BEATRICE WAS THE only one of the children who had not married. She had always been close to me since the days when she had enchanted us all with her quaint observations.
She had changed a great deal from that amusing little girl. She was not like her sisters, being shy and retiring. I knew she dreaded company and she confessed that she never knew what to say to people.
In a way I was glad of this. I am afraid it was rather selfish of me but I could not bear to face the possibility of Beatrice's leaving me.
I had gone to Darmstadt to attend the marriage of my granddaughter Victoria of Hesse to her cousin Louis of Battenburg. Leopold's death was so recent and very much in my mind, and I had undertaken the journey in the hope that in the heart of my family I could forget.
It was a fateful occasion for at the wedding Beatrice met the bridegroom's brother, Henry of Battenburg; and Beatrice and Henry fell in love.
When Beatrice told me of her wish to marry I was overwhelmed with horror.
“Impossible!” I said. “You have just been carried away.”
Beatrice said this was not the case. She and Henry were deeply in love; they had admitted this to each other and above everything else they wanted to marry.
I said she must forget it. I had suffered enough. Lord Beaconsfield had died; John Brown had died; and so had Leopold. Now I was expected to lose her—the last of my children to be with me!
Poor Beatrice, she was heartbroken; but being Beatrice she just bowed her head and looked resigned.
Of course I spent a miserable time. I could not eat; I could not sleep.
To lose Beatrice! No, I could not face it. That would be the last straw. She would forget. She was not meant for marriage. After all, she was now twenty-seven—old enough for a girl to have put all that behind her. She had come so far without contemplating marriage. Why must she think of it now? It was ridiculous. It was absurd.
And yet I could not bear to see my poor Baby so sad.
This would not have happened, I said to myself, but for Leopold's death. Beatrice was so close to her brothers.
We returned to England, poor Beatrice looked wan and tragic.
I thought: I cannot allow this to happen. I cannot be like my poor mad grandfather. I thought of the aunts who had always been of great interest to me when I was young. They had all seemed so strange—half mad some of them—and they had all had such sad lives. Their father had tried to keep them close to him, which was a very selfish thing to do.
I could endure it no more.
I said, “Beatrice, you have changed so much.”
She did not deny it.
I sent for Henry of Battenburg.
I said to him, “You know what Beatrice means to me. I find it impossible to do without her. I feel so lonely at times. I have lost so many who were dear to me. Suppose you were to make your home in England? Would that be possible? You could marry Beatrice and I could still have her with me.”
The joy in his face made me so happy.
I sent for Beatrice.
I said, “Henry is going to live in England. I shall not lose you after all, dearest child…”
We embraced; we laughed; it was wonderful to see my dearest child so happy. It was a long time since I had felt so contented.
It was quite a simple wedding. I called it a “village wedding”; but it was an extremely happy one; and I was delighted to see my child so happy with her Henry and he with her.
POLITICAL STORMS WERE rising at the time of Beatrice's wedding.
Gladstone's government was in difficulties—at which I was not surprised. I was not the only one who was disgusted by the weakness of his Egyptian policy. The country was ashamed, and the budget proposals were defeated, which meant Gladstone's resignation.
I offered him an earldom, hoping this would see the back of him as far as I was concerned; but he declined it.
I was delighted to invite Lord Salisbury, as leader of the Conservative Party, to come and see me, but he was not very eager to form a ministry since he was in the Lords and the task, he thought, should fall to Sir Stafford Northcote who was the leader of the party in the Commons. He really wanted to be in the Foreign Office, but he at last agreed that if he could combine the offices of Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister, and could get, in some measure the support of Gladstone during the few months which remained before Parliament was dissolved, he would do his best to form his ministry.
I must say that Gladstone was not very accommodating but at length Lord Salisbury agreed.
I was delighted. I liked him very much. Indeed, I believe I should have liked anyone after Gladstone. Lord Salisbury was the first of my Prime Ministers to be younger than I was. I supposed that was a reminder of how old I was getting.
That little respite did not last long. At the elections, the Liberals were back in power and I was once more faced with Mr. Gladstone.
What a trial that man was! He was now intent on bringing Home Rule to Ireland and had sprung his intentions of doing so on me and the country without giving anyone time for thought. I did not believe the country wanted it. As for myself it would mean I should break the oath I had taken at the coronation to maintain the union of the two kingdoms. I was unconvinced by his arguments.
I was delighted when quite a number of Liberals decided to vote against Gladstone's Home Rule Bill and it was rejected by the Commons.
It was a great relief when the government was once more defeated and Lord Salisbury called in.
I found Lord Salisbury a delight after Gladstone.
Salisbury was really an old friend. I had known him well as an associate of Lord Beaconsfield—and although it was not the same as having that dear man back again, it did in a measure give me some comfort. He was very knowledgeable in foreign affairs of which, in my opinion, Mr. Gladstone was totally ignorant.
I wanted him to sit for a portrait and when it was completed I had it placed in my own apartments, which, I told Lord Salisbury, was the highest compliment I could pay anyone.
I was thankful that the bogey of Home Rule was set aside. Postponement was sometimes so helpful.
A VERY UNSAVORY scandal shook the political world at this time as well as filling the papers and having the whole country agog for more distasteful details.
I could not help being amused—disgraceful as it was—because it concerned my old enemy Sir Charles Dilke. It was extraordinary that those people who posed in public as being so concerned for the welfare of the people—wanted to abolish the monarchy and so on—were all the time behaving in their private lives in a manner that was far from exemplary.
It all blew up when a certain Mr. Crawford started divorce proceedings against his wife. Mr. Crawford was a member of Parliament and he had an attractive and somewhat frivolous wife. Dilke was connected with the Crawfords by marriage and was a frequent visitor to their home; and in view of the family relationship this caused no comment.
Mrs. Crawford had been having a flirtation with a certain Captain Forster and Mr. Crawford accused him of being her lover. The wife, when confronted, told her husband that not Forster but Sir Charles Dilke was the lover.
Then the unsavory details about that defender of the rights of the underprivileged began to emerge. Apparently he had been Mrs. Crawford's mother's lover; and Mrs. Crawford betrayed revelations about orgies concerning Dilke, herself, and female servants.
The servants did not come forward, but as Mrs. Crawford had confessed to adultery, the divorce was granted.
I must confess to a certain satisfaction; and a great relief that Bertie was not involved in this one! Whenever I heard of a case of this nature in a certain circle—and Dilke was a friend of Bertie's—my immediate thoughts were: Please God don't let Bertie be discovered!—which shows the fear that was in my mind; and that was natural after all the anxieties I had suffered on his account.