Kitabı oku: «Queen Victoria: A Personal History», sayfa 4
The Princess had kept a journal of their travels as her mother had told her to do. The earlier entries were most precisely dated and, since both the Duchess and Lehzen read them, rather stilted in style and matter of fact in content, not to say boring:
Wednesday, August 1st 1832. We left Kensington Palace at 6 minutes past 7 and went through the lower-field gate to the right. We went on and turned to the left by the new road to Regent’s Park. The road and scenery is beautiful. 20 minutes to 9. We have just changed horses at Barnet, a very pretty little town. 5 minutes past half past nine. We have just changed horses at St Albans…13
It was not until she was free to do so that she wrote from the heart and made full use of her powers of acute observation and a Boswellian ability to recall a conversation, the details of a man’s appearance, a woman’s dress. Even now, however, her writing was graphic when her imagination was aroused as it was, for instance, in her description of the mining districts of the Midlands, her first experience of such sights, such pitiable poverty which, in later years, she was rarely to witness again:
The men, women, children, country and houses are all black [she wrote]…The country is very desolate Every Where…The grass is quite blasted and black. Just now I saw an extraordinary building flaming with fire. The country continues black, engines flaming, coals, in abundance, everywhere smoking and burning coal heaps, intermingled with wretched huts and carts and little ragged children.14
What a contrast these dark scenes were with country towns, with her reception elsewhere, in other places where, as at Oxford, her party ‘were most WARMLY and ENTHUSIASTICALLY received!’15
The King read the reports of his niece’s enthusiastic welcome with mounting annoyance and serious concern: the Princess was being presented, not so much as his rightful successor, as his rival, a friend of the people who, as the daughter of committed Whigs, was presumed to be in favour of the Reform Bill to which the Tory King and Queen were opposed.
So, when in 1833 the Princess was taken on another tour, this time to the south and west of England, the King decided to curb so far as he could the ‘disgusting’ excesses of these ‘Royal Progresses’ by putting an end to what he called the ‘pop pop’ of naval salutes whenever the Duchess, her daughter and their entourage sailed by one of His Majesty’s vessels.
The Duchess was informed that since she was sailing for her own pleasure she must no longer expect to be saluted by any of the King’s ships. Sir John Conroy replied that ‘as H.R.H.’s confidential adviser’ he could not recommend her to give way on this point.16 So the King called a meeting of the Privy Council and issued an order requiring salutes to be given only for ships in which the King or Queen happened to be sailing.
Yet while the King was able to silence the naval ‘pop pops’, he could do little to prevent the unseemly excitement of the welcome accorded to his sister-in-law and niece on land; and reports of the ‘progress’ of 1833 were quite as irritating as those of previous years. On this occasion the royal party went to stay at Norris Castle on the Isle of Wight and at the beginning of August were sailing in the Emerald, tender of the royal yacht, the Royal George, when the ship ran foul of a hulk and broke her mast. The Princess was full of praise for the sailor in command of the Emerald who picked up her precious King Charles Spaniel, ‘dear sweet, little Dash’, and kept him ‘under his arm the whole time, but never let him drop in all the danger’.17
That summer the Princess went to Portsmouth where she inspected Nelson’s flagship, the Victory, and tasted some ‘excellent’ beef, potatoes and grog as a sample of the sailors’ rations.18 The Emerald anchored off Plymouth so that she could present new colours to the 89th Regimeñt; she was taken over the Eddystone lighthouse; she visited Torquay and Weymouth and Exeter; and she was driven in an open carriage, escorted by the Dorsetshire Yeomanry, to stay at Melbury House, Lord Ilchester’s house near Dorchester.
