Many thanks for your dear letter, and for the advice, which, as a mark of your interest in our children, is very precious, besides being so good! What you mention I have never lost sight of, and there is, as you say, nothing more injurious for children than that they should be made a fuss about. I want to make them unselfish, unspoiled, and contented; as yet this is the case. That they take a greater place in my life, than is often the case in our families, comes from my not being able to have enough persons of a responsible sort to take charge of them always; certain things remain undone from that reason, if I do not do them, and they would be the losers. I certainly do not belong by nature to those women who are above all wife; but circumstances have forced me to be the mother in the real sense, as in a private family, and I had to school myself to it, I assure you, for many small self-denials have been necessary. Baby-worship, or having the children indiscriminately about one, is not at all the right thing, and a perpetual talk about one’s children makes some women intolerable. I hope I steer clear of these faults—at least I try to do so, for I can only agree in every word you say, as does Louis, to whom I read it; and he added when I was reading your remarks: “Das thust Du aber nicht. Die Kinder und andere Menschen wissen gar nicht, was Du für sie thust” [“But you don’t do so. Neither the children nor anybody else knows what you do for them”]. He has often complained that I would not have the children enough in my room, but, being of your opinion, where it was not necessary, I thought it better not. * * *
December 12th.
I enclose a few lines to Mr. Martin.[124] I have only had time to look at the preface, and am very glad to hear that you are satisfied.
With what interest shall I read it! You will receive these lines on the 14th. Last year I had the comfort of being near you. It did me real good then, and I thank you again for those short and quiet days, where the intercourse with you was so soothing to my aching heart. There is no Umgang [intercourse] I know, that gives me more happiness than when I can be with you—above all, in quiet. The return to the so-called world I have barely made. Life is serious—a journey to another end. The flowers God sends to brighten our path I take with gratitude and enjoy; but much that was dearest, most precious, which this day commemorates, is in the grave; part of my heart is there too, though their spirits, adored Papa’s, live on with me, the holiest and brightest part of life, a star to lead us, were we but equal to following it! The older I grow, the more perfect, the more touching and good, dear Papa’s image stands before me. Such an entire life for duty, so joyously and unpretendingly borne out, remains for all times something inexpressibly fine and grand! With it how tender, lovable, gay, he was! I can never talk of him to others who have not known him, without tears in my eyes—as I have them now. He was and is my ideal. I never knew a man fit to place beside him, or so made to be devotedly loved and admired. * * *
December 14th.
Before this day is over, I must write a few words—my thoughts are so much with you and with the past, the bright, happy past of my childhood, where beloved Papa was the centre of this rich and happy existence. I have spent nearly the whole day with the precious volume which speaks so much of you and of him.
What a man in every sense of the word; what a Prince he was—so entirely what the dear old Baron [Stockmar] urged him always to be! Life with him must have seemed to you so secure and well-guarded. How you must have loved him! It makes one’s heart ache again and again, in reading and thinking of all dear Papa was to you, that you should have had to part from him in the heat of the day, when he was so necessary. Ihm ist wohl [With him it is well]. A life like his was a whole long lifetime, though only twenty-two years, and he well deserved his rest!
The hour is nearing when we last held and pressed his hand in life, now thirteen years ago. How well I recollect that last sunrise, and then the dreadful night with you that followed on that too awful day! But it is not well to dwell on these things, when we have the bright, sunny past to look back to. Tennyson’s beautiful Dedication[125] expresses all one feels and would wish to say. I can only add, with a heavy-drawn sigh, “Oh, to be worthier of such a Father!” How far beneath him, if not always in aims, at least in their fulfilment, have I always remained!
December 17th.
My best thanks for the letter of the 15th. Poor Colonel Grey’s[126] death is shocking, and Bertie and Alix are sure to have felt it deeply. Dear Bertie’s true and constant heart suffers on such occasions, for he can be constant in friendship, and all who serve him serve him with warm attachment. I hope he won’t give way to the idea of Sandringham being unlucky, though so much that has been trying and sad has happened to them there! Superstition is surely a thing to fight against; above all, with the feeling that all is in God’s hands, not in ours!