As for the Dowager Queen, Victoria showed her every attention and affection, begging her to take from Windsor anything that she wished for. On the first occasion that Queen Adelaide visited her at the Castle she desired that she would choose which bedroom she would like to occupy; whereupon the old Queen naturally asked to have that in which she had slept when King William was alive. It had already been dedicated to the young Queen’s use, but she willingly gave it up, forbidding anyone to let Queen Adelaide know that she was turning out for her. Thus everyone began to feel a certain confidence in at least the good disposition of the Queen, and those who stood to lose or gain began to breathe more freely.
It was a queer swinging of the pendulum, for the Duchess of Kent, who ought to have attained the height of her ambition and happiness, was at this time one of the most disappointed and miserable of women, while those who feared to lose all found themselves assured in their positions for the rest of their lives. Madame de Lieven, so noted for her love of political intrigue, was granted an audience by the Queen at the end of July, 1837, and found that cautious young lady disinclined to talk of anything but commonplaces, being probably afraid of committing herself. Victoria had, in fact, been warned by Leopold to beware of the wily Frenchwoman. Madame de Lieven’s interview with the Duchess of Kent was, however, of a much more intimate character, and before she left she was doing her best to condole with that august lady for being the mother of a Queen—for having, in fact, accomplished her desire, and having nothing left for which to live.
The poor Duchess complained that, though her daughter showed her every attention and kindness, she had rendered herself absolutely independent of that mother who had so long (and so unwisely) guided every moment of her days and nights, so that the Duchess felt abjectly insignificant. She also still felt bitterly mortified at the way in which Conroy had been dismissed. Her words to Madame de Lieven were, “There is no longer any future for me; there is no longer anything.”
She felt that this child, who for eighteen years had been almost the only thing she lived for, was now lost to her. Poor woman! if only she had understood human nature a little better she would have had a less royal time over her child in the past and a greater influence in the present. Madame de Lieven urged the idea of reflected glory upon her; told her that she ought to be the happiest of human beings in seeing the elevation of her child, in watching her success, in appreciating the praise and admiration which were lavished upon her; but the Duchess only “shook her head with a melancholy smile,” saying that that would not fill her life; that the accomplishment of her wishes only made her unhappy and forlorn. In actual fact the Duchess was an ambitious woman, and the intriguing at Kensington had not been a supposition, but a fact. A month after Queen Victoria’s accession Leopold, writing to her of a person who loved intrigue, added, “Your life amongst intriguers and tormented by intrigues has given you an experience on this important subject, which you will do well not to lose sight of, as it will unfortunately often reproduce itself—though the aims and methods may not be the same.” The Duchess had thought to see herself filling the great post of Regent over a great kingdom, wielding the power, if not the sceptre, of a monarch; and when this dream passed she fully expected to point the guiding finger for her daughter, to be present at State discussions, to be consulted in all difficulties; indeed, to continue to be the ruling influence in Victoria’s life, and through her in England. She could not realise that her own independent attitude had taught her child the same quality, for the Queen wrote in her journal on June 20th that she saw Lord Melbourne at nine o’clock, “and, of course, quite alone, as I shall always do all my Ministers.” It was well for Victoria that she put her foot down so firmly, even though so cruelly, at the outset, for otherwise it would have been inevitable that she would have been the unhappy one.
The Duchess’s position certainly did not justify Brougham’s spiteful assertion in the House some little time later; indeed, it gives the lie to it. That statesman in this speech started the dislike which for a long time the Queen felt for him. He was then still sitting on the Ministerial side, and listened to the proposition that the Duchess of Kent should receive a grant of 30,000 a year, with a not unusual desire to make trouble. In an outrageous speech he denounced as extravagant such a grant, and spoke of the Duchess as the “Queen-Mother.” There were many who felt this to be a veiled attack on the Duchess’s probable influence over the Queen, and who resented it; but Melbourne punished Brougham more astutely by appearing to believe that he had simply made an error. “Mother of the Queen,” he ejaculated. Brougham loved a quarrel, and turned upon Melbourne at once. “I admit my noble friend is right. On a point of this sort I humble myself before my noble friend. I have no courtier-like cultivation. I am rude of speech. The tongue of my noble friend is so well hung and so well attuned to courtly airs, that I cannot compete with him for the prize which he is now so eagerly struggling to win. Not being given to glozing and flattery, I may say that the Duchess of Kent (whether to be called the Queen-Mother or the Mother of the Queen) is nearly connected with the Throne; and a plain man like myself, having no motive but to do my duty, may be permitted to surmise that any additional provision for her might possibly come from the Civil List, which you have so lavishly voted.”