No sooner had the disagreement about naval salutes been settled than there was further trouble over the provision of a country house for the Duchess of Kent and her daughter. The Duchess wrote to the Prime Minister asking for one. The King offered her Kew Palace for that summer. The Duchess did not want a house just for that summer but a permanent country residence; besides she had made arrangements to go to Tunbridge Wells in the summer. Well then, she might have Kew Palace on a more permanent basis. The Duchess went to see it. She did not like it: it was ‘very inadequate in accommodation and almost destitute of furniture’.19 The King replied that Kew had been considered perfectly satisfactory by his ‘royal father and mother’. He had nothing else to offer.20
Disgruntled though she was by her brother-in-law’s response, the Duchess seems to have enjoyed her autumn holiday at Tunbridge Wells in 1834. The Princess certainly did so, all the more so because she had been confined by illness to her room for over three weeks earlier that year, dutifully writing of her ‘dear Mama’s’ anxiety throughout her indisposition and ‘dear Lehzen’s unceasing’ care. She described her rides in the lovely countryside around the town and the public dinners which were held for them, at one of which Sir John Conroy surprised his fellow-guests by singing a song called ‘The Wolf’. The Princess left ‘dear’ 
unbridge Wells for St Leonard’s-on-Sea and Hastings on 4 November with ‘GREAT REGRET’.21 At St Leonards, where she was given ‘a most splendid reception’, she showed her resourcefulness when the carriage in which she, her mother, Lehzen and Lady Flora Hastings were riding overturned, bringing the horses down with it. She called for her dog, Dash, to be rescued, then ‘ran on with him in my arms calling Mama to follow’, and then, when one of the horses broke loose and started chasing them down the road, she told them to take cover behind a wall.*22
Meanwhile another tour of England, this time in the northern and eastern counties, was being planned to start at the beginning of August 1835. There were to be excursions to some of the principal towns in Yorkshire, to Stamford and Grantham in Lincolnshire, to Newark in Nottinghamshire, to Belvoir Castle, home of the Duke of Rutland, and to the Marquess of Exeter’s Burghley House, near Stamford.
The King made it known that he was firmly opposed to yet another ‘progress’; and he wrote to say that he strongly disapproved of his niece being taken ‘flying about the kingdom as she had been for the past three years’.23 But the Duchess demanded to know from Lord Melbourne, who had succeeded Lord Grey as Prime Minister in 1834, ‘on what grounds’ she could be prevented from making these visits; and when Princess Victoria protested that she did not want to be taken on another one since the King did not approve of them, her mother wrote to remonstrate with her: the King was merely jealous of the reception accorded her; of course she must go; it was her duty to go: ‘Will you not see that it is the greatest consequence that you should be seen, that you should know your country, and be acquainted with, and be known by all classes…I must tell you dearest Love, if your conversation with me could be known, that you had not the energy to undertake the journey or that your views were not enlarged enough to grasp the benefits arising from it, then you would fall in the estimation of the people of this country. Can you be dead to the calls your position demands? Impossible…Turn your thoughts and views to your future station, its duties, and the claims that exist on you.’24
They left the next morning. They attended the York Musical Festival and a performance in the Minster of Messiah which she acknowledged was considered ‘very fine’, but personally she thought the music ‘heavy and tiresome’, not sharing her grandfather George III’s passion for Handel. She liked ‘the present Italian school…much better’. They were entertained by her grandfather’s friend, the elderly, benevolent Archbishop Harcourt;* they went to Doncaster Races; they passed through Leeds and Wakefield and Barnsley; they inspected the Duke of Rutland’s family mausoleum at Belvoir. Passing into East Anglia, they visited the Earl and Countess of Leicester at Holkham Hall where the Princess was so tired she nearly fell asleep at dinner; and they went to the Duke of Grafton’s house, a rather decrepit Euston Hall. At Burghley House, after opening a ball with her host, the Marquess of Exeter, she had such a ‘dreadful headache’ that she went to bed after that one dance.25
‘It is an end to our journey, I am happy to say,’ the Princess wrote in her diary when it was all over. ‘Though I liked some of the places very well, I was much tired by the long journey & the great crowds we had to encounter. We cannot travel like other people, quietly and pleasantly.’26
For most of the time on this tour she had been feeling unwell and had quite lost her appetite. There was no need now for those warnings occasionally despatched to her by her uncle Leopold who, in one of his arch letters, had written to say that he had heard that ‘a certain little princess…eats a little too much, and almost always a little too fast’.27 Her ‘dearest Sister’ Feodora had also warned her that she ate too fast, and that in addition she helped herself to far too much salt with her meat.
Now the very thought of food sometimes made her feel sick. She was also suffering from intermittent headaches, back ache, sore throats, insomnia, and dreadful lassitude. ‘When one arrives at any nobleman’s seat,’ she wrote, ‘one must instantly dress for dinner and consequently I could never rest properly.’28
6 UNCLES
‘There would be no advantage in having a totally inexperienced girl of eighteen, just out of strict guardianship to govern an Empire.’
