I used to tell him of the virtues of Albert and he used to say, laughingly, that we vied with each other in telling of the virtues of our spouses.
Then we would sigh and say how lucky we were.
Now he said, “Mary Anne is very ill. She thinks I do not know. She pretends that all is well. She has about a year to live.”
“Oh, how very sad! I am desperately sorry.”
“My dear, kind lady…how wonderful you are! Yes, I shall not long have my Mary Anne, and I know Your Majesty understands as few can the depth of my sorrow.”
I could scarcely bear to look at him.
After a brief silence he went on, “My request is this. If Mary Anne could be created a peeress in her own right… before she dies…”
“Most certainly she shall,” I cried. “I myself will make sure that this is done.”
He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His expression was one of more than gratitude; it was adoration.
So Mary Anne became the Countess of Beaconsfield.
He told me how happy she was, and he thanked me for all I had done for him.
I told him it was nothing. He had done a great deal for me. He was my very good friend and always would be. And I trusted that, if a time should come when he was in need of comfort, he would turn to me.
Although I could not see him as often as I should have liked for there would have been protests from the government if I appeared too friendly with the Leader of the Opposition, nothing could prevent our writing to each other.
I looked forward to his letters. They were so amusingly written—racy, witty, and full of gossip.
They cheered me considerably.
I sent him primroses from Osborne. He wrote me a most grateful letter. He said that from now on they would be his favorite flower.
The Fateful Fourteenth
THE LIBELOUS COMMENTS ABOUT JOHN BROWN AND MYSELF were still being circulated. I had become so accustomed to them that I was ignoring them.
One that created a good deal of interest was my supposed interest in spiritualism. It was a cult that had swept through the country a little earlier and many people testified that they had been in touch with the dead. It was said that my friendship with John Brown could be explained by the fact that Brown was the medium who put me in touch with Albert.
If only I could have been in touch with my beloved one, how happy I should have been!
I knew that if it were possible for him to come to me he would have done so. Of course I was interested; I talked with some of my ladies; I listened to their stories of extraordinary experiences. I sat at a table in the dark with them. But Albert did not come.
And when I thought of frank, rather earthy John Brown having contact with the other world, it all seemed to be quite incongruous.
It was amazing how the stories were circulated, but I thought it was better for people to suspect John Brown as my medium rather than my lover.
I often thought how empty people's lives must be if they must pry and peep into those of others.
I always remembered how Albert had wanted writers to come to Court; he had thought they would be much more interesting than most of the people we met. I had stood out against that, fearing that the conversation might be so lofty that I should be shut out of it. I had been foolish and I believed I had deprived Albert of some pleasure.
I decided, therefore, that I would invite certain writers to Court. I was not very interested in books, but I did admire the energy of people who produced them; and as Albert had been sure they would be interesting, I would do what I had been reluctant to in his lifetime.
I had always admired Tennyson, of course. His In Memoriam had comforted me a great deal and I had written to him to tell him so. He had been to visit me both at Osborne and Windsor. I found him charming and easy to talk to.
One of my ladies told me that Thomas Carlyle, who was apparently a highly respected writer, had lost his wife, so I sent him a note of condolence.
I read George Eliot's Mill on the Floss but the books I really found absorbing were those of Charles Dickens. I asked him to come to Buckingham Palace and I had a very interesting talk with him and afterward reproached myself afresh for having turned away from Albert's suggestion to ask that sort of person to Court. They were different from the people I normally met. They had ideas. I was not sure that I should want to be with them for long, but to meet them after having read their books and in some measure had a glimpse into their minds, was interesting to see what they were like.
I could lose myself in Mr. Dickens's books, and it was exciting to be in a world which was so different from the one in which I had always lived.
I asked Mr. Dickens to present me with copies of his books, which I should like him to sign for me. He expressed great pleasure in being asked to visit me; we talked about Little Nell and there were tears in our eyes. He was one of those warm, feeling men whom I liked instantly. So different from Mr. Gladstone.
I gave him a copy of Leaves from a Journal, and he begged me to inscribe it for him.
“From the humblest writer to the greatest,” I wrote.
IT WAS ABOUT this time that the Mordaunt case burst upon us.
Albert and I had always feared there would be trouble with Bertie. How right we had been!
I had always known that Bertie was living what is called “a double life.” It was wicked of him. He had a wife who was good, loved by the people and said to be one of the most beautiful women in the country; he had four lovely children; it seemed to me that Bertie had everything. And yet he must involve himself in scandal. And what a scandal!
I had known that Bertie was riding for a fall. I knew there were late nights, actresses, gambling, including all those activities that are certain to end in disaster sooner or later; and I knew that Alexandra loved him— in spite of everything. Of course, Albert would never have approved of the way in which they brought up their children. There was no discipline in the nurseries. The children screamed and shouted and climbed all over Bertie while Alexandra looked on, applauding. It was not what Albert would have wished. Even to Vicky, with whom he had always been extraordinarily lenient, he had been a little remote, to be revered.
I said again and again that there would be trouble with those children.
“You should remember your own childhood, Bertie,” I told him. And he replied with a smile, “Oh, I do, Mama. I do.” Which seemed somehow a criticism of Albert and me.
But this was terrible. I was stunned.
Bertie wrote to me, “An unfortunate contretemps has arisen.” He had received an order to appear in court.
Appear in court! The Prince of Wales! I had never heard such a thing.
I sent for him at once. He explained to me that Sir Charles Mordaunt was bringing a divorce suit against his wife, and he had letters to her that had been written by Bertie, and Bertie's name had been mentioned with the result that he was summoned to appear in court.
“You had better tell me all about it,” I said.
He was clearly worried. Poor Alexandra! I thought, and tried to imagine myself in a similar position. Impossible with Albert!
“I am innocent,” said Bertie.
I think I was unable to hide my disbelief.
“It is unfortunate that you have made people of shady reputation your friends,” I said.
“I tell you, Mama. I am innocent.”
I suppose in a family when one member is threatened the rest rally around even though they are not convinced of the accused one's innocence. But Bertie was so firm in his protestations that I felt I must believe him.