I was sorry for Napoleon and Eugénie and hated to see them so humbled. I had quite liked the Emperor; he had been a charming guest and Eugénie was very attractive.
Now they were outcasts with nowhere to go. Eugénie appealed to me and I offered her refuge in England. She came to Chichester. Napoleon was a prisoner of the Germans and they held him for some months, but when he was free he came to join Eugénie at Chichester.
Although I did disapprove of his policies and my sympathies were with the Germans—for most of my family were in that country and through Albert and my mother my ties with them were strong—I did not forget that Napoleon and Eugénie had been my friends.
Poor things! They were so grateful. How are the mighty fallen! I thought. A lesson to us all.
IT WAS A very sad day for me when I heard that poor Lehzen had died. Memories came flooding back and I felt a twinge of conscience. We had been very close and in my young days she had been the most important person in my life. My dear Daisy! And I had called her “Mother” on some occasions. And then… she had gone and I hardly saw her again. Albert had made me see that he and she could not be under the same roof. I had to make a choice and of course it must be Albert. I thought of us—dressing the dolls together, doing our reading; she had guarded me like a watchdog and would have given her life for me if necessary.
How sad that it had to be as it was!
I mourned her and regretted that she had passed so completely out of my life, but I had never forgotten her. Dear Lehzen!
But she had been happy in her last years. She had loved her nieces and nephews and no doubt planned for them as she had once for me.
I hoped she had been happy and not thought too often and too sadly of the days at Kensington Palace.
Gladstone and his ministers were in a state of tension over what was happening on the Continent. The German States were united under one great Empire. This had been proclaimed to the world in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles—stressing German supremacy over the French. It was a typical Bismarck gesture to hold the ceremony there. So now, instead of several small states, there was one Empire, a formidable power astride the Continent. Moreover, at the same time, France had become a republic.
Mr. Gladstone came to see me and standing before me—I would not invite him to sit down and he could not do so until I did—declaimed at length on the dangerous situation. A king had been deposed. All royalty must regard that with apprehension. It was very necessary for all sovereigns to have the people behind them.
The burden of this harangue was that the people's approval was not won by monarchs who shut themselves away. At the moment even the popularity of the Prince of Wales had foundered. The Mordaunt case had done him no good and whatever the verdict of the court there would be some mischief-makers who would try to make him seem guilty.
I told him to consult Dr. Jenner who had insisted that I needed quiet and rest.
“It was hard work that killed the Prince Consort,” I said. “He never spared himself. If he had he would be here today.”
Mr. Gladstone went on with his speech about the dangers following the new state of affairs in Europe.
My mind wandered. Poor Mrs. Gladstone, I thought. How does she endure the man?
I THINK ALEXANDRA was very sad at that time. She must have been very disillusioned about Bertie. I wondered what she thought of the Mordaunt case. But by this time she would have learned what he was like. Poor Alexandra. She had lost her baby, little Alexander. She consulted me about having a stained-glass window put into the church at Sandringham as a memorial. I thought it an excellent idea, and I think it cheered her considerably to talk about it with me.
Her rheumatic pains were troubling her again. When I thought of that bright and pretty girl I had first seen and how feeling she had been putting on a black dress to show she understood my mourning, I was saddened. She was beautiful—nothing could alter that; but she had lost her gaiety.
Perhaps I should speak to Bertie. Perhaps not. Speaking to Bertie had never done any good.
When we were at Balmoral, Louise had become very friendly with the Argylls and particularly with the Duke's son and heir, the Marquess of Lorne. I was rather taken aback when Louise told me that Lorne wanted to marry her.
A commoner! I thought. That was not really very suitable.
“My dear child,” I said, “what do you feel?”
“I love him, Mama. I want to marry him. I hope you will give us your blessing.”
What could I do? The dear child was radiant.
“My dearest,” I said, “I hope you will be happy.”
She threw her arms about me. “Dear good Mama,” she said.
I was certainly happy to see her happy, but I did remind her that it was very rare for royal girls to marry commoners.
“I know, Mama. The last time was when Henry the Eighth's sister Mary married the Duke of Suffolk.”
“I believe,” I said, with an attempt at severity, “she married him first and asked permission afterward.”
“Well, Mama that was the safest way with Henry the Eighth. You are not a tyrant but the dearest sweetest Mama in the world.”
I felt very emotional. I thought: They are all going…every one of them. There is only Beatrice left now. I could not bear to part with her.
I saw no reason why the marriage should be delayed, so it took place in March of the following year. I led the procession up the nave wearing rubies and diamonds and a dress of black satin covered in jet to remind everyone that I was still in mourning.
As on all such occasions I thought of Albert and pictured him standing beside me, and melancholy set in after the ceremony.
I was getting old; my children were growing up. Only Baby Beatrice left to me now!
I hoped she would never leave me.
MR. GLADSTONE'S WORDS had some effect on me and although I had no intention of coming entirely out of seclusion, I did open St. Thomas's Hospital and the Albert Hall.
I attended the Opening of Parliament wearing an ermine-trimmed dress that was in a way a sort of half-mourning; and I had a new crown that brightened up my appearance considerably.
Of course there was murmuring about that. Louise's dowry and Arthur's annuity would be discussed during this session and some of the papers pointed out that this may have been the explanation of my appearance and that I was preparing the way for when I came with my begging bowl. What with sly hints about the Mordaunt case and the dissatisfaction with my quiet life, the family prestige was very low at that time. Again and again Mr. Gladstone pointed out the dangers, particularly in view of what had happened in France; and when fifty-four votes were cast against Arthur's annuity that was a shock.
“The monarchy must be made visible and palpable to the people,” said Mr. Gladstone.
Arthur had his money, he went on, but the people expected some return for these sums.
Then I became ill. I awoke one morning to find my right elbow was very inflamed. At first I thought it was a sting but very soon I was developing a sore throat and other symptoms.
I was at Osborne and it was time for my visit to Balmoral, and I was determined, ill as I was, to go.
Gladstone was all against my leaving. He thought I should not be so far away from Parliament. The trouble was that I had shut myself away for so long and had pleaded the state of my health so often that the people did not now believe me. This was galling as I had never been so ill since my attack of typhoid at Ramsgate.