When the case was heard at the Old Bailey on October 25, 1879, Adolphus Rosenberg found himself up against the Langtrys’ high-powered legal team, while the trial judge was the notoriously vindictive Mr. Justice Hawkins, who had a reputation as a “hanging judge.” In another shocking development, the Earl of Londesborough, who had also taken out a libel action against Rosenberg, was in court that day, permitted to sit on the bench alongside the judge. The Town Talk libel case had become a cause célèbre and the court was packed, with an overflowing public gallery and a regiment of newspaper reporters.12
The Langtrys’ team was led by John Humffreys Parry, who held the ancient legal rank of “Sergeant at Law,” and had defended Whistler in his suit against John Ruskin.13 Rosenberg’s own counsel consisted of a Mr. Willis, QC, and his junior, Mr. Grain. Rosenberg’s printers, William Head and Henry Mark, were also charged with libel. They were defended by Mr. Horace Avory, later to become another merciless “hanging judge.” Rosenberg’s defense consisted of claiming that he had been misled by a source whom he wanted to name but was forbidden to. His counsel was reduced to pleading in mitigation that Rosenberg was a hardworking man of good character, who had a wife and family to support at his home in Brixton Hill. But this approach proved futile.
Members of the public who had hoped to see Lillie put in the witness box were disappointed. Lillie was not required to appear in court, and unusual as it was for Lillie to shun the limelight, she made the right decision by staying away. While she might have played a blinder in the witness box by appearing compellingly innocent, a thorough cross-examination by Rosenberg’s counsel could have presented her in an unflattering manner. But Ned was there, unusually spruce and sober. When asked if there was any truth in the rumor that he was planning divorce, Ned replied, “not a single word.”14
Was there any truth in the rumor that Langtry had been offered a diplomatic assignment?
“Not a word,” replied Ned.
“I am very glad to hear that,” replied Avory, somewhat ambiguously.
Ned had never, he said, filed for divorce, and was still living “on terms of affection with my wife at Norfolk Street.”15
Rosenberg’s counsel took a different approach. Mr. and Mrs. Langtry might have been “content to rely upon their own consciousness of perfect purity and upon the domestic happiness which they continued to enjoy,” began Mr. Willis. “Far be it from me to suppose that the Prince of Wales could for a moment depart from that morality which it is his duty to exhibit.… But have not men in high stations fallen before now? Has a luxurious age not sometimes corrupted men placed in an exalted position? Is it the case that such a thing as this could not possibly happen? I leave out the Prince of Wales, but has no peer of the realm been before now co-respondent in the Divorce Court?”16
Summing up, Mr. Justice Hawkins declared that it was not for the jury to decide whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Langtry could have stood on their own reputation, without taking action against their libeler. The jury’s verdict was swift. Rosenberg was found guilty without the jury even retiring. He was sentenced to eighteen months in jail, with Mr. Justice Hawkins wistfully regretting that he lacked the power to sentence him to hard labor.17 Rosenberg had been made into a terrible example, one to discourage other journalists from lurid speculation. From this point on, every newspaper in the country was compelled to be circumspect in its references to Lillie Langtry.
Rosenberg was already in prison by the time that Town Talk published its final remarks on the case, in the form of a reference to the recent death of Sergeant Parry, who “did not long survive his exceptionally vindictive speech against Mr Rosenberg.… The amount of forensic ammunition which this portly advocate wasted on that occasion was noticed even by persons unfriendly to Mr Rosenberg. But I never forget the ancient aphorism, De mortuis nil nisi bonum, and instead of saying anything further of that cause célèbre, I simply inscribe on the late Sergeant’s tomb RIP.”18
The legal battle with Town Talk had been won, but Lillie’s future had become increasingly uncertain. Not only had her relationship with Bertie been damaged by the impact of the libel trial, but her marriage to Ned continued to deteriorate, mainly as a result of their appalling financial problems.