THE PROSPECT OF an autumn holiday at Ramsgate did little to raise the Princess’s spirits, even though her uncle Leopold, whom she had not seen for over four years, was also to be staying in the town at the Albion Hotel.* ‘What happiness it was for me to throw myself in the arms of that dearest of Uncles, who has always been to me like a father, and whom I love so very dearly,’ she wrote in her diary. ‘I look up to him as a Father with confidence, love and affection. He is the best and kindest adviser I have…I have such great love for him and such great confidence in him.’ ‘I love him so very much,’ she added later. ‘Oh, my love for him approaches to a sort of adoration. He is indeed “il mio secondo padre”, or rather “solo padre”, for he is indeed like my real father, as I have none.’ His young wife, Queen Louise, daughter of Louis-Philippe, King of the French, whom he had married when she was twenty a bare three years before, was also ‘quite delightful’, ‘an Angel’ who behaved towards her in the most friendly manner, playing games with her in the evenings, praising her drawings, sending her hairdresser to rearrange her light brown hair and pressing upon her all kinds of presents from her own wardrobe which were followed by boxes of dresses and hats sent to her when Queen Louise had returned home.1
Yet the Princess was still feeling unwell; and when she returned to Ramsgate from Dover, where she had said goodbye to King Leopold and Queen Louise, she found life ‘terribly fade & dull without them’ and tired herself out with crying. She was, indeed, really ‘very ill’. The Duchess’s doctor, James Clark, was called but did not stay long. The Duchess considered that her daughter’s indisposition could largely be attributed to the girl’s ‘childish whims’ and Baroness Lehzen’s imagination.2 Conroy hinted that it was all brought about by the Princess’s childishness and he hinted that it was a mere maladie imaginaire, further evidence of the fanciful girl’s inability to reign without her mother’s constant guidance. One day he took advantage of her indisposition to endeavour to induce her to sign a paper authorizing his appointment as her Private Secretary. ‘They (Mama and John Conroy) attempted (for I was still very ill) to make me promise [to do so],’ she later said. ‘I resisted in spite of my illness and their harshness, my beloved Lehzen supporting me alone.’3
When Dr Clark had returned to London, it was clear that his patient was now seriously ill, suffering perhaps from severe tonsillitis or typhoid fever exacerbated by mental stress: she was feverish with a racing pulse. Lehzen proposed that Dr Clark should be sent for again; but the Duchess accused her of making an unnecessary fuss. ‘How can you think I would do such a thing?’ she said. ‘What a noise that would make in town; in short we differ so much about this indisposition that we had better not speak of it at all.’4
When the Princess grew worse, however, both Conroy and the Duchess agreed that Dr Clark must be summoned immediately; and when he replied to the effect that he could not come until late that night, a local doctor was called in. But by now the patient was recovering. Even so, after his return, Dr Clark thought it as well to remain in Ramsgate for over a month, while Lehzen, the ‘most affectionate, devoted, attached friend’ the Princess had ever had, nursed her ‘as attentively as ever’.
On 3 November 1835 Princess Victoria felt strong enough to report to King Leopold that she was ‘much better’, but she had to admit that she had grown ‘very thin’ and her hair was falling out ‘frightfully’; she was ‘litterally now getting bald’.5 Dr Clark advised a new regime for her at Kensington: she should be moved to apartments on a higher floor; she should go for regular walks, not sit too long at her lessons, exercise her arms with Indian clubs, and chew her food thoroughly, curbing her inclination – reproved by Baroness Lehzen as well as King Leopold and Princess Feodora – to eat too fast, even though of late she had not been eating much at all: a dose of quinine had been followed by potato soup for luncheon, and a thin slice or two of mutton with rice and orange jelly for dinner.6
By the end of January 1836 she had settled once more into the tedious routine of life at Kensington Palace, longing ‘sadly’, as she put it, ‘for some gaiety’, but for days on end seeing no one of her own age from the outside world and having to endure the company of ‘the usual party’ including Sir John Conroy, now more detested than ever, the boring Lady Conroy, the ‘2 Miss Conroys’, Victoire and Jane, and the friend of the Conroys, the clever and incompatible Lady Flora Hastings. She was still convalescent, living on a spare diet which now included bread and butter, performing exercises to strengthen her legs and arms and taking drives to the villages north of Kensington, Hampstead, Finchley and Harrow, and to places she was taken to on her mother’s charitable rounds. She went one August evening to St George’s Chapel at Windsor and stood looking mournfully at the tombs, one of which was her ‘poor dear Father’s’, sadly reflecting how cruel it was to lose those whom we loved and to be ‘encumbered’ by those we disliked.
