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On the 24th of May 1829, an old gentleman was walking very slowly, for though it was still early morning he was tired with the heat, through the world of green shadows that divided Kensington Palace from the labyrinth of fresh and glittering market gardens on the other side. It was a world of various green, of hairy raspberry leaves trilling with dew, of elm-trees floating like islands in the clear gold-powdered air, and of warm beechen shadows. Hearing a sound of high bird-clear laughter, the old gentleman looked through the sharp-scented sweet-briar hedge into the dancing green shadows beyond, and saw a little girl—in a shady straw hat through which dark leafy shadows and sweet golden freckles of the light fell on her kind, honest, homely face and on her dress of white cotton with a darn in it—watering a little garden of her own.

Great clouds of green dew, green light, and green shadows fell like laughter on the shady hat and the little white cotton dress. It was so early that the bright glistening nets of dew still held the dark misty pansies, the large velvety calceolarias, as fat and red and gold-speckled as strawberries, the mustard and cress, the homely pink-cheeked radishes, and the sweet-william, and the little girl ran backwards and forwards like a small bird until the cotton dress was all shining and wet with the dew. There was a flood of laughter and of green water from the watering-can—green from the light under the apple-branches; there was a flood of conversation, of mingled scolding and endearments from a lady who was seated, very upright and watchful, under the apple-branches, with the green light playing like fountains upon her dark parrot-sharp face. A voice floated from a high window in the Palace, calling “Baroness Lehzen, Baroness Lehzen”. And the dark figure rose, shutting up her book with a snap, and, driving the little girl before her, returned to the Palace.

This was Baroness Lehzen, dear, kind, severe, watchful Lehzen, who knew nothing and guessed everything, voluble, indiscreet Lehzen, whose god was discretion, Lehzen whose appearance was that of a very soberly dressed parrot, with her sharp black eyes snapping at imperfections in the maids of honour, with her bird-thin mouth that was drawn in because of her habit of eating caraway seeds, with her glossy black head cocked on one side so that her sharp ears might catch any whisper, any rumour of indiscreet conduct, floating up side staircases or out of the high and shadowed, shuttered rooms of the Palace. The daughter of a poor German pastor, now she lived in a palace, and taught a little princess with a darned frock who would one day be a queen; and, too, she bore the title of Baroness, because, when it became necessary, owing to dear faithful Lehzen’s incomparable ignorance, for her to share the supervision of the Princess’s education with one more learned than herself, Princess Sophia, afraid that the good creature’s feelings might be hurt, had suggested to King George the Fourth that this might be obviated if his appreciation of her services was shown by making her a Hanoverian baroness. This was done, and Lehzen became more voluble than ever (if this were possible), living in an unceasing flood of trivial conversation and of caraway seeds that were sent her, done up in mysterious little parcels, from Germany. The caraway seeds roused the derision of the maids of honour, and the Baroness, who was sensitive on the subject, avenged herself by slandering them on every possible occasion.

The Princess, followed by the exhortations of Lehzen, ran quickly over the dew-soaked grass and disappeared into the Palace. Today, happily, there would be no slow and lengthy lessons, for it was her birthday. How happy she had been with all her presents, and a letter from her half-sister, lovely gay Princess Feodore, who was, by now, married to Prince Hohenlohe. “If I had wings,” the letter said, “I could fly like a bird, I should fly in at your window like the little robin today, and wish you many very happy returns of the 24th, and tell you how I love you, dearest sister. I should wish to stay with you, and what would poor Ernest say if I were to leave him for so long? He would probably try and fly after me, but I fear he would not get far; he is rather tall and heavy for flying.”

There had been the excitement of opening the presents and the joy of opening the letter, and then breakfast had been served on the glittering wide spaces of green in front of the Palace, and every now and then the Princess had run from the table to pick a flower.

It was five whole years since dear Lehzen had first come to the Palace to look after the five-year-old Princess Victoria, but it seemed much longer than that. Until then, as she said in later life, she had been “very much indulged by everyone, and pretty well set all at defiance. Old Baroness de Spaeth, my nurse Mrs Brock, dear old Mrs Louis, all worshipped the poor little fatherless child whose future then was still so uncertain.”

