Edward VII: The Last Victorian King Page 2

  By the time she made this entry in her journal, a detailed plan of education for the children had been drawn up by their father and set down by him and the Queen in a memorandum dated 3 January 1847. The younger children were to be placed in a separate class from the two elder, who were to begin their more advanced lessons in February. Particular attention was to be paid in these lessons to English, arithmetic and geography; and an hour each day was to be devoted to both German and French. The Queen herself was to give religious instruction to the Princess Royal; but the Prince’s education in this subject was to be entrusted to Lady Lyttelton and her assistant governess, Miss Hildyard. Miss Hildyard was also to supervise the children’s daily prayers which they were required to repeat kneeling down. If the governesses wished to make any alterations in the syllabus, or to propose outings, rewards or punishments, the Queen must always be consulted in such matters.

  Lady Lyttelton herself did not believe in the severe punishment of young children as one was ‘never sure’ that it was fully understood by the culprits ‘as belonging to the naughtiness’. But Prince Albert believed that physical chastisement was on occasions necessary to secure obedience. Even the girls were whipped and required to listen to lengthy admonishments with their hands tied together. At the age of four Princess Alice received ‘a real punishment by whipping’ for telling a lie and ‘roaring’. The Prince of Wales, of course, received even harsher treatment; but there was no improvement in his behaviour. His stammer did not improve, his sudden rages grew more violent and prolonged.

  Occasional doubts were expressed about the suitability of so strict and unvarying a regime for a child of the Prince’s temperament. Even his parents’ influential and masterful friend and adviser, Baron Stockmar, who joined their anxious discussions and submitted a series of memoranda on the Prince’s education while supporting the view that the strictest discipline was necessary, gave it as the opinion of one who had been trained as a doctor that a system of continuous study and organized pursuits ‘if fully carried into effect and especially in the earlier years of the Prince’s life would, if he were a sprightly boy, speedily lead to a cerebral disease, and if he was constitutionally slow, induce inevitable disgust’.

  The parents were not convinced. The ghosts of King George IV and his brothers seemed to hang continually about the room where the worried discussions between the parents and their advisers took place. Not many years before, members of the government had been harassed by fears that the discontent of the English people might well break out into revolution. Republicanism was still an active political force. Any future king would have to be a most exceptional man if the monarchy were to survive; and he could not hope to survive were he not to receive an education of unremitting rigour, rigidly supervised, and kept under constant surveillance. Baron Stockmar, who had already increased Prince Albert’s anxiety by warning him that he and the Queen ought to be ‘thoroughly permeated’ with the truth that their position was a more difficult one than that of any other parents in the kingdom, now told the Queen that the errors in the education of her uncles — who had, in fact, been given a far sounder training than her grandfather, King George III — had ‘contributed more than any other circumstance to weaken the respect and influence of royalty in this country’. Both the Queen and Prince Albert were persuaded that this was so, and neither was impressed when Lord Melbourne advised them not to set too much store by education which might ‘mould and direct the character’ but rarely altered it. They preferred to believe that discipline must continue to be harsh and that the syllabus must remain exacting so that the grand object of the Prince of Wales’s education might be fulfilled. This object, declared the Bishop of Oxford, one of those numerous experts consulted by the parents, must be none other than to turn the Prince of Wales into ‘the most perfect man’.

  When the Prince was two years old the Queen had already made up her mind that before he was six at the latest he ‘ought to be given entirely over to the Tutors and taken entirely away from the women’. And early in 1848 a careful search began for a man who could be entrusted to take over from Lady Lyttelton the duties of creating a Prince ‘of calm, profound, comprehensive understanding, with a deep conviction of the indispensable necessity of practical morality to the welfare of the Sovereign and People’.