There were, of course, breaks in this boring and frustrating existence: there was her first drive down the course at Ascot during race week; there were rare visits to Windsor Castle for dinners and dances, and even rarer appearances at St James’s on drawing-room days; there were walks on Hampstead Heath with Dash, ‘DEAR SWEET LITTLE DASH’, whom not so long ago she had been in the habit of dressing up like one of her dolls. There were singing lessons with the amusing, good-humoured and wholly delightful bass, Luigi Lablache, of whom she was so much in awe at first that no sound came out, though she later grew so fond of him that she would have liked to have had lessons every day instead of once a week. She eagerly discussed music with him in French and could not agree with his high estimation of Mozart. ‘I am a terribly modern person,’ she wrote in her journal, ‘and I must say I prefer Bellini, Rossini, Donizetti, etc., to anything else; but Lablache who understands music thoroughly said, “C’est le Papa de tous.”’7
‘Oh!’ she wrote in her diary of Lablache’s birthplace, ‘could I but once behold bella Napoli with its sunny blue sky and turquoise bay dotted with islands!’8
There were, above all, exciting evenings at the theatre and the opera, where she delighted in the performances of the half-Italian, half-Swedish ballerina, Marie Taglioni, who ‘danced quite exquisitely’, of Taglioni’s brother, Paul, ‘the most splendid man-dancer [she] ever saw’, of the tenor Rubini, the baritone Tamburini, her hero, Luigi Lablache, and the lovely soprano Giulia Grisi, ‘a most beautiful singer and actress’ whom she saw in her favourite opera, Bellini’s Puritani, and in Donizetti’s Anna Bolena by which she was ‘VERY MUCH AMUSED INDEED’.9
There were interesting afternoons at the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park; and evenings when she was brought downstairs by Lehzen to be introduced to distinguished guests, on one occasion to Sir Robert Peel, on another to Lord Palmerston who was ‘so very agreeable, clever, amusing & gentlemanlike’ and with whom, a year or two later, she had ‘much pleasant and amusing conversation’. There were birthday parties and birthday presents including, one year, a print of Marie Taglioni from Lehzen, earrings from the King, a brooch containing a strand of her mother’s hair, a writing-case from Sir John Conroy, a paper-knife from Lady Flora Hastings and a prayer book from ‘a bookseller of the name of Hatchard’. There were occasional balls at Kensington Palace; and above all, there were very occasional visits by German cousins whose departure, as she lamented in her diary, made her ‘quite wretched’, grieved and sad, missing them ‘dreadfully’, feeling that it was ‘like a dream that all our joy, happiness and gaiety should thus suddenly be over’. King Leopold wondered in his cautious way if these bursts of excitement were good for her. Might they not undermine her health? But no; it was the tedium of life at Kensington and the stress of the relationships there that upset her and made her ill. ‘Merriment and mirth’ were a tonic. ‘I can assure you,’ she wrote to him, ‘all this dissipation does me a great deal of good.’10 So did a change of air at King Leopold’s house at Esher, and a subsequent few days at Buxted Park in Sussex, the family home of her friend, Lady Catherine Jenkinson, daughter of the Earl of Liverpool.
Yet even away from Kensington Palace the tensions of life there followed her about like inescapable shadows. Lady Catherine got on well with Lehzen, so was persona non grata with the Conroy faction, and was soon to leave the Duchess of Kent’s household, ostensibly on the grounds of ill health. The Duchess of Northumberland had also fallen out with Conroy who considered she was undermining his authority, since she had written to Princess Feodora requesting her to approach her uncle, King Leopold, and ask him to do what he could to protect Baroness Lehzen, who was still being treated ‘with contempt and incredible harshness’ in an attempt to get rid of her and replace her with someone of Conroy’s own choosing. At the same time there was no love lost between Princess Victoria and the Conroys’ sharp-tongued friend, Lady Flora Hastings. As for the Duchess of Kent’s relations with the King they went from bad to worse.