In those early days, it had always seemed winter or early spring in the Palace rooms, and the little Princess enjoyed leaving them for the warm stillroom, where the winter shadows clustering round the windows seemed dark wide green leaves, and playing with the old housekeeper’s little silver-haired dog. Upstairs, when the Duchess of Kent was about, though the Princess was “son amour, ses délices”, there was always something that she must not do. One of her earliest memories, indeed, was of crawling on a yellow carpet like the pale early daffodils and the fresh fields of cowslips at Claremont, and of dark voices telling her that if she cried and was naughty her uncle Sussex would hear her and would punish her—for which reason she always screamed when she saw him. Had she known it, the Duke of Sussex was far too busy in his suite above the nurseries, with his eighteenth-century habits and surroundings, his bright-coloured feathered clouds of bullfinches and canaries, and their Scarlatti-like songs, with his small negro page, whom he always called Mr Blackman, with his many clocks which, when the clock of Kensington Palace struck the hour, went off into an explosion of stiff military marches and national anthems, to pay any attention to the screams of a naughty princess.^[14] Nor was the Duke of Sussex the only person of whom she was frightened. She had too “a great horror of Bishops on account of their wigs and aprons”, and, though this was partially got over in the case of the then Bishop of Salisbury, Dr Fisher, by his kneeling down and letting her play with his badge of Chancellor of the Order of the Garter, in the case of another bishop, even his repeated requests to show him her “pretty shoes” had no effect.

So the days melted into evenings when the snow round the eaves was soft and rosy as the feathers of Uncle Sussex’s bullfinches, and the gentle household sounds were quiet as their songs. Then the Princess was given a white cloud of milk in a little silver cup, and was put to bed amongst sheets that were cold and sweet as a field of snowdrops amongst the green shadows.

Then Fräulein Lehzen had come, and the Princess soon became greatly in awe of her, though she loved her dearly. At first, Fräulein Lehzen was aghast at the behaviour of her charge. Never had she dealt with such an impossibly naughty child. Gusty squalls of rage greeted any attempt to control her; indomitable will clashed with indomitable will. But then a fresh point struck the Pastor’s daughter. The Princess was absolutely truthful. The look in those blue eyes was a look of entire candour. And the will, that could not be moved by any effort of another will, could be guided by affection. In a short time, Lehzen had won the child’s devotion, and then it became an easy matter to guide and to train her. Until then, it had been useless to attempt even to teach her the alphabet; now she consented to learn her letters, on their being written down for her. But she still disliked her lessons, for, apart from the trouble of learning to read, there was the greater difficulty of learning to write; the thin straggly letters, that had been like the roots of a water-plant, must be taught to flower. To write was interesting; but it never seemed easy to express oneself: there was so much to say, but it never seemed to leave one’s heart, now, or in later life, and for that reason the heart was often heavy. Then there was Geography, with the maps whose lines were clear as Jack Frost’s pictures on the window-panes; but the names of the countries—Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada—never sounded in her ears like their far-off seas and winds; they meant nothing to her now, though one day she would be their queen. So she passed the dark wintry mornings, sitting by the fire in her governess’s room, whilst outside the country temples of the snow were no longer feather-soft, but sharp and dark green as the dog-haired strawberry leaves they hid—leaves that, too, seemed marked with the maps of unknown seas and lands.

Sometimes in the winter afternoons, another little girl would be popped into a carriage by her grandmother, and whirled away to Kensington Palace to play with the six-year-old Princess Victoria. But, when little Lady Jane Ellice put out a hand to play with the toys, the Princess told her: “You must not touch these, they are mine; and I may call you Jane, but you must not call me Victoria.” Some time after this (in 1828) Sir Walter Scott, dining with the Duchess of Kent, was presented to the Princess, and wrote in his journal: “This little lady is educated with so much care, and watched so closely, that no busy maid has a moment to whisper ‘You are heir of England.’ ” But he added: “I suspect, if we could dissect the little heart, we should find that some pigeon or bird of the air had carried the matter.”^[15] This same pigeon, I imagine, was responsible for the treatment of Lady Jane Ellice at the winter tea-parties.

Soon after the appearance of Fräulein Lehzen at Kensington Palace, traces of her influence appeared in many of her tiny charge’s sayings, sounding strange in that childish mouth; for this character, that was so strong even in earliest childhood, was intensely malleable as to moods, though never as to deeds. There was, as well, the influence of a voice, which though different, sterner, wiser, was equally given to platitudes—the voice of dear good Uncle Leopold. How happy were the days spent at Claremont with that wise and beloved being, who never talked to her as if she were a child, but always as if she were as experienced as himself ... who talked to her of goodness, moral worth, duty, self-knowledge, piety. She thought she could never have enough of it. The King of the Belgians, as he was soon to become, had in her a docile pupil. Nor was she the only one. Far away, in the fairy-tale castle on the edge of the dark Thuringian Forest, and at Coburg, the little boy who had been described as “the pendant to the pretty cousin” was being trained for his duty, moulded for the high fate that was his. King Leopold had seen his opportunity of controlling the destiny of England by means of his wife slip through his fingers, but with these two children a new chance had arisen, and he and wise, watchful Dr Stockmar had begun to form these two very different characters from their babyhood.

