was very rude and she had already been told that she must call him Mr Brown. But the Princess Royal persisted in dropping the Mr, at which the queen said that if it happened again she would be sent to bed immediately. Mr Brown came again and Vicky said defiantly, ‘Good morning, Brown.’ Then watching her mother’s expression, she curtsied and went on: ‘Good night, Brown, for I am now going to bed.’
So Vicky spent the rest of the day in disgrace and the Queen and Albert laughed uproariously about her charming naughtiness.