Читать книгу Queen Victoria: A Personal History - Christopher Hibbert - Страница 13

‘I may call you Jane but you must not call me Victoria.’

PRINCE LEOPOLD described John Conroy as a ‘Mephistopheles’; but the Prince’s sister, the Duchess of Kent, did not know what she would do without him. He had been a ‘dear devoted friend’ of the Duke, she said, and he had not deserted the widow, doing all he could to help her by dealing with her affairs, financial and otherwise. Whereas Leopold was cautious and deliberate, inclined to see difficulties before advantages, Conroy exuded a confidence which the Duchess, comforted by positive men, found reassuring.

Although of Irish descent, with forbears who were proud to trace their lineage back to a royal chieftain of the early fifth century, Conroy had been born in Wales in 1786. He had obtained a commission in the Royal Artillery when he was seventeen and had been transferred to the Horse Artillery two years later. But thereafter he had not progressed as well in the Army as he considered his talents deserved, despite his marriage to a General’s daughter, the rather nondescript, indolent niece of the Duke of Kent’s friend, Bishop Fisher, by whom he was to have six children. He had not served in either the Peninsular War or the Waterloo campaign; and the Duke of Kent’s attempts to find him a suitable staff appointment had not been successful. He had entered the Duke’s household as equerry in 1817; and the death of the Duke three years later had given him the opportunity to worm his way into a position far more rewarding and influential than he could have hoped for in the Army.

The same age as the Duchess, he was a good-looking man of insinuating charm, tall, imposing, vain, clever, unscrupulous, plausible and of limitless ambition. Overbearing with those whom he sought to dominate, he was both short-tempered and devious. Charles Greville, the diarist and Clerk of the Privy Council, dismissed him as ‘a ridiculous fellow’.¹ Conroy immediately recognized that by exerting a compelling influence over the susceptible and self-doubting Duchess of Kent, by isolating her household at Kensington from outside contacts and interference, he might be able to exercise unbounded control over her bright, spirited, affectionate and popular but obstinate and ‘naturally passionate’ child.

At the same time, Conroy made up his mind to win the confidence of King George IV’s sister, Princess Sophia, who had apartments at Kensington Palace. She was nine years older than himself. Cloistered at Windsor in her father’s lifetime, in what she and her sisters referred to as ‘the nunnery’, she had fallen in love with one of her father’s equerries, General Garth, and had secretly borne him a child. Conroy had little difficulty in charming the impressionable and mentally rather unstable woman whose considerable finances he controlled, and with the help of whose liberality he was able to acquire a house in Kensington for £4,000 as well as a country house near Reading, Aborfield Hall, and an estate in Wales for £18,000.² Princess Sophia – whose generosity was said to be at least partly owing to Conroy’s skill in dealing with the ‘bullying importunities’ of her illegitimate son, Captain Garth³ – having appointed Conroy her unofficial Comptroller, was induced to apply to her brother, the King, for suitable ranks to be bestowed upon the Duchess of Kent’s household. The King, who was fond of his adoring sisters, responded promptly: Louise Lehzen was created a Hanoverian baroness by His Majesty in his right as King of Hanover, while Conroy was created a Knight Commander of the Hanoverian Order.

Sir John Conroy, while so successfully beguiling both the Duchess of Kent and Princess Sophia, failed lamentably in his efforts to win the confidence of Princess Victoria whom he treated with that kind of bullying jocularity which children find so offensive. He told her she reminded him of the Duke of Gloucester, one of the least well-favoured members of her family; he said her economical habits, including the saving of her pocket money, must have been inherited from her parsimonious grandmother, Queen Charlotte; he teased her in the naive belief that she would be amused by his facetiousness rather than offended by what she described as ‘personal affronts’. She grew to hate him. The Duke of Wellington believed that this hatred sprang from her having witnessed ‘some familiarities’ between her mother and Conroy; and when Charles Creevey remarked to the Duke that he ‘concluded he was her lover’, the Duke replied that he also ‘supposed so’.⁴ In later life Victoria strongly denied that her mother and Conroy could have been lovers, and she was no doubt right to disbelieve that they were; but her detestation of Conroy was nonetheless virulent and the Duchess’s fond feelings for her Comptroller soured the feelings between mother and daughter. So too did they sour the friendly feelings which the Princess had earlier felt for Conroy’s daughter, Victoire, a rather dull girl, and one of the few children of her own age with whom Victoria was allowed to associate.