From the very first, Prince Albert had shown a touching sweetness of disposition, a shy gentleness that was both moving and appealing. “Whilst still very young,” wrote Count Mensdorff, “he was feelingly alive to the sufferings of the poor.” Indeed, when he was but six years of age, “he raised funds to rebuild the house of a poor man who had lost his possessions in a fire”. Mr Hector Bolitho, from whose charming book Albert the Good I culled this information, tells us also that “when ten years of age, the Prince wrote of his sadness that the world should be governed with so little morality”. And, according to the same authority, the methodical habits which were so remarkable in after life were shown at the age of six, when this lonely little boy began keeping a diary:

“1825. 21st January—When I got up this morning I was very happy; I washed myself and then was dressed, after which I played for a little while, then the milk was brought, and afterwards dear Papa came to fetch us for breakfast. After breakfast, dear Papa showed us the English horses. The little white one can trot very fast, but the chestnut one is rather clumsy....

“Now I am sleepy, I will pray and go to bed.”

“23rd January—When I woke this morning I was ill. My cough was worse, I was so frightened that I cried. I did a little drawing, then I built a castle and arranged my arms; after that I did my lessons and made a little picture and painted it. Then I played with Noah’s Ark. Then we dined and I went to bed and prayed.”

“26th January—We recited and I cried because I could not say my repetition, for I had not paid attention. I was not allowed to play after dinner, because I had cried whilst repeating.”

“11th February—I was to recite something, but I did not want to do so; that was not right, naughty!”

“28th February—I cried at my lesson today, because I could not find a verb; and the Rath (his tutor) pinched me to show me what a verb was. And I cried about it.”

“4th April—After dinner we went with dear Papa to Ketschendorf. There I drank beer and had bread and butter and cheese.”

“9th April—I got up well and happy. Afterwards I had a fight with my brother.”

“10th April—I had another fight with my brother; that was not right.”^[16]

But there were moments when his good uncle’s exhortations to the higher life were forgotten, and we see only a little boy lonely and longing for affection, peeping shyly at us from the pages of a diary, and of letters, written over a hundred years ago:

“Our finches”, he told his father, “have such a fine house to live in. Think of me very often and bring me a doll which nods his head. Your little Albert.”^[17]

The spring and summer time in England brought to the little Princess other delights than those known by her cousin on the edge of the Thuringian Forest. Every morning, when she was not watering her garden, the Princess would ride on a virtuous and gentle-tempered donkey that had been given her by her uncle the Duke of York, who, as she wrote later in her life, was always very kind to her, and she added that she remembered him well, and that he was tall and rather large, very kind, but extremely shy. Stockmar described him, at the time, as being “very tall, with immense embonpoint and not proportionally strong legs”, and as holding himself “in such a way that one is continually afraid he will tumble backwards”. He had, indeed, the appearance and gait of an enormous toy, one that is meant to overbalance and that keeps in an upright position with some difficulty. He did not fit well, either physically or mentally, into the century that had just begun, he did not fit well into the long tight trousers which were the principal portents, from his point of view, of that century. He was used to eighteenth-century manners, habits of thought, and clothes. He could not get used to those pantaloons, and on one occasion, when paying a visit to his father at Windsor, frightened that royal lunatic out of his harmonium-playing and ghostly bird-high unceasing chatter by catching his spur in the strap of those magnificent pantaloons and falling with a crash to the ground.^[18] When he walked, he drew up his feet as if the dead Duchess’s forty dogs were still yapping at his heels; he turned corners as sharply as if he “were trying to escape from the crowd of urchins crying “Duke and Darling” instead of “Heads and Tails”—a cry that was one of his minor punishments for the scandal of Mrs Clarke and the sold army-honours. Even in his way of walking, he showed that fear of his past life, that nervousness of the future, that beset him. But, of the two fears, that of the future was the greater. Yet, ridiculous as he was from many points of view, his niece loved him, because of his kindness. Had he not given her a donkey, and, though he was very ill, did he not arrange a Punch and Judy show for her in his garden? Under the trees floated the high shrill sounds of the puppets; but these were not more unreal than the personages who surrounded her—strange puppets and effigies left over from the last century, but not relegated to the Palace attics: on the contrary, surrounded by pomp.

It was not until the year 1826, when the Princess was seven years old, that the most magnificent puppet of all drew her towards him. For King George the Fourth had needed the space of those years to come between him and the resentment he had felt at “Joseph Surface” or “Simon Pure”, as he had called his brother, providing an heir to the throne. Until then, as the Queen said, later in her life, he took hardly any notice of the poor widow and little fatherless child, who were so poor at the time of the Duke of Kent’s death that they could not have travelled back to Kensington had it not been for the kindness of Prince Leopold.

