People said rather crudely that “he had got the length of my foot” and knew how to be sympathetic and that his sympathy might be expressed with his tongue in his cheek.
I knew these things were said, but I did not care. People always tried to spoil things that were beautiful and my relationship with him was beautiful. We were a joy and comfort to each other and what more could one ask of any relationship?
We agreed on so many things and when I was incensed by something and he did not agree with my views, he had such a comical way of raising his eyebrows and saying in a mock serious way “Dear Madam,” which always amused me and made me reconsider my opinions.
We discussed Mr. Gladstone at great length. He was concerned about religion. He had defended Roman Catholicism and then published an Expostulation against the Catholic claims. He was a strange man—subversive, in a way. There was this obsession with religion and the nightly wanderings.
I would not say this to anyone else but Mr. Disraeli, but what if Mr. Gladstone were in secret a Catholic… and a libertine?
Mr. Disraeli just looked at me and said in his mock-severe voice, “Dear Madam,” which of course made me laugh.
The troubles between the family and John Brown continued. They were all against him. They could not understand that in his honest Highland way he was no respecter of persons. I had quickly realized this and so had Albert, and we had told each other that loyalty and honesty came before lip service.
Two courtiers who held service in the household had threatened to resign because they could not accept the privileges accorded to Brown. Bertie said he would not go to Abergeldie because Brown was given shooting rights, which ruined the sport for him. Someone said, “Brown is a coarse animal.”
They were all trying to rid me of the very best servant I had, one whose loyalty to me was never in question.
The company Bertie was keeping was causing scandal everywhere. I had my anxieties over Alfred. Vicky was arrogant. I believe she thought the wife of the Crown Prince—one day to be Empress—was more important than the Queen of England; Alice—even Alice—had ceased to be the placid girl who had meant so much to me; Leopold frequently suffered from hemorrhages, which were a constant anxiety; and I was terrified that Beatrice was going to fall in love and I found myself restricting her, keeping her from social activities, trying to arrange that she did not meet people outside the family. I thought often of my mad grandfather, George III, who had spoiled the lives of his daughters. I must remember that. Yet how could I bear to lose Beatrice!
There was always the danger of offending the public, and it seemed that feelings against royalty were always simmering and ready to boil over.
Charles Greville's Memoirs were published and widely read. I thought them amusing at first but then I began to see how dangerous they were. He exposed too much and although he recorded actual events he did exaggerate them. His observations were quite cynical and no one was spared. This sort of thing did no good to the established State.
Mr. Disraeli was not very pleased at the publication. He said the book was a social outrage and that Greville was full of vanity. Someone else commented that it was like Judas writing the lives of the apostles—which I thought a rather witty and apt remark. I think it was Lord John Manners who said this.
But as I read on and saw how my poor uncles were pilloried, I realized how dangerous the book was.
Greville had been Clerk of the Council in Ordinary from '21 until '60 and had died in '65 and these Memoirs of the reigns of George IV and William IV were edited by a Henry Reeve; and when objection to their publication was raised, this man Reeve remarked that my behavior would seem very good when set against that of my uncles. I had been fond of both Uncle George and Uncle William and I deplored this publication, which, in any case, could do no good to the monarchy.
There was another unpleasant incident that had set the people against us—though I cannot think why we were to blame in any way, but people are quite illogical.
Our yacht the Alberta collided with another ship when we were crossing to Osborne. Three people were drowned and I was most distressed. The case was brought to court and the mob surrounded the courthouse screaming threats against our captain. It was most unfortunate; and the case dragged on and on, and our enemies in the Press made the most of it. One would have thought that I had deliberately set out to collide with the other boat, which was in our way, and cared nothing that lives were lost as long as I could pursue my pleasure. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and no one could have been more unhappy than I was that lives had been lost.
Then we had the dangerous Aylesford affair—another scandal involving Bertie. What a genius he had for getting himself into these scrapes. It was just as Albert had feared.
Disraeli had a great interest in India. “One day I am going to make you Empress of India, Ma'am,” he said.
I smiled at him. He really did care for me so much.
He thought it would be a good idea if Bertie was sent to India.
“A very good background for his particular sort of mischief, I imagine,” I said.
“Dear Madam!”
I smiled at him. “Well, you know Bertie has a habit of falling into mischief…”
“He is a good ambassador. The people like him.”
“He is too fond of fast women and gambling.”
“The people often like their heroes to have feet of clay. It makes them feel so much more like heroes themselves. I think the Prince will do very well.”
At length I decided that if the Prime Minister thought it advisable, it must be right.
Bertie was delighted; Alexandra less so, for she was not to go with him.
It was while he was in India that the trouble blew up. It was like the Mordaunt case all over again—with variations, of course. But Bertie being what he is, perhaps that was to be expected.
Dizzy, as he was universally called—and I found myself thinking of him thus for Mr. Disraeli was too remote an appellation for such a friend—came to see me.
“I'm afraid, Ma'am, that a little contretemps has blown up in the circle of the Prince of Wales.”
“Oh dear… not women again!”
“One woman, Ma'am.”
“Do please explain. I must hear the worst.”
“It is Lord Aylesford. His wife is threatening to divorce him.”
“Oh no… not Bertie!”
“Not exactly, Ma'am. I must give you the details as they have been given to me. Perhaps you did not know that Lord Aylesford is one of the Prince's greatest friends.”
“I know very well. I was against his going on tour with the Prince, but I was overruled. He is a gambling, sporty type.”
“Exactly so, Ma'am, and a member of the circle that is close to the Prince. I think he is considered to be a very amusing fellow.”
“And Aylesford's wife?”
“She was also on good terms with the Prince.”
“I feared that.”
“It is not on the Prince's account that Aylesford is threatening divorce. Lord Blandford is the man in the case. While Aylesford was in India, Lady Aylesford set up house with Blandford. News of this reached Aylesford and he left for home—rather against the Prince's wishes for he liked Aylesford's company a good deal. The Prince despised Blandford and made some comments about him that were brought to the notice of Blandford's younger brother—Lord Randolph Churchill.”
“I never liked the man.”
“A fiery-tempered young fellow. He was furious that his brother should have been slandered, he said. Particularly…”
“Particularly?” I insisted.
“By the Prince. I believe he recalled the Mordaunt scandal and er…”