A Most English Princess, page 25
As she got out her paints and set to work, she thought much about Bertie. Yes, Papa had every reason to fear for his reputation and bewail his bad behavior. And certainly, Bertie needed to take his duties, and his future, more seriously. She’d been annoyed when, after she’d contrived to introduce him to Princess Alexandra back in September at Speyer Cathedral, he’d refused to find an opportunity to get to know her better. Yet Bertie’s desire for a bit of fun and freedom, so noxious to Papa and Mama, wasn’t so surprising in a young man aged twenty.
She herself was always disparaged by her Prussian family, who believed a princess shouldn’t spend endless hours reading, painting, and studying as she did. Were Mama and Papa guilty of similar narrow-mindedness—in a different way, of course—when it came to Bertie? Would they only approve of their heir if he acted exactly like his father? Could they not be persuaded to appreciate Bertie’s good points: his warmth, his kindness, his talent with people? She resolved to discuss all of this with Fritz when he came home.
ON NOVEMBER 23 Mama wrote that Papa was so irritable and trying. He claimed his body ached and he couldn’t sleep at night, but he refused to work less or cancel appointments that Mama deemed far from vital. He had traveled to Sandhurst in the driving rain to inspect construction of new buildings at the Royal Military Academy. He’d twice gone to London in a single week for meetings at the Royal Society, to discuss a new exhibition. And now he’d resolved to visit Cambridge to see the errant Bertie, who was resident at the university there for the current term.
Vicky wrote back immediately, hoping that Bertie and Papa’s meeting would go well, with contrition on one side and forgiveness on the other. Mama replied, three days later, that indeed Bertie had expressed his deep regret and vowed never to repeat such an escapade. Papa and Bertie had talked over everything during a long walk in the countryside; it had begun to pour and Bertie had missed the path, so they’d both ended up soaked. And while that had been unfortunate, Mama noted, Bertie had agreed to meet Alexandra again in the New Year and consider proposing.
“Despite this fine resolution your dear Papa still complains of being worn out and very unwell,” Mama wrote on November 28.
Vicky was certain that Papa would improve now that the rift with Bertie had healed. Fritz, returned from hunting, delighted to hear about her pregnancy, had agreed with her. “Your father is never well at times of family upset,” he said. “Advise him to rest over Christmas and come and visit us in the New Year. You can tell him your good news in person.” But she put off writing to her father until she could finish her paintings.
On December 1, Mama reported that Papa had a high fever. The doctors had told him to stay in bed, but, preoccupied with a new crisis, he’d resisted. Lord Palmerston, the prime minister, and all the cabinet were outraged that an American ship had stopped a British steamer, the Trent, in the Caribbean, and the American captain had, in a blatant violation of international law, removed the two representatives of the rebellious Southern states they discovered on board.
“They are such ruffians,” Mama said of the Americans.
The British government sought reparations and the release of the two captives, but meanwhile began readying troops to send to Canada, in case of war with the United States. Vicky shuddered to think of her country lining up on the side of the slaveholding Southerners, even if the incident was an insulting violation of neutral rights. The foreign office had drafted an ultimatum to be sent to Washington, which they had submitted for the queen’s signature. Papa had spent a sleepless night amending it. “He showed it to me at breakfast, and while he said he had felt so ill he could barely hold the pen, he moderated the demanding tone,” Mama said. “The Americans are given a way out. In the final draft I am said to hope that the American captain did not act under instructions or, if he did, that he misapprehended them.”
Lord Palmerston accepted all the alterations and praised them, suggesting that perhaps now war could be averted.
“Papa’s perspicacity never fails,” said Vicky after reading the letter aloud to Fritz. “He brought the peace!”
“Maybe now he will rest properly,” said Fritz.
On December 5 Vicky heard from Alice that Papa had collapsed at his desk, and that he was unable to sleep and moved restlessly from bed to bed in the night. Lord Palmerston had come to Windsor and was shocked by the Prince Consort’s appearance. He demanded that other doctors be summoned because Dr. Clark and Dr. Jenner could not agree what was wrong with their patient, calling it a feverish cold one day and gastric fever the next. Yet Mama insisted in her letter of December 6 that while Papa coughed and moaned frequently, he needed only an extended holiday, ideally at Osborne, to recover.
The morning of December 9 brought another report from Alice describing Papa as by turns furious, “a strange wild look in his eyes,” and bewildered, only wanting to lie on a sofa pushed up next to the window “so as to watch the clouds sail by.”
“We must go,” Vicky said to Fritz when she finished reading this letter. “Something is dreadfully wrong.”
“A two-day journey and a winter crossing when you are not strong?” Fritz asked. “Do you really think—”
“Should we consult Dr. Wegner?”
In truth, she did feel poorly. And that afternoon, after examining her, the doctor said, “The prince is prepared to undertake the trip with you, Your Highness, although I’m not certain the king will allow it. I believe it too perilous to risk your health and the baby’s. What if there is typhoid at Windsor? You must not go.”
Vicky began to weep. “I can hardly bear it. Not to be with Papa now, to comfort him and care for him, when he is so ill.”
Wegner nodded but added nothing more.
