The Value of Blood Ties
On February 10, 1876—Waldemar's eighth birthday—his maternal grandmother, Queen Victoria, sent a splendid gift.
"Indian government bonds at four percent interest?"
He knew better than anyone what they were.
In substance, they were no different from the East India Company shares that had vanished into history.
The face value was no trifle, either.
A full five thousand pounds—roughly a hundred thousand marks.
Even among royalty, it was almost unheard of to hand a young child such a sum.
Waldemar was grateful for his grandmother's kindness, yet he could not help wondering why this sudden fortune had dropped into his lap.
"Why would Grandmother give me so much money?"
When Waldemar carefully inquired, the Crown Princess smiled.
"Grandmother has been watching everything you have done, and this is her reward."
Queen Victoria, she explained, had been deeply moved to learn that Waldemar had invested in developing medicines for the sake of his late brother.
So that was it.
Waldemar understood.
To a queen who had lost her husband, Prince Albert, to typhoid, a grandson's resolve to remember his departed kin and spare others that same suffering could only seem endearing beyond measure.
Set beside sons and other grandsons who chased luxury and parties, how thoroughly this particular grandson must have pleased her needed no saying.
Waldemar was startled by the unexpected reward—but he decided to forgo the money for a greater gain.
"Mother. I would like the money Grandmother gave me to go toward medical research as well. I hope she never has to lose anyone close to her again, the way she lost Grandfather Albert."
Most of the adults present looked moved.
Like a dutiful grandson, Waldemar bowed to the guests from the British royal family.
"Please tell Grandmother I am sorry for disposing of her hard-won gift as I please."
"Not at all, Your Highness. Her Majesty will be delighted by your decision."
Waldemar was satisfied with the Englishman's reply.
It was not that a hundred thousand marks meant nothing to him—but neither would he perish without them.
He already received more than a hundred thousand marks a year in dividends from Standard Oil, and there would be profits coming in from Bayer as well.
What Waldemar truly needed was not a hundred thousand marks. It was the Queen's affection.
The more the Queen loved and cherished him, the freer he would be to make money.
After all, if the most beloved grandson of the queen of the world's greatest power wished to earn a little money, who would dare stand in his way?
Waldemar resolved then and there to take greater care with Queen Victoria's birthday as well.
I should start thinking about it now.
He considered a gift that would satisfy the Queen's professed moral austerity while still suiting her station.
Something steeped too heavily in moral severity—the Queen herself would not truly enjoy that, deep down.
One need only look at Queen Victoria's diaries, revealed in later ages, to know how rich her emotions truly were.
After some thought, Waldemar hit upon a clever idea.
The elderly live on nostalgia in the end. If it's a beautiful memory Queen Victoria can revisit without pain, it would have to be from her maiden days, wouldn't it?
Waldemar borrowed some money from his mother, using Standard Oil stock as collateral.
With that sum he hired the German realist painter Adolph von Menzel to prepare a gift for his "grandmother"—a portrait of the young Queen Victoria rendered in the likeness of Britannia, the personification of Britain.
This is what they call the deification of great figures in the twenty-first century, Grandmother.
The Queen herself had aged, yet the painting he brought was of a beautiful young girl.
That curious contrast would strike his grandmother as something fresh, Waldemar thought.
And gifts for his paternal grandfather and grandmother? Did he not care about those?
Well. They rarely gave anything, and showed little affection either—so not particularly.
More importantly, the grandfather and his wife had treated his parents far too coldly.
They would not even cover the expenses required for royal duties, forcing the Crown Princess to dip into her own dowry for necessary costs.
Waldemar, who enjoyed Victoria's particular favor, harbored considerable resentment over the unfair treatment his parents received.
So on March 22, Wilhelm I's birthday, Waldemar offered only a perfunctory gift.
Billy will present something that delights him anyway.
When Waldemar behaved too formally, Victoria the Crown Princess remarked casually on the way back to the Crown Prince's palace.
"My dear Baldi. Do you dislike your grandfather?"
"Yes."
"Why would Baldi dislike the grandfather who lets him live in the palace?"
"Because he makes Mother suffer."
Hearing that, Victoria said nothing and simply gathered Waldemar's head into her arms.
Mother and son leaned against each other in the returning carriage and kept their silence.
A common enemy strengthens an alliance.
Isolated and melancholy amid the conservative atmosphere of the Prussian court, Victoria the Crown Princess believed that of all her many children, only Waldemar truly understood her.
She shared those feelings with her younger brother, the future Edward VII, and her mother Queen Victoria, declaring that Waldemar was the true blessing of this marriage.
