Queen Victoria Lytton Strachey (a book to read .txt) 📖

saw the tremendous fabric of his creation crash down into sheer and irremediable ruin. Albert was gone, and he had lived in vain. Even his blackest hypochondria had never envisioned quite so miserable a catastrophe. Victoria wrote to him, visited him, tried to console him by declaring with passionate conviction that she would carry on her husband’s work. He smiled a sad smile and looked into the fire. Then he murmured that he was going where Albert was⁠—that he would not be long.300 He shrank into himself. His children clustered round him and did their best to comfort him, but it was useless: the Baron’s heart was broken. He lingered for eighteen months, and then, with his pupil, explored the shadow and the dust. II

With appalling suddenness Victoria had exchanged the serene radiance of happiness for the utter darkness of woe. In the first dreadful moments those about her had feared that she might lose her reason, but the iron strain within her held firm, and in the intervals between the intense paroxysms of grief it was observed that the Queen was calm. She remembered, too, that Albert had always disapproved of exaggerated manifestations of feeling, and her one remaining desire was to do nothing but what he would have wished. Yet there were moments when her royal anguish would brook no restraints. One day she sent for the Duchess of Sutherland, and, leading her to the Prince’s room, fell prostrate before his clothes in a flood of weeping, while she adjured the Duchess to tell her whether the beauty of Albert’s character had ever been surpassed.301 At other times a feeling akin to indignation swept over her. “The poor fatherless baby of eight months,” she wrote to the King of the Belgians, “is now the utterly heartbroken and crushed widow of forty-two! My life as a happy one is ended! The world is gone for me!⁠ ⁠… Oh! to be cut off in the prime of life⁠—to see our pure, happy, quiet, domestic life, which alone enabled me to bear my much disliked position, cut off at forty-two⁠—when I had hoped with such instinctive certainty that God never would part us, and would let us grow old together (though he always talked of the shortness of life)⁠—is too awful, too cruel!”302 The tone of outraged Majesty seems to be discernible. Did she wonder in her heart of hearts how the Deity could have dared?

But all other emotions gave way before her overmastering determination to continue, absolutely unchanged, and for the rest of her life on earth, her reverence, her obedience, her idolatry. “I am anxious to repeat one thing,” she told her uncle, “and that one is my firm resolve, my irrevocable decision, viz., that his wishes⁠—his plans⁠—about everything, his views about everything are to be my law! And no human power will make me swerve from what he decided and wished.” She grew fierce, she grew furious, at the thought of any possible intrusion between her and her desire. Her uncle was coming to visit her, and it flashed upon her that he might try to interfere with her and seek to “rule the roost” as of old. She would give him a hint. “I am also determined,” she wrote, “that no one person⁠—may he be ever so good, ever so devoted among my servants⁠—is to lead or guide or dictate to me. I know how he would disapprove it⁠ ⁠… Though miserably weak and utterly shattered, my spirit rises when I think any wish or plan of his is to be touched or changed, or I am to be made to do anything.” She ended her letter in grief and affection. She was, she said, his “ever wretched but devoted child, Victoria R.” And then she looked at the date: it was the 24th of December. An agonising pang assailed her, and she dashed down a postcript⁠—“What a Xmas! I won’t think of it.”303

At first, in the tumult of her distresses, she declared that she could not see her Ministers, and the Princess Alice, assisted by Sir Charles Phipps, the keeper of the Privy Purse, performed, to the best of her ability, the functions of an intermediary. After a few weeks, however, the Cabinet, through Lord John Russell, ventured to warn the Queen that this could not continue.304 She realised that they were right: Albert would have agreed with them; and so she sent for the Prime Minister. But when Lord Palmerston arrived at Osborne, in the pink of health, brisk, with his whiskers freshly dyed, and dressed in a brown overcoat, light grey trousers, green gloves, and blue studs, he did not create a very good impression.305

Nevertheless, she had grown attached to her old enemy, and the thought of a political change filled her with agitated apprehensions. The Government, she knew, might fall at any moment; she felt she could not face such an eventuality; and therefore, six months after the death of the Prince, she took the unprecedented step of sending a private message to Lord Derby, the leader of the Opposition, to tell him that she was not in a fit state of mind or body to undergo the anxiety of a change of Government, and that if he turned the present Ministers out of office it would be at the risk of sacrificing her life⁠—or her reason. When this message reached Lord Derby he was considerably surprised. “Dear me!” was his cynical comment. “I didn’t think she was so fond of them as that.”306

Though the violence of her perturbations gradually subsided, her cheerfulness did not return. For months, for years, she continued in settled gloom. Her life became one of almost complete seclusion. Arrayed in thickest crepe, she passed dolefully from Windsor to Osborne, from Osborne to Balmoral. Rarely visiting the capital, refusing to take any part in the