There was trouble when the King declined to receive the Duchess’s daughter-in-law, the wife of Charles, Prince of Leiningen, on the grounds that she was not of royal blood and therefore by tradition barred from the Closet at St James’s Palace.11 Then there was further trouble when the King required the gentlemen of the Duchess of Kent’s household to leave the Throne Room during the course of a drawing room there because, so he said, only gentlemen of the King’s and Queen’s household enjoyed the privilege of attendance at such a reception in such a place, the households of other members of the Royal Family being limited to ladies only.12
These, however, were relatively minor incidents when compared with an outrageous and distressing contretemps at Windsor Castle on 21 August 1836. This was the King’s birthday. He had invited the Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria to come to Windsor for the Queen’s birthday party on 13 August and then to stay on for his own on the 21st. The Duchess, rudely taking no notice of the invitation to the Queen’s birthday party, replied that she intended to be at Claremont for her own birthday celebrations on 17 August but would bring her daughter to Windsor on the 20th.
This put the King into a fury [Charles Greville was informed by one of the King’s illegitimate sons, Adolphus FitzClarence, who was living in the Castle at the time]. He made, however, no reply, and on the 20th he was in town to prorogue Parliament, having desired that they would not wait dinner for him at Windsor. After the prorogation He went to Kensington Palace to look about it; when He got there He found that the Duchess of Kent had appropriated to her own use a suite of apartments, seventeen in number for which She had applied last year, and which he had refused to let her have. This increased his ill-humour, already excessive. When he arrived at Windsor [suffering from the effects of sleepless nights and asthmatic attacks] and went into the drawing-room (at about ten o’clock at night), where the whole party was assembled, he went up to the Princess Victoria, took hold of both her hands, and expressed his pleasure at seeing her there and his regret that he did not see her oftener. He then turned to the Duchess and made her a low bow, almost immediately after which he said that ‘a most unwarrantable liberty had been taken with one of his Palaces; that He had just come from Kensington, where He found apartments had been taken possession of not only without his consent, but contrary to his commands, and that he neither understood nor would endure conduct so disrespectful to him.’ This was said loudly, publicly, and in a tone of serious displeasure. It was, however, only the muttering of the storm which was to break the next day. Adolphus went into his room on Sunday morning, and found him in a state of great excitement. It was his birthday, and though the celebration was (what was called) private, there were a hundred people at dinner, either belonging to the Court or from the neighbourhood. The Duchess of Kent sat on one side of the King and one of his sisters on the other, the Princess Victoria opposite. Adolphus sat two or three from the Duchess, and heard every word of what passed. After dinner, by the Queen’s desire, ‘His Majesty’s health, and long life to him’ was given, and as soon as it was drunk He made a very long speech, in the course of which he poured forth the following extraordinary and foudroyant tirade: – ‘I trust in God that my life may be spared for nine months longer, after which period, in the event of my death, no Regency would take place. I should then have the satisfaction of leaving the royal authority to the personal exercise of that Young Lady (pointing to the Pss.), the Heiress presumptive of the Crown, and not in the hands of a person now near me, who is surrounded by evil advisers and who is herself incompetent to act with propriety in the station in which She would be placed. I have no hesitation in saying that I have been insulted – grossly and continually insulted – by that person, but I am determined to endure no longer a course of behaviour so disrespectful to me. Amongst many other things I have particularly to complain of the manner in which that young Lady has been kept away from my Court; she has been repeatedly kept from my drawing-rooms, at which She ought always to have been present, but I am fully resolved that this shall not happen again. I would have her know that I am King, and that I am determined to make my authority respected, and for the future I shall insist and command that the Princess do upon all occasions appear at my Court, as it is her duty to do.’ He terminated his speech by an allusion to the Princess and her future reign in a tone of paternal interest and affection, which Adolphus told me was excellent in its way.
This awful philippick (with a great deal more which I forget) was uttered with a loud voice and excited manner. The Queen looked in deep distress, the Princess burst into tears, and the whole company were aghast. The Duchess of Kent said not a word. Immediately after they rose and retired, and a terrible scene ensued; the Duchess announced her immediate departure and ordered her carriage, but a sort of reconciliation was patched up, and she was prevailed upon to stay till the next day.13
The Duke of Wellington’s comment upon all this was characteristically laconic: ‘Very awkward, by God!’
The Princess’s distress was alleviated by the thought that her beloved Uncle Leopold was coming to England to stay at Claremont in three weeks’ time. Her delight in his company was as profound as ever: ‘He is so clever,’ she recorded in her diary, ‘so mild and so prudent; he alone can give me good advice on every thing.’ She loved Queen Louise, too, she protested, and ‘very much regretted’ that she was unable to come to England with her husband as she was expecting a second child. Louise sent ‘lovely’ presents, however, a silk dress and a satin bonnet, the dress ‘made by Mlle Palmyre, the first dressmaker of Paris’.
