Lytton Strachey: Queen Victoria
"Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened Alexandrina Victoria."
Published in 1921 and awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, Lytton Strachey’s biography of Queen Victoria is a warm and witty portrayal of an era-defining monarch.
Childhood Part I
The child who, in these not very impressive circumstances, appeared in the world, received but scant attention. There was small reason to foresee her destiny. The Duchess of Clarence, two months before, had given birth to a daughter; this infant, indeed, had died almost immediately; but it seemed highly probable that the Duchess would again become a mother; and so it actually fell out. More than this, the Duchess of Kent was young, and the Duke was strong; there was every likelihood that before long a brother would follow, to snatch her faint chance of the succession from the little princess.
Nevertheless, the Duke had other views: there were prophecies.... At any rate, he would christen the child Elizabeth, a name of happy augury. In this, however, he reckoned without the Regent, who, seeing a chance of annoying his brother, suddenly announced that he himself would be present at the baptism, and signified at the same time that one of the godfathers was to be the Emperor Alexander of Russia. And so when the ceremony took place, and the Archbishop of Canterbury asked by what name he was to baptise the child, the Regent replied 'Alexandrina.' At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another name might be added. 'Certainly,' said the Regent; 'Georgina?' ‘Or Elizabeth?' said the Duke. There was a pause, during which the Archbishop, with the baby in his lawn sleeves, looked with some uneasiness from one Prince to the other. 'Very well, then,' said the Regent at last, 'call her after her mother. But Alexandrina must come first.' Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened Alexandrina Victoria.
The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meagre grant of the Commons had by no means put an end to his financial distresses. It was to be feared that his services were not appreciated by the nation. His debts continued to grow. For many years he had lived upon L7000 a year; but now his expenses were exactly doubled; he could make no further reductions; as it was, there was not a single servant in his establishment who was idle for a moment from morning to night. He poured out his griefs in a long letter to Robert Owen, whose sympathy had the great merit of being practical. ‘I now candidly state,' he wrote, 'that, after viewing the subject in every possible way, I am satisfied that, to continue to live in England, even in the quiet way in which we are going on, _without splendour, and without show, nothing short of doubling the seven thousand pounds will do_, REDUCTION BEING IMPOSSIBLE.' It was clear that he would be obliged to sell his house for L51,300: if that failed, he would go and live on the Continent. 'If my services are useful to my country, it surely becomes _those who have the power_ to support me in substantiating those just claims I have for the very extensive losses and privations I have experienced, during the very long period of my professional servitude in the Colonies; and if this is not attainable, _it is a clear proof to me that they are not appreciated_; and under that impression I shall not scruple, in due time, to resume my retirement abroad, when the Duchess and myself shall have fulfilled our duties in establishing the_English_ birth of my child, and giving it maternal nutriment on the soil of Old England; and which we shall certainly repeat, if Providence destines to give us any further increase of family.'
In the meantime, he decided to spend the winter at Sidmouth, ‘in order,' he told Owen, 'that the Duchess may have the benefit of tepid sea bathing, and our infant that of sea air, on the fine coast of Devonshire, during the months of the year that are so odious in London.’ In December the move was made. With the new year, the Duke remembered another prophecy. In 1820, a fortune-teller had told him, two members of the Royal Family would die. Who would they be? He speculated on the various possibilities: the King, it was plain, could not live much longer; and the Duchess of York had been attacked by a mortal disease. Probably it would be the King and the Duchess of York; or perhaps the King and the Duke of York; or the King and the Regent. He himself was one of the healthiest men in England. 'My brothers,’ he declared, 'are not so strong as I am; I have lived a regular life. I shall outlive them all. The crown will come to me and my children.’ He went out for a walk, and got his feet wet. On coming home, he neglected to change his stockings. He caught cold, inflammation of the lungs set in, and on January 22 he was a dying man. By a curious chance, young Dr. Stockmar was staying in the house at the time; two years before, he had stood by the death-bed of the Princess Charlotte; and now he was watching the Duke of Kent in his agony. On Stockmar's advice, a will was hastily prepared. The Duke’s earthly possessions were of a negative character; but it was important that the guardianship of the unwitting child, whose fortunes were now so strangely changing, should be assured to the Duchess. The Duke was just able to understand the document, and to append his signature. Having inquired whether his writing was perfectly clear, he became unconscious, and breathed his last on the following morning. Six days later came the fulfilment of the second half of the gipsy’s prophecy. The long, unhappy, and inglorious life of George the Third of England was ended.
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This is simply marvelous. While I’m thinking who knew, it’s also a stark reminder that nasty political machinations have a long history in human society. Thank you for this marvelous resurrection!
So interesting!