Queen Victoria by Lytton Strachey (sites to read books for free TXT) 📕

single distraction, all day long. The diminutive scale of the house was in itself a charm. Nothing was more amusing than to find oneself living in two or three little sitting⁠—rooms, with the children crammed away upstairs, and the minister in attendance with only a tiny bedroom to do all his work in. And then to be able to run in and out of doors as one liked, and to sketch, and to walk, and to watch the red deer coming so surprisingly close, and to pay visits to the cottagers! And occasionally one could be more adventurous still⁠—one could go and stay for a night or two at the Bothie at Alt-na-giuthasach⁠—a mere couple of huts with “a wooden addition”⁠—and only eleven people in the whole party! And there were mountains to be climbed and cairns to be built in solemn pomp. “At last, when the cairn, which is, I think, seven or eight feet high, was nearly completed, Albert climbed up to the top of it, and placed the last stone; after which three cheers were given. It was a gay, pretty, and touching sight; and I felt almost inclined to cry. The view was so beautiful over the dear hills; the day so fine; the whole so gemüthlich.”266 And in the evening there were sword-dances and reels.

But Albert had determined to pull down the little old house, and to build in its place a castle of his own designing. With great ceremony, in accordance with a memorandum drawn up by the Prince for the occasion, the foundation-stone of the new edifice was laid,267 and by 1855 it was habitable. Spacious, built of granite in the Scotch baronial style, with a tower 100 feet high, and minor turrets and castellated gables, the castle was skilfully arranged to command the finest views of the surrounding mountains and of the neighbouring river Dee. Upon the interior decorations Albert and Victoria lavished all their care. The wall and the floors were of pitch-pine, and covered with specially manufactured tartars. The Balmoral tartan, in red and grey, designed by the Prince, and the Victoria tartan, with a white stripe, designed by the Queen, were to be seen in every room: there were tartan curtains, and tartan chair-covers, and even tartan linoleums. Occasionally the Royal Stuart tartan appeared, for Her Majesty always maintained that she was an ardent Jacobite. Watercolour sketches by Victoria hung upon the walls, together with innumerable stags’ antlers, and the head of a boar, which had been shot by Albert in Germany. In an alcove in the hall, stood a life-sized statue of Albert in Highland dress.268

Victoria declared that it was perfection. “Every year,” she wrote, “my heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so now, that all has become my dear Albert’s own creation, own work, own building, own layout⁠ ⁠… and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere.”269

And here, in very truth, her happiest days were passed. In after years, when she looked back upon them, a kind of glory, a radiance as of an unearthly holiness, seemed to glow about these golden hours. Each hallowed moment stood out clear, beautiful, eternally significant. For, at the time, every experience there, sentimental, or grave, or trivial, had come upon her with a peculiar vividness, like a flashing of marvellous lights. Albert’s stalkings⁠—an evening walk when she lost her way⁠—Vicky sitting down on a wasps’ nest⁠—a torchlight dance⁠—with what intensity such things, and ten thousand like them, impressed themselves upon her eager consciousness! And how she flew to her journal to note them down! The news of the Duke’s death! What a moment⁠—when, as she sat sketching after a picnic by a loch in the lonely hills, Lord Derby’s letter had been brought to her, and she had learnt that “England’s, or rather Britain’s pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no more!” For such were her reflections upon the “old rebel” of former days. But that past had been utterly obliterated⁠—no faintest memory of it remained. For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost superhuman. Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not asked Albert to succeed him as commander-in-chief? And what a proud moment it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was born on his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her diary with panegyrical regrets. “His position was the highest a subject ever had⁠—above party⁠—looked up to by all⁠—revered by the whole nation⁠—the friend of the Sovereign⁠ ⁠… The Crown never possessed⁠—and I fear never will⁠—so devoted, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter! To us his loss is irreparable⁠ ⁠… To Albert he showed the greatest kindness and the utmost confidence⁠ ⁠… Not an eye will be dry in the whole country.”270 These were serious thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by others hardly less moving⁠—by events as impossible to forget⁠—by Mr. MacLeod’s sermon on Nicodemus⁠—by the gift of a red flannel petticoat to Mrs. P. Farquharson, and another to old Kitty Kear.271

But, without doubt, most memorable, most delightful of all were the expeditions⁠—the rare, exciting expeditions up distant mountains, across broad rivers, through strange country, and lasting several days. With only two gillies⁠—Grant and Brown⁠—for servants, and with assumed names. It was more like something in a story than real life. “We had decided to call ourselves Lord and Lady Churchill and Party⁠—Lady Churchill passing as Miss Spencer and General Grey as Dr. Grey! Brown once forgot this and called me ‘Your Majesty’ as I was getting into the carriage, and Grant on the box once called Albert ‘Your Royal Highness,’ which set us off laughing, but no one observed it.” Strong, vigorous, enthusiastic, bringing, so it seemed, good fortune