Her uncle’s visit was soon over, however; and thereafter week after week passed at Claremont with ‘the usual society’, including that of Conroy’s daughter, Victoire, whom she increasingly grew to dislike the more she hated the girl’s father, and she longed to return to London for the season, yearning for the opera and the theatre and ‘for some merriment after being so very long in the country’ with such companions as she was obliged to live with there. Yet, when she did return to Kensington, life there was far from gay: Conroy was as detestable as ever and more than ever determined not to lose his influence in the Duchess of Kent’s household when her daughter came of age. The Duchess herself was just as much under Conroy’s influence as she had ever been.
Shortly before her eighteenth birthday Princess Victoria received a letter from the King in which he told her that he proposed applying to Parliament for a grant of £10,000 a year to be entirely at her own disposal. He intended her also to have the right to appoint her own Keeper of the Privy Purse, suggesting Sir Benjamin Stephenson whom the Duchess much disliked, for this post. The Princess was, in addition, to have the right to form her own household. When the Lord Chamberlain brought this letter to Kensington, Sir John Conroy insisted upon its being delivered to the Princess in the Duchess’s presence. Once the Princess had read it she handed it to her mother who was, of course, appalled by its contents. Having satisfied herself that the King had consulted the Cabinet before writing the letter, she wrote an extremely angry reply to Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, then, having summarily dismissed suggestions by her daughter that her tutor, the Revd George Davys, now Dean of Chester, might be appointed her Keeper of the Privy Purse, and that the Princess might have a private conversation with Lord Melbourne, the Duchess, with Conroy’s help, wrote a letter to the King which the Princess, who had felt ‘very miserable’ the evening before and had refused to go down to dinner, was required to copy. ‘I wish to remain in every respect as I am now in the care of my Mother,’ ran this letter which the Princess had for a time resisted in copying. ‘Upon the subject of money I should wish that whatever may be necessary to add, may be given to my dear Mother for my use, who always does everything I want in pecuniary matters.’14
When he read this letter the King commented, before laying it aside, that Victoria had not written it.15 To a later letter, offering a compromise – £4,000 a year for the Princess and £6,000 for herself – the Duchess replied curtly, rejecting it without even consulting her daughter who by now no longer spoke to her when they were alone together.
By this time the King was clearly very ill. He had arranged to give a ball on the evening of 24 May when the Princess came of age; but he was not well enough to greet his niece who drove to St James’s through streets crammed with people whose anxiety, so she wrote, ‘to see poor stupid me was very great, and I must say I am quite touched by it, and feel proud, which I always have done of my country and the English nation’.16 At the Palace she was told that His Majesty had directed that she should occupy his own chair of state. She did not greatly enjoy the ball, though. She felt Sir John Conroy’s eyes on her the whole evening, like those of a disapproving hawk; and when it was over she wrote resignedly in her diary: ‘Today is my eighteenth birthday! How old! And yet how far am I from being what I should be.’17
It was a sentiment which both Sir John Conroy and her mother did all they could to endorse. ‘You are still very young,’ the Duchess, with Conroy clearly at her shoulder, wrote to her, ‘and all your success so far has been due to your Mother’s reputation. Do not be too sanguine in your own talents and understanding.’ Conroy himself asserted that Victoria was ‘younger in intellect than in years’ and that she had too flippant a mentality to dispense with the guidance of those who knew her best.
The day after her birthday her uncle Leopold’s friend and counsellor Baron Stockmar, a Coburger of Swedish descent, arrived in London. Then forty-nine years old, Christian Frederick Stockmar was a qualified physician who had been head of the military hospital in Coburg. Having come across him there, Prince Leopold had been impressed by his honesty and knowledge of the world, and he had asked him to become his personal physician. When Princess Charlotte died, Prince Leopold had begged Stockmar never to leave him. Stockmar had promised never to do so and thereafter he spent more time with Leopold and on various missions for him than he did with his wife and children. Small, rotund, hypochondriacal, trustworthy, sardonic, moody, obsessively moral, and with a rather too high opinion of his understanding of political manoeuvres and psychological insights, he was to become a familiar figure at the English court, where, until his retirement to Coburg in 1857, he was to be seen walking into dinner of an evening without decorations and wearing ordinary trousers instead of the regulation knee-breeches.