Having established his position at Kensington, Sir John Conroy – who did not now trouble to conceal his occasional irritation with the Duchess who, so he said, lived ‘in a mist’ – set about what became known as ‘the Kensington System’, a process by which, in Conroy’s words, Princess Victoria would become the ‘Nation’s Hope’, the ‘People’s Queen’.⁵ This entailed ensuring that the child became completely dependent upon her mother who – should the girl’s uncle, the Duke of Clarence, die before she came of age at eighteen – would become Regent. In the meantime, there must be no risk of anyone beyond the Kensington household gaining any influence over the Princess. She must continue to sleep in her mother’s room; she must never be left alone in any other room; when going downstairs she must be accompanied by an adult to hold her hand; she must never have the opportunity of talking to a visitor unless a third person were present. She must be strictly shielded from anyone who might endeavour to gain her confidence; furthermore, she must be separated from other members of the Royal Family, in particular from her uncle, the wicked Duke of Cumberland, who, so Conroy liked it to be supposed, as an additional reason for keeping her isolated, was quite capable of having her poisoned or otherwise disposed of so that he could succeed to his brother’s throne.

Well aware of the system being adopted at Kensington, the Duchess of Clarence wrote to her sister-in-law to advise her against a policy which was attributed – ‘rightly or wrongly’, she could not judge – to Sir John Conroy, ‘a man of merit’ but one whose family was ‘not of so high a rank that they alone should be the entourage and companions of the future Queen of England’. She must not allow Conroy to exercise ‘too much influence over her but keep him in his place’. The Duchess of Kent, a willing accomplice in the ‘system’, paid no attention.⁶

As well as being separated from the Royal Family, the Princess must also be shielded from any English lady who might have undesirable connections and friends; and Baroness Lehzen, being German, and ‘entirely dependent’ upon the Duchess, happily had none of these. The Princess must also, like her mother, ‘acquire popularity and a wide following’, clearly distinguishing her from all her dissolute relations.

Fortunately, though little was known about her, the glimpses which the public were permitted to see had already created a favourable impression of Princess Victoria. She had been seen riding her white donkey in Kensington Gardens with ‘an old soldier, a former retainer of her father’s, leading her bridle rein’, ‘riding in a pony chaise over the gravel walks, led by a page’, and walking along the paths there followed by a very tall footman looking like ‘a gigantic fairy’.⁷ Lord Albemarle, a member of the Duke of Sussex’s household, had watched from a window of the Palace ‘a bright, pretty little girl’ in a large white hat ‘impartially’ dividing the contents of a watering can ‘between the flowers and her own little feet’.⁸ Charles Knight, the publisher, also caught a glimpse of her one day having breakfast with her mother on the lawn outside Kensington Palace and running off to pick a flower in the adjoining meadow. ‘I passed on,’ Knight wrote, ‘and blessed her.’⁹

Charles Greville saw her at a children’s ball, given by the King and attended by the ten-year-old Queen of Portugal, and he thought that ‘our little Princess’ was a ‘short, vulgar-looking child, and not near so good-looking as the Portuguese’.¹⁰ But this was not a characteristic verdict. Most of those few people who came across her were more likely to share the opinion of Lady Wharncliffe, who was invited to dinner at Kensington where the Princess was occasionally allowed down from her bedroom to sit at the table, eating her ‘bread and milk out of a small silver basin’. Lady Wharncliffe was delighted with ‘our little future Queen’.

She is very much grown, though short for her age [she wrote], has a nice countenance and distingué figure, tho’ not very good; and her manner the most perfect mixture of childishness and civility I ever saw. She is born a Princess without the least appearance of art or affectation…When she went to bed we all stood up and after kissing Aunt Sophia, she curtsied, first to one side, and then the other, to all the Ladies, and then walked off with her governess. She is really very accomplished by taste, being very fond both of music and drawing, but fondest of all of her dolls. In short I look to her to save us from Democracy, for it is impossible she should not be popular when she is older and more seen.¹¹

The Duke of Wellington’s friend, Harriet Arbuthnot, was equally taken with the little girl, ‘the most charming child’ she ever saw. ‘She is a fine, beautifully made, handsome creature,’ Mrs Arbuthnot continued, ‘quite playful & childish [she was nearly nine], playing with her dolls and in high spirits, but civil & well bred & Princess-like to the greatest degree.’¹² She was graceful in her movements and walked with a regal air, an accomplishment attributed to her having had to submit on occasions to a bunch of prickly holly pinned to the front of her dress to keep her head up.

It was not until she was nearly eleven years old that the Princess learned how near she was to the throne. Of course, she knew that she was an honoured little personage. Servants behaved to her with noticeable deference; when she was out walking, gentlemen touched or raised their hats to her. She herself once told a child who put a hand out to play with her toys, ‘You must not touch those, they are mine. And I may call you Jane but you must not call me Victoria.’ According to Baroness Lehzen, a few days after her charge had been cross-examined by the Bishops of London and Lincoln, and having discussed the matter with the Duchess of Kent, the Baroness placed a genealogical table into one of the Princess’s history books. ‘I never saw that before,’ Victoria said; and, after examining the table, she commented, ‘I see I am nearer to the throne than I thought.’¹³ She then burst into tears. Lehzen reminded her that Aunt Adelaide was still young and might yet have children and, of course, if she did, it was they who would ascend the throne after their father died.

A few weeks later, on 26 June 1830, King George IV died at Windsor Castle and the short reign of King William IV began.