it, it will not do to refuse and to put off the negotiation
upon it.” On this point there can be little
doubt that Lord Melbourne was right. The question
was a complicated and subtle one, and it had never
arisen before; but subsequent constitutional practice
has determined that a Queen Regnant must accede to
the wishes of her Prime Minister as to the personnel
of the female part of her Household. Lord Melbourne’s
wisdom, however, was wasted. The Queen would
not be soothed, and still less would she take advice.
It was outrageous of the Tories to want to deprive
her of her Ladies, and that night she made up her
mind that, whatever Sir Robert might say, she would
refuse to consent to the removal of a single one of
them. Accordingly, when, next morning, Peel appeared
again, she was ready for action. He began by
detailing the Cabinet appointments, and then he added
“Now, ma’am, about the Ladies-” when
the Queen sharply interrupted him. “I cannot
give up any of my Ladies,” she said. “What,
ma’am!” said Sir Robert, “does your
Majesty mean to retain them all?” “All,”
said the Queen. Sir Robert’s face worked
strangely; he could not conceal his agitation.
“The Mistress of the Robes and the Ladies of
the Bedchamber?” he brought out at last.
“All,” replied once more her Majesty.
It was in vain that Peel pleaded and argued; in vain
that he spoke, growing every moment more pompous and
uneasy, of the constitution, and Queens Regnant, and
the public interest; in vain that he danced his pathetic
minuet. She was adamant; but he, too, through
all his embarrassment, showed no sign of yielding;
and when at last he left her nothing had been decided—the
whole formation of the Government was hanging in the
wind. A frenzy of excitement now seized upon Victoria.
Sir Robert, she believed in her fury, had tried to
outwit her, to take her friends from her, to impose
his will upon her own; but that was not all:
she had suddenly perceived, while the poor man was
moving so uneasily before her, the one thing that
she was desperately longing for—a loop-hole
of escape. She seized a pen and dashed off a note
to Lord Melbourne.
“Sir Robert has behaved very ill,” she
wrote, “he insisted on my giving up my Ladies,
to which I replied that I never would consent, and
I never saw a man so frightened... I was calm
but very decided, and I think you would have been
pleased to see my composure and great firmness; the
Queen of England will not submit to such trickery.
Keep yourself in readiness, for you may soon be wanted.”
Hardly had she finished when the Duke of Wellington
was announced. “Well, Ma’am,”
he said as he entered, “I am very sorry to find
there is a difficulty.” “Oh!”
she instantly replied, “he began it, not me.”
She felt that only one thing now was needed:
she must be firm. And firm she was. The venerable
conqueror of Napoleon was outfaced by the relentless
equanimity of a girl in her teens. He could not
move the Queen one inch. At last, she even ventured
to rally him. “Is Sir Robert so weak,”
she asked, “that even the Ladies must be of
his opinion?” On which the Duke made a brief
and humble expostulation, bowed low, and departed.