Two of the girls were going to be confirmed and I wanted to see the ceremony.
It was a very sad household. Alice had been greatly loved.
I visited Vicky in time to celebrate the betrothal of Wilhelm to Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg, who was the daughter of that Duke Frederick who had laid claims to Schleswig-Holstein. Her mother was Feodore's daughter, so I had a special interest in the match; and I thought it excellent as Prussia had annexed Schleswig-Holstein. In a way it made reparations for their act.
So that was something of which I approved—though I had to say that Wilhelm's manners had not improved and I thought him quite an odious young man.
My great interest, of course, was in what was going on at home. I was in constant touch with Lord Beaconsfield and, alas, the news was gloomy.
Finally I had the result of the election. My Conservative Government had been defeated and the Liberals had a majority of one hundred and sixty.
It was indeed a tragedy.
I RETURNED HOME distraught. Not Mr. Gladstone! I could not endure it, and it would be particularly hard to bear after the pleasant companionship I had enjoyed with dear Lord Beaconsfield.
Sir Henry Ponsonby, my secretary, who was always such a help, tried hard to comfort me.
“I would sooner abdicate,” I told him, “than have anything to do with that half-mad firebrand who will ruin everything and try to dictate to me.”
Sir Henry soothed me. He said perhaps he would not be so bad as that. There were others. Mr. Gladstone was getting old. Perhaps he would be a little mellowed.
Mellowed! I could see no sign of that in his outbursts against Lord Beaconsfield, and his weak-kneed policy of peace at any price.
“Your Majesty could send for Lord Granville.”
“I don't want him.”
“Lord Hartington?”
“Hartington! Isn't he the one they call Harty Tarty.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“A fine Prime Minister. Harty Tarty indeed! And wasn't he involved in that scandal with the Duchess of Manchester?”
“They were intimate friends, Your Majesty.”
“Until, I hear, he conceived a passion for some creature whom they called Skittles.”
“The lady was very much admired in several quarters.”
Sir Henry had the same sort of wit as Lord Melbourne had had. He liked to make sly little remarks. I believed Bertie had been involved with that shameless creature.
And these were the sort of men I was expected to have as my Prime Minister to take the place of Lord Beaconsfield!
They both declined to take on the premiership and most tactfully reminded me that there was one man whom the people wanted.
I had to wrestle with myself. Of course my threat to abdicate had not been serious. How could it be? I knew what was my duty. I tried to think what Albert would have done.
I knew, of course. There was only one thing I could do. I sent for Mr. Gladstone.
He came humbly enough, trying, I knew, to please me. He kissed my hand, but I could not enforce any warmth into my manner.
So I had lost my dear friend and in his place was William Gladstone.
GLADSTONE'S MINISTRY DIRECTED its efforts to bringing an end to those wars that had been raging in Afghanistan and South Africa at the time of the election. Our troops were defeated at Maiwand and I was afraid that the new government would meekly accept the disaster and not try to regain our prestige as Lord Beaconsfield would have undoubtedly done. I was delighted therefore when Sir Frederick Roberts brought Afghanistan to submission by marching on Kandahar and installing a new emir who professed friendship for us.
When the Boer War broke out and General Colley died in the defeat of Majuba Hill, I was afraid that the government would take no action. I recommended Sir Frederick Roberts for the chief command of the Transvaal. But what was the use? The government pursued its “peace at any price” policy and in the negotiations gave way to the enemy.
I was deeply angry. If only Lord Beaconsfield had been at the head of affairs how different everything would be. When the soldiers came back I visited them and gave new colors to the Berkshire Regiment who had lost theirs at Maiwand. I wanted my soldiers to know how much I appreciated them and that I understood the sacrifices they made for their country.
I was horrified to learn that Sir Charles Dilke had been given the post of Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the government. I would never forget how he had fulminated against me and that he was in favor of abolishing the Monarchy. How could such a man be permitted to take part in the government?
If that were not bad enough I discovered that he had become a member of Bertie's circle. I thought that not only disloyal but foolish. When I remonstrated with Bertie he said that he mixed with all sorts of people and that it was the best way of discovering what was being said and thought. I supposed there was something in that but I should certainly not receive Dilke.
There was one sad fact that obsessed me at the time. Lord Beaconsfield became ill. He had been growing feebler since he took his place in the House of Lords and, indeed, I think he only accepted the peerage because he found the House of Commons demanded too much of him.
When I heard that he had taken to his bed at Hughenden, I wrote to him commanding him to send me word of his progress. He wrote back so charmingly that my letters did him so much good and that he immediately felt better on reading them. He said it was very cold at Hughenden and he found it difficult to keep his old bones warm.
In March he managed to come up to his place in Curzon Street. I was delighted because I thought that was a good sign.
I sent him primroses from Osborne and he wrote back to tell me that they cheered him.
It was April. He had not been out for three weeks and when I did not hear from him it occurred to me that he was too ill to write.
I would go to see this dear old friend. I would command him to get well. I could not lose any more of those I loved. But before I could go I heard that he had died.
His last words were, “I am not afraid to die, but I would rather live.” Dear Lord Beaconsfield!
He had wanted to be buried in Hughenden church beside Mary Anne. I could not bear to be present—my grief was too intense—so I sent Bertie and Leopold to represent me. They took the primroses I wanted to be laid on the coffin. I wrote a card that was attached to them, “His favorite flower.”
I knew, of course, that they were so because I had sent them to him.
I had lost a beloved friend whose one thought was the honor and glory of his country and unswerving devotion to the crown. His death was a national calamity and my sorrow was great and lasting.
Although it was his wish that he should be buried at Hughenden, I ordered that a monument should be set up to him in Westminster Abbey.
Four days after the funeral, Beatrice and I went to Hughenden and I laid a wreath of white camellias on his coffin, which lay in the open vault in the churchyard. I wanted everyone to know how much I had loved and honored this man; and the following year I had a tablet set up in the church on which were the words:
To the dear and honored memory of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of
Beaconsfield, this memorial is placed by his grateful and affectionate
Sovereign Victoria R.I.
“Kings love him that speakest right.” Proverbs XVI 13.
February 27th 1882.
It seemed to me that death was in the air—a most depressing thought. I had recently heard of the assassination of Tsar Alexander, the father of Alfred's wife, and soon after that President Garfield of the United States met a similar end.