  The choice eventually fell upon Mr Henry Birch, a handsome, thirty-year-old master at Eton where he had formerly been captain of the school. Birch took up his duties, at a salary of £800 a year, in April 1849 and immediately began to regret that he had done so. He found his charge ‘extremely disobedient, impertinent to his masters and unwilling to submit to discipline’. It was ‘almost impossible to follow out any thoroughly systematic plan of management or thoroughly regular course of study’ because ‘the Prince of Wales was so different on different days’, sometimes cooperative but more often refusing to answer questions to which he knew the answers perfectly well. The Prince was also extremely selfish and unable even ‘to play at any game for five minutes, or attempt anything new or difficult without losing his temper’. When he did lose his temper his rage was uncontrollable; and after the fury had subsided he was left far too drained and exhausted to bring his mind to bear on his work. He could not bear to be teased or criticized; and though he flew into a tantrum or sulked whenever he was teased, Birch thought it best, ‘notwithstanding his sensitiveness, to laugh at him … and to treat him as boys would have treated him in an English public school’. His parents thought so, too; and they caused him anguish by mocking him when he had done something wrong or stupid. ‘Poor Prince,’ commented Lady Lyttelton one day when he was derided for asking, ‘Mama, is not a pink the female of a carnation?’ The Queen also considered it essential to put him sharply to silence when, as children will, he made up stories about himself. Charles Greville heard from Lord Melbourne’s sister-in-law, Lady Beauvais, that any ‘incipient propensity to that sort of romancing which distinguished his [great] uncle, George IV’, was instantaneously checked. ‘The child told Lady Beauvais that during their cruise he was very nearly thrown overboard, and was proceeding to tell her how, when the Queen overheard him, sent him off with a flea in his ear, and told her it was totally untrue.’

  Although he approved of such remonstrances, Mr Birch did not disguise his belief — a belief shared by Prince Albert’s friend, Lord Granville — that the policy of keeping the Prince so strictly isolated from other boys was one of the reasons for his tiresome behaviour. It was Birch’s ‘deliberate opinion’ that many of his pupil’s ‘peculiarities’ arose from the effects of this policy, ‘from his being continually in the society of older persons, and from his finding himself the centre round which everything seems to move’. Surely it would be better if pupil and tutor were not so constantly in each other’s company. Birch recorded:

  I have always found that boys’ characters at Eton were formed as much by contact with others as by the precepts of their tutors … [The Prince] has no standard by which to measure his own powers. His brother [Prince Alfred] is much too young and too yielding, and nothing that a tutor can say, or even a parent, has such influence as intercourse with sensible boys of the same age, or a little older, unconsciously teaching by example.

  When he did take some lessons with Prince Alfred there was ‘a marked improvement in his temper, disposition and behaviour’; he was ‘far less selfish, far less excitable, and in every way more amiable and teachable’.

  There were lessons to be learned every weekday, including Saturday. Holidays, except on family birthdays, were rare; and, when the Prince went away with his parents, the tutors went with them. In August 1849 he accompanied the Queen and Prince Albert on their visit to Ireland and was driven about the streets with them in his sailor suit; but as soon as he got back to Vice-Regal Lodge or aboard the royal yacht, Fairy, he had to settle down to his books again. When, two years later, he drove once more in his parents’ carriage — this time wearing full Highland dress — to the opening of the Great Exhibition,
he knew that the lessons were to begin again on his return to the Palace. And when, sometime after this, he went with his parents to Balmoral, he was quickly disabused of the hope that he was to have a short holiday. His tutor thought a little deer-stalking or some other outdoor activity ‘such as taking the heights of hills’ would not come amiss. But Prince Albert said that ‘it must not be supposed that [the visit to Balmoral] was to be taken as a holiday; that the Prince had had mistaken notions about this; but that henceforth work must be done diligently.’

  Arithmetic, geography and English the Prince studied with Mr Birch. Other tutors taught him German and French, handwriting, drawing — at which he showed some talent — music and religion. And each tutor was required to send regular reports on his pupil’s progress to Prince Albert.

  Prince Albert was rarely comforted by what he read, particularly when he was obliged to accept the fact that even at eight years old the Prince was still too backward to begin learning the catechism. It was some comfort that his German was quite good, that by the age of five he could read a German book without much difficulty and carry on a conversation in German without undue hesitation, though this ability seemed to interfere with his mastery of English: despite all the efforts of the actor, George Bartley, who was employed to give him elocution lessons, the Prince never altogether lost his slight German accent and to the end of his life there was a noticeably Germanic guttural burr in his pronunciation of the letter ‘r’. His French was not so good as his German, and it was not until later in life that he acquired the accent and vocabulary on which he was to pride himself.

