It could hardly be pleasant for the Duchess to be thus criticised before a great party of her friends, but a year later criticism was not the right word by which to describe the King’s tirade against the Duchess. All those around His Majesty knew that he could not live very long; not that his health was really bad, but his temper was vacillating, he was at times so uncontrolled, so childish, and so changeable that men of the world listened to his harangues unmoved. He would deliberately insult one of his “confidential advisers,” and the injured one would command his face as well as he could, bow, and let it pass. It was not possible to make a serious matter of such an incident, for to do that would have meant introducing new Ministers every week at least. Those about him felt that the business of the country could only be carried on by ignoring his humours, and that they were more or less marking time until William’s successor sat on the throne. In fact, the future alone was considered by all. The King prayed to live until Victoria’s majority; the Duchess dreamed of a Regency, a throne, and a husband for her daughter; and the Princess—who knows what she thought? She contented herself with inspecting the young men who came to be inspected while she waited.
One of the few children who made an impression upon the life of the young Princess was Donna Maria, the young Queen of Portugal, who was just a month older than herself. She came to England in 1829, and was entertained by George IV., who, among other festivities, gave a children’s ball, being urged thereto by one of the Court ladies, who pushed the idea by saying to him with a naïve stupidity,“Oh, do; it would be so nice to see the two little Queens dancing together.”
In 1833 Donna Maria went to France, where she was received with great want of hospitality by Louis Philippe. William did not want her in England, but the French King’s action spurred him to extend a warm hospitality to her here, and thus she renewed a childish friendship with Princess Victoria, in so far as the Duchess of Kent would allow it.
In 1835 this girl of sixteen married the Duke of Leuchtenberg, who, poor fellow, only went to Lisbon to be poisoned by its foulness and to die of throat disease in a month. By the autumn of the same year, seeing that there was no chance of a successor to the throne appearing, the callous counsellors determined that their young Queen must marry again, and were in such a hurry that the two weddings took place within twelve months. The second bridegroom chosen was Prince Ferdinand, the elder son of Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg. En route for his difficult position in Portugal, this young man, who was exceedingly handsome, came on a visit to England with his father and his younger brother Augustus; and the mention of his name leads to the subject of the Princess Victoria’s suitors.
CHAPTER IV
PRINCESS VICTORIA’S SUITORS
“What warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?”—Merchant of Venice.
All the world knows that Princess Victoria made a love match, and that Nathaniel P. Willis’s prognostication that she would be married solely for reasons of State was never fulfilled, but it is probable that few people know that she, like other girls, made little flights into the region of romance, and that a small crowd of young men presented themselves at the English Court, as it were, on approbation. The influx began in the spring of 1836, and, of course, produced fresh unpleasantness between the King and the Duchess. The latter had already decided upon the person whom she would wish for a son-in-law, and it is almost needless to say that in that case King William was likely to prefer any other young man in Christendom.
The only fount of information on such a subject as this is the contemporary Press, with here and there some allusion in letters of the time. When comparing the Press of to-day with the Press of seventy or eighty years ago, it is wonderful to note the difference of interest which was shown in such matters. To-day we not only pretend to believe that Royalty is perfect, but we publicly express that belief whenever opportunity offers. We are always very polite. In the time of King William and in the early years of Queen Victoria’s reign it seems to have been the custom to regard Royalty as very imperfect indeed; to find evil motives for even the most obviously good actions; to lay bare every secret, and to leave the poor monarch of the realm not a shred of moral clothing with which to cover his thoughts or designs. A little while ago a report was published without comment that the matrimonial fate of our present Prince of Wales was already settled. No one troubled about it or took the matter up, there was not the slightest idea of making political capital out of it; and when he really does marry we shall all be decorously delighted. It is quite unlikely that the newspapers will give columns of criticism to his bride, will rake up or make up evil stories about her, point out what a disastrous effect she will have upon England, or indeed do anything but wish the young people well, and pass on to the next subject. Of course, the Princess Victoria presented a special case; she was believed to be shy and adaptable in character, and there was some ground for imagining that it would be the Duchess of Kent who would really rule when the time came—she and the chosen husband; therefore there was an especial wave of agitation whenever the idea of an alliance was started.
The same thing applied to the Royal Family as a whole. One set of papers would make banal announcements as to the doings of the King, Queen, or Dukes; whereupon another set would fasten upon these seemingly simple incidents, show that they held hidden significance which was contrary to the nation’s welfare, and would then well belabour the unlucky Royal subject. Now the banal announcement may appear, and a few subservient papers amplify them and fall down and worship, but most will let them pass without comment. There is one story which has been appearing weekly somewhere or other for the past year to the effect that Queen Mary spends her evenings among her ladies knitting coarse garments for the poor. This pleases the sentimental ideas of the lovers of tit-bit publications, so it is a constant recurrer; but most sensible people shrug their shoulders at it; they know that a Queen has more important things to do, and that it would be a greater act of charity on her part to pay some poor folks to make the clothes. But no one tries to prove any connection between this and a possible German war, or make it a peg upon which to hang tales of poverty, as they would have done a century ago.
In reality, the people of England know nothing about the Court; in the old days they knew too much. The causes of this change are probably three: the greater security of social and foreign affairs to-day, the lessening power of the Crown, and the reticent attitude which the Prince Consort insisted upon concerning Royal doings and surroundings, a habit which loosened a little under King Edward, but which seems to be strengthening under his successor. However, “the good have no story” may be said, generally speaking, to be true of families, and it is probable that if sensational events came to pass in the Palace, all the papers would once again regard them as legitimate matter for praise or stricture. In the old days they did not wait for sensational events; they took a commonplace happening and dressed it in lurid language, which sold the papers in spite of the tax upon them, and pleased their readers.