Bertie and Alexander were, of course, in favor of the Russian marriage because Alexandra's sister Dagmar was married to the Tsarevitch. Bertie invited them to come to England, which they did. I found them very charming and I felt less animosity to the Russians after that. Alexandra's sister was a pleasant creature—not as beautiful as Alexandra, but the affection between them was strong, and I really became quite enchanted by them all.

And when I did meet Princess Marie I found her warm and loving, and I saw no reason why—if she would learn our English ways—she should not make Alfred a good wife. Heaven knew he needed a steadying influence.

I had a long talk with Alfred warning him of the duties and the responsibilities of marriage and expressed the fervent hope that he would change his life when he became a husband. But I did not believe he paid much attention.

At length they were married in St. Petersburg. I sent my dear friend Dean Stanley to perform the wedding ceremony after the Anglican rite. It was by all means a glittering occasion.


* * *

HOW FICKLE ARE the people! Those who had heralded Mr. Gladstone's ministry a few years before were now weary of him.

He had realized the signs of weakness in the Liberal party and that it no longer possessed the power to carry on in government.

He came to see me and delivered one of his harangues. I paid more attention this time because I realized he was thinking of relinquishing office. His Irish Universities Bill had been turned out and several Liberal candidates had been defeated in by-elections. Of course, he was a great reformer and although people clamor for this, when the reforms are brought in they see that they are not all they were made out to be.

I was reading the accounts of Alfred's grand wedding when I had a telegram from Mr. Gladstone telling me that the Cabinet had decided to dissolve Parliament.

There was an election. Mr. Gladstone retained his seat but it was a triumphant victory for the Tories.

I waited impatiently for my new Prime Minister to call.

He had aged a little. The sorrow he had suffered at the death of Mary Anne had affected him deeply. I saw this at once and when I held out my hand for him to kiss, I touched his head as he bent and said, “Dear Mr. Disraeli, this is indeed a happy moment.”

“For me, Ma'am,” he replied, “it is the start of life again.”

I knew what he meant. In his devotion to me, he could salve the grief he suffered at the death of Mary Anne.


* * *

LIFE WAS MUCH happier for me now that I had my dear Mr. Disraeli as a constant visitor. Although we had kept in touch during his years in opposition, for we were both prolific letter writers, it was much more satisfying to see him in person.

I had to admit that Mr. Gladstone was a man of high principle and he had worked hard for his country; but then so did Mr. Disraeli and he did it gracefully, so that it was a pleasure to be with him. He made state affairs a matter of interest and amusement, as Lord Melbourne used to. That was a much more effective way of dealing with them, for Mr. Gladstone's tedious speeches did have a tendency to send me to sleep.

Mr. Disraeli was a great talker and his descriptions were so vivid. I felt I knew so much about him, his ambitions, his determination to “climb the greasy pole” as he expressed it, to the premiership. “And,” he said, “it is much harder, Ma'am, I do assure you, to stay at the top of it than climb it.” I was sure he was right.

It was from him that I learned of Mr. Gladstone's peregrinations after dark through the streets of London. “His great desire, Ma'am, is to rescue ladies of easy virtue and bring them back to paths of righteousness.”

I was incredulous. “Mr. Gladstone behaving so! I wonder what Mrs. Gladstone has to say.”

“She is a most devoted wife. She believes unshakably in the virtue of her husband.”

“Does she join him in this…er…work?”

“Indeed, Ma'am, I believe they have ‘rescued’ one or two. It has been going on for years.”

“It seems to me an odd occupation for such a man.”

“It is a dangerous one.” He looked at me slyly. “People are apt to misconstrue.”

“I cannot believe Mr. Gladstone would ever be anything but virtuous. Oh dear, poor Mrs. Gladstone!”

Mr. Disraeli had a wonderful effect on me. I felt better than I had since Albert's death. I felt more alive. I felt younger, even attractive, not as a queen but as a woman.

I believe that in a way he was in love with me. People do not always understand these things. They think that love must be a physical thing. Far from it. I was never what is called “physical” in that respect. I did not need that sort of contact; my emotions were of the spirit. I had heard that he had written of me that now that Mary Anne was dead, I was the only person in the world left to him to love. He was completely devoted to me; our meetings brought as much joy to him as they did to me. I knew that he called me “The Faerie Queen.” I thought that was rather charming and I was grateful to him.

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.