London correspondents for the Berlin newspapers reported the next day that the Prince Consort’s doctors were “alarmed” at the state of his health. The prime minister considered his well-being of “momentous national importance” and was being kept informed by twice-daily bulletins from the castle. Vicky felt too ill to get out of bed, but Fritz telegraphed Sir Charles Phipps, Papa’s private secretary, asking why they were not receiving more direct news.
On Wednesday, December 11, a letter came via messenger from Mama, in which she said that while Papa “wandered” at times and did not look like himself, he had passed two “excellent” nights and seemed to be recovering. And a new doctor was attending, a Dr. Watson. Nothing was heard from Phipps, but Vicky felt relieved, and hardy enough to venture to the third floor. She passed the afternoon in the nursery, playing with Willy and Charlotte. Did they remember their grandpapa? He hadn’t been well—they must pray for his health. Willy looked so sweet, his face screwed up earnestly, as he beseeched God to “make Grandpapa gesund.”
On the next day, Thursday, she heard nothing at all. Very bewildering. She behaved like Papa, wandering around from room to room unable to settle anywhere, or read or work or rest. Later Alice recounted how Papa had slept most of that day but woke, confused, in the early evening. “If only nothing happens to Vicky,” he had said to Alice. “I no longer trust anyone.”
On Friday at noontime, a pale, sorrowful Fritz came into her sitting room, where she lay curled up on the sofa, drowsing. He held a yellow slip of paper, a telegram. “This is from Phipps, Liebling,” he said, sitting down on the sofa next to her.
She waited, willing Fritz to say nothing dreadful. He sighed and said softly: “Phipps advises I prepare you for bad news.”
“What does that mean? Papa still lives, doesn’t he?”
“Doch, for the moment, but—”
“No,” she said, shaking her head and sitting up. “He will not die. He’s weak and discouraged and it’s all been too much, Bertie’s episode and all his work. And he’s concerned about us, Fritz. You understand that? In future we must be more considerate and not worry him. His constitution is not strong. But Mama says the new Dr. Watson is so sensible—good and clever.”
After a moment Fritz said, gently: “It may be that even the best doctor can’t help him now, Vicky.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, suddenly stern. “I know he will rally.”
She asked Marie to bring in her prayer book, and all the rest of the day, she sat or lay on the same sofa, praying and singing Papa’s favorite hymns, “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me” and “To Thee, O Lord, I Yield My Spirit.” Alice had written that he had most often, in these days of sickness, asked her to play “Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott,” so she favored that one. It was absurd, really, singing the same tunes over and again by herself, but it eased her worry. From time to time, people came in: Marie bearing the newspapers; the maid with a tray of tea and biscuits; finally Mrs. Hobbs brought in little Willy to say good night.
“Why do you sing, Mama?”
“Because it makes me brave, William.”
And when she finally got into bed at nine, Fritz came to hold her hand, and they prayed together.
“Tomorrow will bring good news, wait and see,” she told him.
Mama’s telegram arrived at eleven in the morning. Fritz brought it to her, and she unsealed it with trembling fingers. “‘Beloved Papa looks so much better this morning,’” she read aloud. Such a rush of exhilaration. “God has not abandoned us, you see?” she said to Fritz, tears of joy running down her cheeks. “You see?” He hugged her tightly as she sobbed against his shoulder.
A SUNNY AND frigidly cold Sunday, December 15. At nine Fritz departed alone to meet his parents at the Domkirche, and Vicky sat down at the pianoforte in the sitting room to play more hymns, intending to conduct her own, private church service. When she saw the score to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Number 14 on the stand, she recalled how months ago, before the coronation, she had resolved to master it. The entire “Moonlight” sonata was so lovely, especially the slow, mournful beginning, momentum building while brighter phrases crept in, asking: should we not believe in the beauty of the world?
Putting the hymn book aside and opening the music, she started to play. Just as she reached the end of the first movement, the notes cascading lower, she heard the door open and, glancing left, saw Fritz slip into the room. What could he have forgotten? Absorbed by the final passage, she played on to the finish, the two last chords like a double full stop at the end of a long, languid, dreamlike sentence.
“What do you think?” she asked as she swiveled around on the bench. “Not perfect yet, but I am improving.”
He stood in the middle of the room, stock-still. Fearful, even. “Liebling, the worst news from Windsor. Your father died last night.”
As Fritz uttered the words, a ghastly image of the death’s head flashed in her mind. No one, not the noblest among us, is spared.
He came toward her as she started to weep, but she wished she had all the strength imaginable to push him and his hideous, inadmissible pronouncement away.
18
Berlin and Windsor, Winter 1862
How strange that all was the same and yet totally different. She lived in the same palace, slept in the same room, looked at the same furniture. The carriages trundled by out on Unter den Linden, and the days followed, one after another, as though nothing had changed. If the world went on undisturbed without Papa in it, what was the world worth, anyway? Would she feel any differently at Windsor, where everyone shared her suffocating, crushing grief? Maybe there she wouldn’t be struck by how shrunken and cold and pointless everything was now. People tried to be kind, and the king had declared a week of official court mourning before departing the capital to spend Christmas in the pump room at Bad Ems, but Vicky felt utterly desolate and even Fritz didn’t appreciate that.