“By now our waning income had almost touched vanishing-point and … Mr Langtry also enjoyed the pastime of quiet squandering, so that, as time went on, we began to find ourselves unpleasantly dunned by long suffering tradesmen.…”19 When bailiffs appeared at the door, Lillie would gamely pass it off as a joke, while her maid, Dominique, resorted to cramming Lillie’s jewelry and trinkets into the pockets of anyone who came to visit. “In this way some very distinguished friends departed from the beleaguered house with their pockets full, all unconscious that they were evading the law.”20
In another cruel twist of fate, Lillie’s father, Dean Le Breton, had been forced to leave Jersey with his reputation in tatters after his philandering had become public knowledge. The sole consolation for Lillie’s mother was the fact that she could spend more time in London with Lillie. This moral support was doubtless welcome at the most difficult time of Lillie’s life.
One glimmer of hope had appeared in the form of Bertie’s nephew, Prince Louis of Battenberg, a handsome young naval officer. After being introduced by Bertie, Lillie and Louis had taken an instant liking to each other, and soon fell passionately in love. Bertie, who was losing interest in Lillie, tolerated Louis’s visits to Norfolk Street, while Lillie believed that Louis represented a better, more secure future. True, she would have to divorce Ned to marry Louis, and no divorced commoner had yet married into the British royal family, but ever-confident Lillie set her sights on marrying Louis. Their assignations were conducted with discretion, but the love affair was an open secret among their closest friends. On one occasion, during Cowes Week, Lillie and Prince Louis were invited aboard HMS Thunderer, commanded by admiral-in-waiting Charlie Beresford, one of Bertie’s court jesters.
“All the cabins being below the water line, it was necessary to supply them with oxygen artificially, through air-shafts,” Lillie recalled. “One afternoon, while Lord Charles’ small cabin was being inspected by royalty and others, his love of mischief caused him to switch off the supply of air and to watch the effect of his practical joke with great delight. Very soon our faces became scarlet, our breathing grew difficult, and we began to go through the uncomfortable sensation which must be experienced by a fish out of water. Fortunately, Lord Charles did not go beyond the frightening-limit, or the Beresford joke might have developed into a Beresford tragedy.”21
Alongside her relationship with Prince Louis, for which she had every hope of a positive outcome, Lillie was already busy reinventing herself. Since meeting Sarah Bernhardt, Lillie had begun to toy with the idea of a stage career. Lillie had seen how “the Divine Sarah” had entranced Bertie, and, as her power over him was slowly weakening, perhaps Lillie wanted to captivate him a similar way. Lillie had also come to realize that her notoriety, at first so painful, had its own consolations. Thousands would pay to see her beauty, framed by a proscenium arch, for themselves. Lillie describes the process as a dawning awareness that her future lay elsewhere:
Finally, one night, at a ball given by the Duchess of Westminster at Grosvenor House, I remembered feeling that I must forthwith cut adrift from this life, which we could no longer afford to enjoy, and, prostrating myself in admiration before the wonderful portrait of Sarah Siddons, I recalled the fact that the artist had signed his name on the hem of her gown and had declared himself satisfied to go down to posterity that way. Then from the Siddons portrait I passed on to other great works of art, and became filled with the desire to become a “worker” too. Impulsive as I was in those days, I did not wait for my carriage, but, pushing my way through the throng of footmen clustering round the hall door, I walked, in spite of my white satin slippers, through the wet and muddy streets to my house, happily not far distant, eagerly considering how to remodel my life.22
This decision came not a moment too soon. At last, after the patience of the Langtrys’ creditors had been tested to the limit, the crisis arrived. The little Norfolk Street house was invaded by bailiffs, while Ned went off fishing and left Lillie to deal with the intruders as best she could.23 Lillie and her mother fled to Bournemouth, leaving “the carpet flag” hanging from the drawing-room window, the traditional method of indicating that the house had been repossessed. The contents of “the poor little red-faced house,” as Lillie referred to it in her memoirs, were auctioned off, with souvenir hunters snapping up every item of furniture, even the gilded fans that Lillie and Whistler had painted together in happier times. Lillie’s stuffed black bear, a little tea table with Lillie’s initials on it, and even her skates were all sold. The peacock, a gift from the Earl of Warwick, was rescued by Lady Lonsdale, who kept it for Lillie, but Lillie, believing the bird to be unlucky, sent it to Oscar Wilde following a tiff. Oscar’s friend Frank Miles, unable to believe that Lillie would have sent Oscar such a valuable item after a quarrel, assumed the peacock was meant for him, and took ownership of it. Perhaps the peacock was unlucky: Frank Miles immediately suffered a series of disasters, ranging from the sudden death of his father to arrest on pedophilia charges, before a descent into madness from which he never recovered.24
There was another reason for Lillie’s swift departure from Norfolk Street. One Sunday evening in early 1880, Lillie had been dining with Bertie and Princess Alexandra when she suddenly turned pale and almost fainted. Alix showed immediate concern and sent Lillie home, instructing Bertie’s own physician, Dr. Francis Laking, to examine her. The following afternoon, Alix arrived at Norfolk Street, full of concern. There could only be one topic of conversation between the two women: Dr. Laking had confirmed the fact that Lillie was pregnant. But, given the complexity of Lillie’s relationships, who was the father?