Letters from the Royal Princess Victoria—so favored by the British court—further elevated Waldemar's standing among his maternal relatives.
"Baldi, it has been so long since I last wrote to send my regards."
Waldemar was honored to receive handwritten letters regularly from a grandmother and uncle with whom he had barely corresponded before.
About three times a month, as a rule—treatment the other German grandchildren never enjoyed.
To Waldemar it was a baffling change.
Was throwing five thousand pounds into medicine really that moving?
He was bewildered, but considered it a welcome development.
On May 24, 1876, Queen Victoria's birthday, Waldemar went to Osborne House, where she resided, bearing the masterpiece he had prepared.
Relatives of the Queen from all over Europe presented gifts to Europe's grandmother.
They were all royalty or nobility, yet the gifts they offered were flowers, music, and cards inscribed with verse.
It was an atmosphere entirely different from what Waldemar had vaguely imagined.
Europe's royals offered their grandmother simple tokens, but ones laden with meaning.
Seeing this, Waldemar felt a flicker of anxiety that he might have prepared the wrong gift.
"Baldi, I hear you prepared a gift for Grandmother?"
His cousin George said with a smile.
Waldemar floundered for a moment, then squeezed his eyes shut and had a servant bring the object.
Presently a large portrait was delivered before the Queen.
"My dear Baldi, my child. What is this?"
"That is something Grandmother must see for herself."
At Waldemar's answer, Queen Victoria unwrapped it with a curious expression.
The other guests gathered around, equally intrigued.
And the moment the wrapping came off—
"Oh?"
Everyone wore puzzled looks.
"Baldi, is this really Grandmother before she was married?"
Prince George, the heir, asked for an explanation.
"Of course it's Grandmother. Who else did you think I had painted?"
"But our grandmother is—"
George started to speak, then closed his mouth.
There were things one simply did not say aloud, however logically true.
Queen Victoria gazed at the portrait for a long while, then smiled.
"You have painted me so beautifully. Thank you, Baldi. Thanks to you, a happy memory has come back to me."
The Queen's response created an atmosphere in which everyone could laugh at ease.
"But Baldi, haven't you idealized Grandmother a bit too much?"
"Idealized? This was painted with reference to Mother, who resembles Grandmother most of all."
"Nonsense. Vicky was never that pretty."
Uncle Edward's tactless remark prompted the relatives to chime in one after another.
"Baldi, flattering Grandmother and your mother is all very well, but a royal ought to keep some pride."
Waldemar could only clear his throat.
Even an oiled tongue had nowhere to turn before so perfectly reasonable a criticism.
Then Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, changed the subject.
"Baldi, if you have the address of the painter who did this, give it to me."
"Uncle, you're already married—do you still need beautifying portraits?"
When Waldemar asked, Alfred replied with a laugh.
"Of course I do. There are piles of aunts who still need to marry into our house, you know."
Is this man mad?
Waldemar quickly lowered his voice.
"If the aunts heard that, I don't think they'd let you off lightly."
"It's fine. Your aunts are all gentle souls."
Waldemar exchanged jokes with his relatives and spent a more comfortable time than he had expected.
Come to think of it, these were relatives he was so close with—and yet they would one day turn guns on one another. The irony was almost unbearable.
That must be what national interest means.
Neither royal friendship nor blood ties could withstand that cold logic.
From the moment German capitalism rose and began seizing British markets and jobs, confrontation between the two nations had become an inescapable fate.
Waldemar felt a little worse for having glimpsed that unavoidable destiny.
"Our little Baldi!"
"Yes, Aunt."
"Don't scowl like that—go dance with your cousins. Who knows? One of those girls over there might be your bride."
Waldemar did not agree.
"None of them is quite the face I like."
"Is that so?"
Princess Beatrice looked amused.
"Then what does our Baldi's ideal woman look like?"
His type?
If he had to choose a bride among the English, wouldn't it be Hermione from Harry Potter?
"She'd probably have to be a girl who can fly around on a broomstick."
At Waldemar's explanation, Princess Beatrice laughed for a long time.
"A clever little fellow who manages a great fortune in America, and yet his dreams are just like any other sniveling child his age."
"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Nothing wrong at all. But marrying a witch—wouldn't that be a mésalliance?"
"Well, I'm not going to inherit a throne anyway."
"That's true enough."
Chatting with his cheerful aunt, Waldemar shook off the gloomy feeling.
Whatever was coming, he would worry about it in the future.
Waldemar let himself sink back into the pleasant atmosphere.