Now Dagmar was to go to Russia, and Bertie and Alexandra wanted to go to the wedding.
As Alexandra was pregnant and her first child had been born prematurely, the doctors said she was unfit to go. She was very upset but I forbade it. Bertie, however, was eager to go. I was very sad for Alexandra. How different Albert would have been! He had hated to be separated from me and would not have wanted the superficial glitter of such occasions. Not so Bertie. I told him that as Alexandra could not go he had a very good excuse for not going either. Bertie was sly. He went to the Prime Minister to ask his advice, and both Derby and Disraeli thought that Bertie should go since the Russians could believe that the absence of both Bertie and Alexandra could be construed as an insult.
So Bertie went, and I insisted that he call in at Prussia either on his way out or on his return. He was reluctant to do this. Vicky was so censorious, he said. She thought he was her little brother still.
He went to Paris as well. He was very fond of Paris and had always maintained a friendship with the Emperor with whom he was a great favorite since he had, so disloyally, told him that he wished he were his father. Vicky wrote that there were rumors throughout the Continent about his behavior. He was very popular, there was not a doubt of that, but he was very much given to entertaining and being entertained by people of not the finest character—and particularly women.
I expected such letters from Vicky, but when I heard from Alice that there was scandal about Bertie I felt it was really grave.
If only Albert were here! I thought. I tried to imagine what he would have done. It was different now. Bertie was no longer a boy; he was in fact building up his own Court—men like himself, fond of gaiety and reckless living. Of course he was popular, far more than Albert had ever been—even at the time of the Great Exhibition. The government seemed to approve of him too. They called him a good ambassador; and if I raised any objections to his behavior, I was met by oblique references to my own seclusion.
We were very anxious about Alexandra because she now began to suffer from pains in her limbs that mystified the doctors. She could scarcely walk. Eventually they diagnosed rheumatism. This was very worrying as she was about to have a child.
When her child was born she was very ill indeed. Bertie was away and the doctors, fearing she was going to die, sent for her parents. I hurried from Windsor to Marlborough House and when I arrived there, I found Alexandra's mother at her bedside and was told that her father would come as soon as he could.
I was rather annoyed. My permission had not been asked; but when I saw the tenderness between Queen Louise and her daughter, I softened. I was so fond of Alexandra and she told me it had done her so much good to see her mother and she was feeling better every instant since her arrival.
I then told Louise how glad I was that she had come, and how dearly I loved my daughter-in-law. And because she knew I was speaking the truth, we liked each other a little better.
Alexandra had given birth to a little girl—Louise, Victoria, Alexandra; I was so relieved that she had come through that ordeal; but she was still in pain.
The doctors said she had rheumatic fever and that and the pregnancy had impaired her health considerably. She hobbled about on sticks, poor child, and still suffered a lot of pain. I told Bertie that it was due to the life they led and that Alexandra needed more peace. “Your Papa and I liked nothing better than to be alone, to read to each other and play duets. That was so restful. Papa did not care for dancing—ever—and he would not have been so foolish as to gamble.”
“It is impossible for everyone to be like Papa,” he said.
“That is true,” I retorted. “Least of all, it seems, you, Bertie. You are his son. You should be proud of that and try to be like him.”
Bertie had a way of appearing to listen when I guessed his thoughts were far away.
In time, Alexandra improved a little, but she walked with a limp. She was so pretty and dressed so charmingly and had such a natural air of elegance that nothing could deter from her attractiveness. Some of the ladies copied her walk. They thought it was very charming.
They called it the Alexandra Limp.
THERE WAS FURTHER trouble in Europe.
Although I was still on very friendly terms with Louis Napoleon, I did wonder what he was secretly planning. Napoleon's family were natural fighters; and he was hinting that owing to the new Prussian supremacy in Europe his frontiers were threatened by the Duchy of Luxembourg, which the Prussians were fortifying right on his border. He was in conference with the King of Holland suggesting that the Duchy should now be part of France—or Belgium might have it if they gave him a strip of territory in exchange for it.
Prussia, flushed with victory, was not in the mood to agree.
We must keep the peace, I declared.
As a result there was a meeting in London and it was decided that the independence of Luxembourg should be guaranteed and the fortress dismantled.
Napoleon was then a little cool toward me. He wanted territory and he thought that, in my efforts to avert war by calling a conference, I had thwarted him.
I was appearing in public a little more at this time. I had laid the foundations of the Albert Hall, which was to be built in honor of Albert; that ceremony had been very moving. But I had to do it for it would not have been seemly for anyone else to.
There were still scurrilous comments about my relationship with John Brown and I was not going to let myself be persuaded to send him back to Scotland, which I think some of them would have liked.
I had given way to pleadings for me to review the troops in Hyde Park. I would ride in my carriage, and naturally John Brown would be on the box. In view of all the publicity John Brown had received, the crowd would, no doubt, turn out to see him and me together.
Lord Derby called on me and told me that it would be unwise for John Brown to be present.
“But why?” I demanded. “His place is there. He is my Highland servant.”
“Ma'am, as you know there have been a number of scurrilous cartoons and articles in the papers.”
“Destined to destroy the character of a good and honest man …and their Queen. I know. I have no respect for such people. They should be punished severely.”
“There has to be freedom of the Press, Your Majesty, and sometimes that can be unfortunate. But I think it would be wise in the circumstances if John Brown did not appear at the review.”
But I was not going to give way. That would be weakness and I should despise myself if I did. My relationship with John Brown was that of a queen and her servant—a respected servant, it was true, but nevertheless a servant. And I would not give way to sensation-seeking scandalmongers.
I said firmly, “John Brown shall go to the review.”
But it came about in a strange way that he did not.
A few years before, Napoleon had persuaded the Austrian Emperor's brother, the Archduke Maximilian, to accept the Imperial Crown of Mexico, which the French were setting up in that republic. There was a close connection between the Archduke and myself because he had married Charlotte, Uncle Leopold's daughter, so it was another of those family affairs. The Mexicans, however, would not accept the Archduke as their Emperor and Napoleon was asked to withdraw his troops and the Archduke to resign his title. Charlotte came to Europe to rally help for her husband; but meanwhile the Mexicans restored the republic and the Archduke was shot by order of a court-martial.