  In his anxiety Prince Albert consulted the famous phrenologist, Sir George Combe, who, having examined the boy’s cranium, ‘pointed out the peculiarities of his temperament and brain’. Sir George subsequently reported:

  The feeble quality of the brain will render the Prince highly excitable, and as the excitement will be most strongly experienced in the largest organs, it follows that he will be liable to vehement fits of passion, opposition, self-will and obstinacy, not as voluntary acts, but as mere results of the physiological state of his brain, which he can no more avoid than he can prevent a ringing in his ears … The organs of ostentativeness, destructiveness, self-esteem, combativeness and love of approbation are all large. Intellectual organs are only moderately well developed. The result will be strong self-will, at times obstinacy … In the Prince self-esteem is so large that he will be unusually sensitive to everything that affects himself …

  ‘I wonder whence that Anglo-Saxon brain of his has come,’ Prince Albert commented on receiving Sir George Combe’s report. ‘It must have descended from the Stuarts, for the family has been purely German since their day.’ Sir George replied that he suspected that the Prince

  had inherited not only the quality of his brain but also its form from King George III [and he emphasized] all that this implied. It will be vain to treat the Prince as a normal child … rules and hours of study cannot be safely applied to him. Give him much and frequent repose; solicit but do not force him to learn; and when he falls into a fit of obstinacy, this should be viewed as an involuntary action of his organization, to be treated by kind consideration and soft moral remonstrances long and earnestly applied; and, if these fail, let him take his course and have out his fit of ill temper … From the size of his moral organs I should not fear his feigning inaptitude in order to escape from study. On the contrary I regard his as a true and loyal nature and anticipate that by a due training … he will regard falsehood in any form as utterly unworthy of himself.

  To bring out the best in the Prince, Sir George earnestly recommended the employment of a tutor ‘thoroughly acquainted with the physiology of the brain’. He had no doubt that a qualified person with the necessary ‘large organs of philoprogenitiveness, benevolence and conscientiousness’ could be found if diligently sought for. Indeed, he himself was prepared to help in the search and in the training of the person selected.

  Prince Albert was not convinced, however, by these arguments and Sir George was left pondering upon ‘the manifold evils which the shallow, ignorant and flippant opponents of Phrenology have been the means of inflicting on their country by dissuading and deterring the generation which has been born and grown up to maturity since it was presented to the British public in 1815 from studying it’.

  Yet although Prince Albert declined to employ a tutor of the kind suggested by Sir George Combe, he was not entirely satisfied with Mr Birch, who, conscious of the disapproval, offered to resign at once if his employers ‘knew of anyone who would be more likely to succeed in the management of so young a child’. Relations between Birch and the parents were further strained by his wish to become ordained. The Queen, who had strongly disapproved of Lady Lyttelton’s High Church views, thought that Birch’s ‘Puseyism’ might well render him an unsuitable tutor once he had taken Holy Orders. She agreed to his remaining only on condition that he promise not to be ‘aggressive’ in his religion, that he attend Presbyterian services when the royal family were in Scotland, and that he not foreswear ‘innocent amusements’ such as dancing and shooting. Although assured that Birch was ‘plain straightforward Church of England’, Prince Albert could not agree to his retaining his appointment should he be ordained. It was settled, therefore, that he would not respond to his vocation for the time being. He continued as tutor until January 1852 when, having entered Holy Orders, he resigned.

  The Prince of Wales, who in the end had grown attached to Mr Birch, was very upset to see him go. ‘It has been a trouble and sorrow to the Prince of Wales who has done no end of touching things since he heard he was to lose him,’ wrote Lady Canning, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. ‘[The Prince] is such an affectionate dear little fellow; his notes and presents which Mr Birch used to find on his pillow were really too moving.’

  Birch, too, was sorry to have to say good-bye, for he had grown fond of the boy in return and had at last ‘found the key to his heart’. ‘The boy is influenced by me just as my Eton pupils used to be,’ Birch told Stockmar before his departure, ‘and in a way that I dared not expect, and I feel that I am very sincerely attached to him which for some time I could not feel.’