Now, however, seven years after this event, the First Gentleman in Europe invited his sister-in-law and niece to Windsor for the first time.

The King lived at the Royal Lodge with Lady Conyngham and her husband and children, whilst the other members of the royal family and the general visitors stayed at Cumberland Lodge. On her arrival, the King, holding out his large hand, staring with protruding eyes at the little niece whose age was too small, whose heart was too large, to mock at his changed figure, said “Give me your little paw.”

This swollen effigy of what had once been a human being, and possessed of much beauty, wore, as his niece tells us, “the wig which was so much worn in those days; he was large and gouty, but with a wonderful dignity and charm of manner.” “Prinny”, wrote coarse, watchful Mr Creevey, “has let down his belly, which now reaches his knees. Otherwise he is said to be well.” Mr Creevey watched, he waited, for the time when that proud figurehead, with the terribly distorted body, that poor dropsy-stricken hulk of a king, would hide itself, in its transit through the streets, in a carriage with closed windows. The streets must be cleared, that the King might pass unseen. Mr Creevey watched, he waited, he knew. “Oh Prinny, Prinny, your time will come, my boy, and then your fame and reputation will have fair play too.” Indeed only the other night, according to Mr Creevey, poor Prinny had “crept into town in the dark, when nobody could see his legs or whether he could walk”. But the attempt to hide was soon to be frustrated, since there was to be a council, and Lord Rosslyn had promised to “keep a sharp look-out on the legs”.

But here there was none to watch, and the King remembered his reputation as First Gentleman in Europe, and ogled the lovely eighteen-year-old Princess Feodore, whose manners he much admired. Indeed, some people even believed he might marry her.

Every day brought fresh pleasures for the Princess Victoria. One lovely morning, the young and beautiful Lady Maria Conyngham, who was afterwards Lord Athlumney’s first wife, and Lord Graves, who afterwards shot himself on account of his wife’s conduct, were desired to take her for a drive to amuse her. So away they went with Fräulein Lehzen, in a pony carriage drawn by four grey ponies, and were driven about the Park and taken to Sandpit Gate where the King had a menagerie with wapitis and gazelles and chamois. Away they went and away—over pale grass, over the long and light summer land, with the huge gold sun shining down on the ladies’ parasols, each like a gold sun reflected in the water.

Next day, the Princess, with the Duchess of Kent and Lehzen, went through the dark woods, where waterfalls tumbled from the rocks like clear showers of wistaria, pale clematis, and banksia roses, to Virginia Water. And there they met the King, who was driving in his phaeton with the Duchess of Gloucester. And the King said, “Pop her in,” and she was lifted in and placed between her uncle and aunt, and her mama was very frightened, though the Duchess of Gloucester held the Princess tightly round the waist. The child was much excited, and full of admiration for the scarlet and blue liveries (the rest of the royal family must be content with scarlet and green.) The phaeton galloped round the nicest part of Virginia Water, and then stopped at the Fishing Temple. Here there was a large barge, and everyone went on board and fished; and in another barge there was a band playing, and great crowds of people watched the royal party from the bank. The King asked his niece what was her favourite piece of music, and the seven-year-old child replied, “God Save the King”.

Then, after everyone was tired with fishing, the Princess and Lehzen drove to Page Whiting’s cottage—for he had once been in the Duke of Kent’s service; and there they ate a great deal of fruit, and the Princess amused herself with cramming Page Whiting’s little girl with peaches.

It was sad when the summer day was done; it had passed too quickly. The days at Windsor were soon over, and now it was time for the Princess to return to Kensington Palace. But she took with her a beautiful miniature of her uncle the King, set with diamonds, and attached to a blue ribbon so that she might wear it on her left shoulder.

And amongst the many impressions she retained there was one that was particularly curious—a fleeting impression it seemed at first, but one which was repeated over and over again until at last it became of importance in her mind. On her return to Kensington Palace she asked Fräulein Lehzen “Why do all the gentlemen raise their hats to me and not to Feodore?” The great moment had come. Fräulein Lehzen made no reply, but next day the child found a royal genealogical tree amidst the pages of her history book. “I will be good,” said the future Queen of England, and then, in a voice that might have been Lehzen’s own, yet with an alien greatness in it: “Many a child would boast, but they do not know the difficulty. There is much splendour, but more responsibility.”

[14] See Fulford, op. cit., p. 282.

[15] John Gibson Lockhart: Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott. Queen Victoria: A Biography, by Sir Sidney Lee (John Murray), p. 24.

[16] The Early Years of the Prince Consort, by Lieut.-General the Hon. C. Grey (John Murray), pp. 32-5. Bolitho, op. cit., pp. 27-8.

[17] Bolitho, op. cit., p. 28.

[18] See Fulford, op. cit., p. 67.