I RECEIVED HIM coolly. The man irritated me. He talked in an authoritative way as though addressing a public meeting. His vehemence was overwhelming; it came out in a steady flow of forceful language. He was the sort of man who had no doubt that his ideas were the right ones, and one had the impression that he was determined to carry them out.
That he was a good man, I knew, for I made it my business to discover all I could about my Prime Ministers, I had so much to do with them that it was necessary for me to have a full acquaintance with their past as well as their present lives.
William Ewart Gladstone was the son of a Liverpool merchant who had immigrated to that city from Scotland. The father had been active in politics and besides being successful in business had sat in Parliament as a Tory for about ten years. Gladstone was sent to Eton and then Oxford where he had naturally soon distinguished himself in debate.
He was a man of conscience. At Eton his great friend had been Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle; and the Duke, impressed by Gladstone's amazing energy, eloquence, and outstanding qualities generally, offered to help him win the seat of Lewark for the Tories. In the Gladstone home Canning had been a hero. He was now dead but the Duke of Newcastle had remarked in public that Canning had been the most profligate minister the country had ever had, and young Gladstone thought it would be disloyal to the memory of Canning to accept help from a man who had maligned him.
His father told him not to be a fool. He would never make much progress in life if he allowed opportunities to slip out of his hands. Eventually Gladstone saw the point and won the seat. Ever since he had been climbing up the political ladder, and it was inconceivable that a man of his talent and forceful dedication could remain unnoticed.
When he was a young man he had become very friendly with the Glynne family. Lady Glynne was a widow with two sons—one in Parliament—and two daughters, Catherine and Mary. He fell in love with Catherine, but it was apparently some time before she accepted his proposal of marriage. I could imagine his courtship. Did he address her as a public meeting? I thought that very likely. However she finally agreed and of course he had chosen very wisely. He could not have found a better wife. She came from a political family, her grandfather was George Grenville, the Prime Minister who passed the Stamp Act, and she was the niece of Lord Grenville who was Prime Minister in '06; her great aunt was Chatham's wife and William Pitt was her cousin. So she was related to four Prime Ministers and it seemed only reasonable that she should be married to one.
She was the opposite of her husband—bright, cheerful, and popular; she was by no means approaching him in intellect—what a formidable pair they would have been if she had!—but she was very pleasant. I liked her as soon as I saw her, and I felt very sorry for her because she was married to that man!
She had eight children—seven of whom survived. She clearly humanized the household. I could imagine him—precise, neat in life as he was in his mind. For him there would be a place for everything. She was careless and had no time for method. But she had charm—and he was aware of it, having none himself. He was, naturally, devoted to her as she was to him, and I had to applaud that. She insisted that he take exercise, remove his wet things if he was caught in a shower; she made sure that he was well wrapped up against the cold. Like Mary Anne Disraeli, she always had a supper for him when he came in from the House; she guarded him, watched over him and even took an interest in politics—about which, in spite of her relationship with all those Prime Ministers, she was not really enthusiastic.
These items of news came to me through servants. I always had my favorite maids who kept me informed. I knew that one of the criticisms leveled against me—and Albert—was that we got on better with the servants than the courtiers. There was an element of truth in this and I was even more friendly with them than Albert had been. I liked them to know that I was interested in their welfare. They knew this and loved me for it; and it so happened that I did glean all sorts of information of which I should otherwise have been ignorant.
So that was the man who was now my Prime Minister. Admirable, no doubt, honest, stubborn on points which he believed to be right; a man who would, in the old days, have gone to the stake for his opinions.
I should have admired him. I should have welcomed him. But I could not. I simply did not like him, and as my affections were fierce so were my dislikes.
As soon as he was in power a large number of reforms were undertaken. Gladstone was obsessed with reform. I had always firmly believed in religious toleration and the liberty of the subject; but Gladstone wanted to go farther than that. He was introducing Radicalism. It was absurd to attempt to abolish class distinction. Not that I believed that a person's birth was all important. What mattered was education, good behavior, and moral standards; and I had ample evidence to know that this existed in people who were not of high birth. Gladstone introduced measures with such rapidity that it was difficult to follow him. He would stand before me with that speaker's manner and expound at great length on his various projects and talk, talk, talk. He did not seem as if he could stop. He was eloquent. I had to admit that. I found my mind straying and wondering how poor Mrs. Gladstone put up with him.
I knew of course that, constitutionally, I could not oppose him. It was the elected government who made the decisions, not the Queen. But I did have a say in these matters, and I determined to oppose him wherever possible.
His first measure was the disestablishment of the Irish Church. I knew that this was the question on which he had gone to the country, and the results of that election meant that the people were behind him. But the Lords threw out the Bill after it had been passed through the Commons. I knew this could cause a great deal of trouble, and in a case such as this the Upper House must bow to the Lower. I wanted the matter settled, for even though I did not agree with it, I did realize that the conflict was bad for the country. I asked the House of Lords to give way to the Commons. Let the principle be agreed on and the details thrashed out later.
The Bill was then passed, due to my intervention, but there was a good deal of quibbling about procedure. I was called in again and helped reconcile the two sides. I think I showed those people who thought that because I was mourning the loss of my husband I was neglecting my duties as Queen, that I was deeply involved in matters of state.
But the fact remained, I could not like Mr. Gladstone.
I WANTED TO show my appreciation of Disraeli, and it seemed to me in order to offer him an earldom. I sent for him and told him what I had been thinking. He was overcome with gratitude; he kissed my hand and with tears in his eyes told me that he did not deserve such consideration from the most admirable of queens and the most delightful of women.
I laughed at his fulsomeness, but I must say I found it gratifying, and such a change from the lectures I received in the most stilted phrases from my Prime Minister.
Disraeli declined the earldom, however. Perhaps he thought it would restrict him in the House of Commons.
But he said, “Your Majesty has been so gracious to me that I will be so bold as to make a suggestion.”
“Please do,” I said.
He hesitated and I saw the look of pain cross his face. His features were always so expressive—as I suppose mine were.
“It is Mary Anne,” he said.
He always talked of his wife in a familiar way with me. I was glad he did. I felt I knew her already. He had made me see her as a wonderful woman. I remember how on one occasion he was going to make a very important speech in the Commons and she had driven there with him; as he alighted, she had caught her hand in the door. She had been in agony but did not mention it to him for fear it might worry him and take his mind off his speech.