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10: The End
<< 9: Old Age || Bibliography and List of References Arranged Alphabetically
The evening had been golden; but, after all, the day was to close in cloud and tempest.
Imperial needs, imperial ambitions, involved the country in the South African War. There
were checks, reverses, bloody disasters; for a moment the nation was shaken, and the
public distresses were felt with intimate solicitude by the Queen. But her spirit was
high, and neither her courage nor her confidence wavered for a moment. Throwing her self
heart and soul into the struggle, she laboured with redoubled vigour, interested herself
in every detail of the hostilities, and sought by every means in her power to render
service to the national cause. In April 1900, when she was in her eighty-first year, she
made the extraordinary decision to abandon her annual visit to the South of France, and to
go instead to Ireland, which had provided a particularly large number of recruits to the
armies in the field. She stayed for three weeks in Dublin, driving through the streets, in
spite of the warnings of her advisers, without an armed escort; and the visit was a
complete success. But, in the course of it, she began, for the first time, to show signs
of the fatigue of age.
For the long strain and the unceasing anxiety, brought by the war, made
themselves felt at last. Endowed by nature with a robust constitution, Victoria, though in
periods of depression she had sometimes supposed herself an invalid, had in reality
throughout her life enjoyed remarkably good health. In her old age, she had suffered from
a rheumatic stiffness of the joints, which had necessitated the use of a stick, and,
eventually, a wheeled chair; but no other ailments attacked her, until, in 1898, her
eyesight began to be affected by incipient cataract. After that, she found reading more
and more difficult, though she could still sign her name, and even, with some difficulty,
write letters. In the summer of 1900, however, more serious symptoms appeared. Her memory,
in whose strength and precision she had so long prided herself, now sometimes deserted
her; there was a tendency towards aphasia; and, while no specific disease declared itself,
by the autumn there were unmistakable signs of a general physical decay. Yet, even in
these last months, the strain of iron held firm. The daily work continued; nay, it
actually increased; for the Queen, with an astonishing pertinacity, insisted upon
communicating personally with an ever-growing multitude of men and women who had suffered
through the war.
By the end of the year the last remains of her ebbing strength had
almost deserted her; and through the early days of the opening century it was clear that
her dwindling forces were only kept together by an effort of will. On January 14, she had
at Osborne an hour's interview with Lord Roberts, who had returned victorious from South
Africa a few days before. She inquired with acute anxiety into all the details of the war;
she appeared to sustain the exertion successfully; but, when the audience was over, there
was a collapse. On the following day her medical attendants recognised that her state was
hopeless; and yet, for two days more, the indomitable spirit fought on; for two days more
she discharged the duties of a Queen of England. But after that there was an end of
working; and then, and not till then, did the last optimism of those about her break down.
The brain was failing, and life was gently slipping away. Her family gathered round her;
for a little more she lingered, speechless and apparently insensible; and, on January 22,
1901, she died.
When, two days previously, the news of the approaching end had been
made public, astonished grief had swept over the country. It appeared as if some monstrous
reversal of the course of nature was about to take place. The vast majority of her
subjects had never known a time when Queen Victoria had not been reigning over them. She
had become an indissoluble part of their whole scheme of things, and that they were about
to lose her appeared a scarcely possible thought. She herself, as she lay blind and
silent, seemed to those who watched her to be divested of all thinking—to have glided
already, unawares, into oblivion. Yet, perhaps, in the secret chambers of consciousness,
she had her thoughts, too. Perhaps her fading mind called up once more the shadows of the
past to float before it, and retraced, for the last time, the vanished visions of that
long history—passing back and back, through the cloud of years, to older and ever
older memories—to the spring woods at Osborne, so full of primroses for Lord
Beaconsfield—to Lord Palmerston's queer clothes and high demeanour, and Albert's face
under the green lamp, and Albert's first stag at Balmoral, and Albert in his blue and
silver uniform, and the Baron coming in through a doorway, and Lord M. dreaming at Windsor
with the rooks cawing in the elm-trees, and the Archbishop of Canterbury on his knees in
the dawn, and the old King's turkey-cock ejaculations, and Uncle Leopold's soft voice at
Claremont, and Lehzen with the globes, and her mother's feathers sweeping down towards
her, and a great old repeater-watch of her father's in its tortoise-shell case, and a
yellow rug, and some friendly flounces of sprigged muslin, and the trees and the grass at
Kensington.
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