The one thing about Victoria’s new home which must astonish all who think about it is, that from the time she became Queen, her mother went into the background. This proud woman, who had fought Kings and Princes that she might give her child the best that she knew; she who by the asperity of her temper and haughty pride had become a personage distinct from all other members of the Royal family, now that that beloved child was in the highest position in the land, sank into nothingness. She was never consulted, she did not always know what was happening, no word of State affairs reached her ears; the old companionship was gone, for alas! in the old days she had drawn the rein too tightly, so that when once the young creature was free she feared the restraining hand too much to trust it again.
One of Victoria’s first acts must have given her mother much pain, though it is likely that she had had warning of what would occur. Sir John Conroy, who had been right-hand man both to the Duke and to the Duchess, had fallen into the faults so common to long service. He was too sure of his ground, too ready to assume responsibility, and he had never troubled to look upon the Princess as a force with which he should reckon. Thus he was entirely disliked by her, and she determined that in her new household she would be freed from a man who, whatever his merits, was personally obnoxious to herself.
So long as Her Majesty remained at Kensington, that is, until July 13th, Conroy was a member of the Household, and he perhaps did not believe that the young Queen would at once and so effectually grasp her power. He had not yet learned to discriminate between the past and the present, and followed his usual course as master of the servants. Thus one day a groom who had been in constant attendance upon Victoria could not be found, and on inquiries being made it was explained that Conroy had dismissed him. That is said to have brought matters to a head. The Queen sent for Sir John—so runs one account—and asked him to name the reward he expected for his services to her parents. His reply was that he desired the Red Ribband, an Irish Peerage, and a pension of £3,000 a year. The Queen answered that the first two lay with her Ministers, and she could not promise for them, but the pension he should have. In another account we learn that she made him a baronet in addition to bestowing the pension, but that all connection with the Palace ceased, and that he was never distinguished by the slightest mark of personal favour; “so that nothing can be more striking than the contrast between the magnitude of the pecuniary bounty and the complete personal disregard of which he is the object.”
“Conroy goes not to Court, the reason’s plain,
King John has played his part and ceased to reign”
sung a flippant paragraphist.
Under these circumstances the Duchess lost the daily companionship of the friend upon whom, judiciously or otherwise, she was accustomed to lean, a matter which rankled long and bitterly in the poor lady’s mind. However, the Queen was still her well-beloved child, and it was a long time before she could forget to exercise her motherly desire to guide events; thus she watched with alarm the brilliant life now led by the girl, who for eighteen years had been carefully guarded from late hours, luxurious food, and social excitement of every sort. Now the emancipated girl filled long days with business engagements, with public pageants, with theatres and balls, and other amusements. She was enjoying to the full the consciousness of being the centre of things, she was beginning to appreciate her power, and was punctilious in carrying out any settled plan. When her mother urged her to remain quietly at home she laughed at her fears, and showed no disposition to go back to the nursery régime of Kensington. So the Duchess made an ally of the doctor—probably Sir James Clark, who played so unfortunate a part two years later. He remonstrated with Her Majesty upon the life of excitement that she was experiencing, saying that it must be injurious to her.
“Say too much amusement rather than excitement,” replied the Queen. “I know not what the future will bring, but I have met with so much affection, so much respect, and every act of sovereignty has been made so light, that I have not yet felt the weight of the Crown.”
Then the doctor changed his complaint, and remarked upon the enormous dinner parties she gave, saying that their size must make them very fatiguing. But Victoria was ready with her answer.
“These dinner parties amuse me. If I had a small party I should have to exert myself to entertain my guests, but with a large one they are called upon to amuse me, and then I become personally acquainted with those who surround the throne.”