The Letters of Queen Victoria/Volume 2/Chapter 13/To King of Belgians 6 February 1844
Queen Victoria to the King of the Belgians.
My dearly beloved Uncle,—You must now be the father to us poor bereaved, heart-broken children.[1] To describe to you all that we have suffered, all that we do suffer, would be difficult; God has heavily afflicted us; we feel crushed, overwhelmed, bowed down by the loss of one who was so deservedly loved, I may say adored, by his children and family; I loved him and looked on him as my own father; his like we shall not see again; that youth, that amiability, and kindness in his own house which was the centre and rendezvous for the whole family, will never be seen again, and my poor Angel’s fondest thought of beholding that dearly beloved Vaterhaus—where his thoughts continually were—again is for ever gone and his poor heart bleeds to feel this is for ever gone. Our promised visit, our dearest Papa’s, and our fondest wish, all is put an end to. The violence of our grief may be over, but the desolate feeling which succeeds it is worse, and tears are a relief. I have never known real grief till now, and it has made a lasting impression on me. A father is such a near relation, you are a piece of him in fact,—and all (as my poor deeply afflicted Angel says) the earliest pleasures of your life were given you by a dear father; that can never be replaced though time may soften the pang. And indeed one loves to cling to one’s grief; I can understand Louise’s feeling in her overwhelming sorrows.
Let me now join my humble entreaties to Albert’s, relative to the request about dearest Louise, which he has made. It is a sacrifice I ask, but if you knew the sacrifice I make in letting and urging Albert to go, I am sure, if you can you will grant it. I have never been separated from him even for one night, and the thought of such a separation is quite dreadful; still, I feel I could bear it,—I have made up my mind to it, as the very thought of going has been a comfort to my poor Angel, and will be of such use at Coburg. Still, if I were to remain quite alone I do not think I could bear it quietly. Therefore pray do send me my dearly beloved Louise; she would be such a comfort to me; if you could come too—or afterwards (as you promised us a longer visit), that would be still more delightful. I may be indiscreet, but you must think of what the separation from my all and all, even only for a fortnight, will be to me!
We feel some years older since these days of mourning. Mamma is calm, but poor Aunt Julia[2] is indeed much to be pitied. Ever, dearest Uncle, your devoted and unhappy Niece and Child, Victoria R.