  ‘I saw numerous traits of a very amiable and affectionate disposition,’ Birch added later. ‘He always evinced a most forgiving disposition after I had occasion to complain of him to his parents, or to punish him. He has a very keen perception of right and wrong, a very good memory, very singular powers of observation.’ There was every reason to hope that he would eventually turn out a ‘good’ and, in Birch’s ‘humble opinion, a great man’.

  Birch’s successor was Frederick Waymouth Gibbs, a rather staid, unhumorous, unimaginative, fussy and opinionated barrister of twenty-nine who had been a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. His mother being insane and his father bankrupt, he had been brought up with the sons of his mother’s friend, Sir James Stephen, Professor of Modern History at Cambridge and grandfather of Virginia Woolf. He was to receive a salary of £1,000 ‘with any addition to that sum which Baron Stockmar [might] decide to be just and reasonable’.

  Gibbs soon learned that his task would not be an easy one. On his arrival the Queen summoned him for an interview at which, so he recorded in his diary,

  she spoke a good deal about the Princes and bade me notice two peculiarities in the Prince of Wales. First, at times he hangs his head and looks at his feet, and invariably within a day or two has one of his fits of nervous and unmanageable temper. Secondly, riding hard, or after he has become fatigued, has been invariably followed by outburst of temper.

  He had been ‘injured by being with the Princess Royal who was very clever and a child far above her age,’ the Queen continued. ‘She puts him down by a look — or a word — and their natural affection [has been] impaired by this state of things.’

  The new tutor’s early contacts with the Prince himself, however, were pleasant enough. The day after his predecessor’s departure he went for a w
alk with both the Prince of Wales and Prince Alfred, and the elder boy, now ten years of age, politely apologized for their silence. ‘You cannot wonder if we are somewhat dull today,’ he said. ‘We are sorry Mr Birch has gone. It is very natural, is it not?’ Mr Gibbs could not deny that it was, indeed, very natural. ‘The Prince is conscious of owing a great deal to Mr Birch,’ he commented, ‘and he really loves and respects him.’ Gibbs no doubt expected in his self-satisfied way that in time the Prince would develop the same kind of affection and respect for himself. But the Prince never did. On the contrary, he grew to detest him, and was soon as unruly and unpredictable as he had ever been in the worst days of Mr Birch. In outbursts of uncontrolled fury he took up everything at hand and threw it ‘with the greatest violence against the wall or window, without thinking the least of the consequence of what he [was] doing; or he [stood] in the corner stamping with his legs and screaming in the most dreadful manner’.

  Gibbs discussed his unmanageable pupil with Baron Stockmar, who gloomily agreed that he was ‘a very difficult case’ and required ‘the exercise of intellectual labour and thought’. ‘You must do anything you think right,’ Stockmar said, ‘and you will be supported.’

  But Gibbs could do nothing to make his charge more tractable. And his diary entries reveal their shared frustration.

  The P. of W. still in an excited state. In the morning it was difficult to fix his attention … In the afternoon he quarrelled with Prince Alfred … Began better — we finished the sums left unfinished yesterday — but walking, he was excited and disobedient — trying to make Prince Alfred disobedient also — going where I wished not to go … and breaking and plucking the trees in the copse. I played with them but it only partially succeeded. On the Terrace he quarrelled with, and struck, P. Alfred, and I had to hasten home … P. of W. very angry with P. Alfred, and pulled his hair, brandishing a paper-knife … A very bad day. The P. of W. has been like a person half silly. I could not gain his attention. He was very rude, particularly in the afternoon, throwing stones in my face … Afterwards I had to do some arithmetic with the P. of W. Immediately he became passionate, the pencil was flung to the end of the room, the stool was kicked away, and he was hardly able to apply at all. That night he woke twice. Next day he became very passionate because I told him he must not take out a walking stick … Later in the day he became violently angry because I wanted some Latin done. He flung things about — made grimaces — called me names, and would not do anything for a long time … During his lesson in the morning he was running first in one place, then in another. He made faces, and spat. Dr Becker complained of his great naughtiness. There was a great deal of bad words.