He left on the eighteenth to travel to England for the funeral. Vicky wasted no energy begging to accompany him, still she stood mute next to his valet, Streicher, as the man packed Fritz’s bags. If by magic she could have shrunk herself and slipped into a portmanteau, she would have.
The day of Papa’s funeral she stayed in bed, looking at the pictures she had of him, one after another, and kissing them, and weeping.
In the early evening Marie came in to tell her that the queen was downstairs. Vicky longed to send Fritz’s mother away without receiving her, but she supposed Papa wouldn’t have approved of that. Augusta had admired him, as much as she, such a chilly being, could ever venerate and cherish another person.
When Vicky entered the drawing room the queen stood up, which ordinarily she would not have done. She wore all black, including a heavy wool crepe-trimmed cape. “I am so very sorry, my dear.”
“Yes.”
“The king bade me come on his behalf, to tell you we both mourn with you, and your mother too.” She reached out and clasped Vicky’s hand.
Vicky nodded. She sat down. Fritz’s mother began to speak, but Vicky barely followed. Something about the Prussian ambassador’s intending to meet Fritz after the funeral and sending Mama a wreath at Osborne, where she had gone with Alice and the other sisters.
After a few moments Vicky became oddly restless and indignant. “I don’t want to sit here and talk about Papa being dead,” she said abruptly. “I want it to matter somehow.”
Fritz’s mother frowned. “What do you mean?”
The queen had such an inhospitable face—high arched brows, tight mouth, haughty expression. Why even spend the effort to be candid? Perhaps only for Papa’s sake. And to strengthen her resolve.
“I feel very discouraged,” Vicky began. “I am doing my duty here, in this position—Fritz’s wife, your daughter. And it is no easy one.”
“Do you think mine any easier?” asked the queen, affronted.
“I don’t know, Aunt. I imagine not. But I’m speaking of myself now. I’ve been able to remain determined and make my best efforts because I knew that would satisfy Papa.”
The queen glowered.
“And now Papa is gone and I am wondering if I will ever care about anything again,” Vicky continued. “I love Fritz and the children. But is there any reason to work here any longer? Perhaps I should retire to the country. You could declare me insane and never think of me again. Would you prefer that?”
“You cannot be well. Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
“I am in earnest.” She hadn’t realized just how earnest until this minute.
The queen snapped, “No, I don’t prefer that.”
“In that case I ask that you act toward me in a more equitable way,” Vicky said. “For my part I accept there are disagreeable duties that I must perform. Trying, petty things you desire, that are required in my position. And I will do them again, gladly even. In return, I want you to behave more reasonably.”
She wouldn’t have dared to speak like this before, but doing so enlivened her.
The queen looked angry. “How high-handed you are, sermonizing. If you knew all I put up with, I—”
Vicky interrupted. “Forgive me for sounding high-handed. I mean to ask most seriously and most fervently for your support. We should be true allies and better friends. Otherwise it will all have been in vain, the energy Papa devoted to you, your husband, and your son. And my coming here to Prussia.”
“It is you who is duty-bound to support me!” Augusta said.
Vicky let that remark hang, unanswered, for a long moment. Then she said, in a lower, softer voice: “Can we not speak kindly to each other and work in concert? Matters here wear a threatening aspect. I’m sure you agree.”
“I do agree, and I spend my time warning the king against the choices others try to push upon him.”
“Fritz told me there are generals who propose to break with the law,” said Vicky. “Rubbish the constitution, close down the parliament, run the government themselves. Is it true?”
“Not Moltke, but yes, some others.”
“That would be monstrous. Don’t allow the king to condone it.”
The queen raised her eyebrows. “Do you believe this within my power to prevent?”
“Aunt, I think if you remain calm and resolute, and explain that it would be an offense against God, and beneath the king’s dignity, to break with legal order, he won’t ignore you.”
“Perhaps,” she said, sounding skeptical. “Last week a number of generals turned up at the palace late in the evening to declare their personal fealty. Like Teutonic knights of old, they are attached to the monarch body and mind, they said, so he has nothing to fear by asserting his will.”
“What childish games!” Vicky exclaimed. “Acting as if they live in medieval times. Don’t tell me the king embraced them?”
The queen shook her head. “No, he suspects they’re fanatics.”
“So, it’s clear, you and he occupy common ground.”
“On occasion.”
“Then build on this! We mustn’t be passive and sit to the side. When I feel stronger, I will be more determined than ever to see that what Papa envisioned comes to pass.”
“I never opposed your father’s ideas, Vicky, but his approach could be presumptuous.”
Vicky shook her head. “Not true. The king has had the benefit of Papa’s counsel since he first visited England. And we must never forget the courage and rectitude and good sense my father always demonstrated.”
The queen sighed. “I won’t forget, but many in court will be content never to think of him again.”
“I would be content if you and I could be more in harmony,” Vicky said. “Don’t we both want the same things for this country?”
The queen pursed her lips, indignant still. And suddenly Vicky felt very tired. She stood and said, “You will forgive me, Aunt, if I go back to bed.”