Melbourne replied by pointing out the difference between a Queen Dowager and a Princess who had never sat on the Throne, and complimented Brougham on his skill in “egregious flattery.”
In spite of his dirt and his carelessness about dress—“He wears a black stock or collar, and it is so wide that you see a dirty coloured handkerchief under, tied tight round his neck. You never saw such an object, or anything half so dirty”—Brougham was one of the most remarkably intellectual men of his day. We have heard accounts of how over-prolific writers dictate three stories at once to three different typewriters all in the same room; and really Brougham seems to have had some such capacity. If he did not do about six things at once, he did them in such rapid succession that it makes one’s brain whirl to think of it. He worked ceaselessly from 9 a.m. to 1 a.m., and seemed quite fresh at the end of that time; a day’s work might include going through the details of a Chancery suit, writing a philosophical or mathematical treatise, correcting articles for the “Library of Useful Knowledge,” and preparing a great speech for the House of Lords. Yet he was so intemperate in his speech, so ready with invective, so inconstant in his views, that he became a terror to the House, and, indeed, seemed constantly on the border-line of insanity. One writer said he was like a wasp, for ever buzzing and stinging the Government, animated to sting by spite and malice. Creevy spoke of him as the Archfiend, Old Wicked-Shifts, and Beelzebub; and when he had a new carriage with, on the panel, a coronet surmounting a large B, Sydney Smith remarked, “There goes a carriage with a bee outside and a wasp inside.”
In 1838, when he knew that he would no longer have the Great Seal as Lord Chancellor, someone in Paris asked him who were the Queen’s Ministers. “Really,” he replied, “I do not know; I cannot recall the names of more than three or four.” Yet there was a very tender spot in his heart, which made him remark upon being introduced to a beautiful young girl, “I don’t know what to say to these young things; I feel like the old Devil talking to an angel.” Brougham, too, adored his daughter, who only lived nineteen years, dying at Cannes after a life of illness. He built the Villa Eleanor for her at Cannes, and after her death her bedroom, always called Eleanor’s room, was kept unaltered during Brougham’s life. He had Eleanor’s body brought to England and buried in the graveyard of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, probably the only woman ever buried there. He became very unpopular with the Court after Victoria’s marriage by speaking of her as Albertina, and never losing an opportunity of saying something disrespectful. One night he behaved so badly at a Court function that he was totally ignored for a long time after. Then one day Her Majesty asked the Chancellor why it was that Lord Brougham never appeared, and this was looked upon as the olive-branch, which Brougham gladly recognised, sending both to the Queen and to Prince Albert one of his books, which Victoria acknowledged by sending him an autograph letter of thanks, thought by everyone a great honour.
His very soul craved for appreciation and applause, and in October, 1839, he took a queer way of finding out what the world would say if he were no more. He, Leader (the member for Westminster), and Robert Shafto went in a hackney carriage from Brougham Hall to see some ruins in the district. An accident of some sort happened, and this suggested to Brougham the practical joke of reporting his own death. A letter supposed to have been written by Shafto was received by Alfred Montgomery, a great favourite with Brougham, detailing the expedition, saying that the splinter bar broke, all were thrown out, Brougham was kicked on the head, and the carriage turned over on him, killing him on the spot. Montgomery rushed to Gore House, before Lady Blessington had sat down to breakfast, with the news, and by the afternoon a thousand rumours were afloat. Brougham was mourned by all. Sheil hurried from the Athenæum Club on Monday evening to pen a magniloquent obituary, which appeared in the next day’s Morning Chronicle. “Windsor Castle shook with glee, and Lord Holland began to think he should venture to speak again in the Lords. For the first time for five years all the world talked for a whole day about Brougham’s virtues, and there was wondrous forgiveness of injuries in the whole metropolis.” On Monday a letter by him, written on Sunday, was received at the Colonial Office, and soon the hoax became known. At first Brougham denied being the author of the grim jest, scared, perhaps, by the anger of those who had wept over his death. He actually challenged his old friend Sir Arthur Paget for accusing him of the deed; and on November 23rd we have the amusing scene of the Duke of Cambridge, after the Queen had withdrawn from a Council, running round the room after Brougham, shouting at the top of his voice:
“By God, Brougham, you did it! By God, you wrote the letter yourself!”