Queen Victoria | Page 4

many
years later, in the best society of Europe, being in fact "what is called in
French de la fleur des pois." There was continual friction, but every
scene ended in the same way. Standing before him like a rebellious boy
in petticoats, her body pushed forward, her hands behind her back, with
flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes, she would declare at last that she
was ready to do whatever he wanted. "If you wish it, I will do it," she
would say. "I want nothing for myself," he invariably answered; "When
I press something on you, it is from a conviction that it is for your
interest and for your good."
Among the members of the household at Claremont, near Esher, where
the royal pair were established, was a young German physician,
Christian Friedrich Stockmar. He was the son of a minor magistrate in
Coburg, and, after taking part as a medical officer in the war, he had
settled down as a doctor in his native town. Here he had met Prince
Leopold, who had been struck by his ability, and, on his marriage,
brought him to England as his personal physician. A curious fate
awaited this young man; many were the gifts which the future held in
store for him--many and various--influence, power, mystery,
unhappiness, a broken heart. At Claremont his position was a very
humble one; but the Princess took a fancy to him, called him "Stocky,"
and romped with him along the corridors. Dyspeptic by constitution,
melancholic by temperament, he could yet be lively on occasion, and
was known as a wit in Coburg. He was virtuous, too, and served the
royal menage with approbation. "My master," he wrote in his diary, "is
the best of all husbands in all the five quarters of the globe; and his
wife bears him an amount of love, the greatness of which can only be

compared with the English national debt." Before long he gave proof of
another quality--a quality which was to colour the whole of his
life-cautious sagacity. When, in the spring of 1817, it was known that
the Princess was expecting a child, the post of one of her
physicians-in-ordinary was offered to him, and he had the good sense
to refuse it. He perceived that his colleagues would be jealous of him,
that his advice would probably not be taken, but that, if anything were
to go wrong, it would be certainly the foreign doctor who would be
blamed. Very soon, indeed, he came to the opinion that the low diet and
constant bleedings, to which the unfortunate Princess was subjected,
were an error; he drew the Prince aside, and begged him to
communicate this opinion to the English doctors; but it was useless.
The fashionable lowering treatment was continued for months. On
November 5, at nine o'clock in the evening, after a labour of over fifty
hours, the Princess was delivered of a dead boy. At midnight her
exhausted strength gave way. When, at last, Stockmar consented to see
her; he went in, and found her obviously dying, while the doctors were
plying her with wine. She seized his hand and pressed it. "They have
made me tipsy," she said. After a little he left her, and was already in
the next room when he heard her call out in her loud voice: "Stocky!
Stocky!" As he ran back the death-rattle was in her throat. She tossed
herself violently from side to side; then suddenly drew up her legs, and
it was over.
The Prince, after hours of watching, had left the room for a few
moments' rest; and Stockmar had now to tell him that his wife was dead.
At first he could not be made to realise what had happened. On their
way to her room he sank down on a chair while Stockmar knelt beside
him: it was all a dream; it was impossible. At last, by the bed, he, too,
knelt down and kissed the cold hands. Then rising and exclaiming,
"Now I am quite desolate. Promise me never to leave me," he threw
himself into Stockmar's arms.
II
The tragedy at Claremont was of a most upsetting kind. The royal
kaleidoscope had suddenly shifted, and nobody could tell how the new
pattern would arrange itself. The succession to the throne, which had
seemed so satisfactorily settled, now became a matter of urgent doubt.
George III was still living, an aged lunatic, at Windsor, completely

impervious to the impressions of the outer world. Of his seven sons, the
youngest was of more than middle age, and none had legitimate
offspring. The outlook, therefore, was ambiguous. It seemed highly
improbable that the Prince Regent, who had lately been obliged to
abandon his stays, and presented a preposterous figure of debauched
obesity, could ever