And it is here we must leave Lillie for the time being. Although Bertie would continue to support Lillie during her pregnancy, he could not afford to be seen with her in public. Besides which, Bertie was otherwise engaged, renewing his friendship with an old flame, Jennie Churchill.
Chapter Twelve
JENNIE AND RANDOLPH
More of the panther than of the woman in her look.
—SIR EDGAR VINCENT, VISCOUNT D’ABERNON
Banished to Ireland as a result of Randolph’s part in the Aylesford scandal, the Churchills had thrived in exile. Jennie remembered Ireland with fondness for the rest of her life, developing a real affection for the magnificent landscapes and friendly people. Jennie was also genuinely shocked at the dire poverty that persisted decades after the famines of 1846–47, and Randolph developed a sympathy for the Republican cause. And both Jennie and Randolph enjoyed the hunting, which became their ruling passion.1 Jennie would “beg, borrow or steal”2 any horse she could get her hands on, with little regard for her own safety. On one occasion, after her mare had sailed over an iron bedstead used as a gate, Jennie had to crawl out of the ditch she had fallen into, and was hoisted into the saddle by farm boys, screaming with laughter.3 Years later, Winston Churchill remembered his mother “in a riding habit fitted like a skin, and often beautifully spotted with mud; she and my father hunted continually on their large horses; and sometimes there were scares because one or the other did not come back for many hours after they were expected.”4 But, however wonderful the hunting was in Ireland, this was not the future that Jennie had envisaged. Ireland was even more remote than Blenheim Palace. When the Duke of Marlborough, Randolph’s father, retired as viceroy of Ireland in 1880, Randolph and Jennie came back to London and Jennie resumed her duties supporting Randolph’s political career. Returned to Parliament in 1880, Randolph positioned himself as a “radical Tory” scourge of the Tory frontbench and outspoken critic of the prime minister, Lord Salisbury. Clearly intent on becoming prime minister himself, Randolph set out to create a “Fourth Party,” a new form of “Tory Democracy” appealing to working-class men. He even campaigned in the radical citadel of Birmingham, a Liberal stronghold. With his charismatic personality, Randolph could work a crowd, cramming halls full of “boisterous working men”5 who were captivated by his oratory. A born actor, Randolph knew how to manipulate a scene in the always lively Commons debates. On one occasion, he even threw an offending pamphlet to the floor of the House and stamped on it.6 Randolph’s mood swings became the stuff of legend: he vacillated between euphoria and gloom, and could be viciously rude to those he considered his inferiors, particularly women. Despite increasingly ill health, which colleagues attributed to the burdens of office, Randolph continued to be a committed and ambitious MP. When the second Salisbury administration was formed after the general election of 1886, Randolph became chancellor of the exchequer and leader of the House of Commons, a role in which he was uncharacteristically tactful and discreet.
Spoken of as a rising star, widely tipped to be prime minister someday, Randolph Churchill “stalked elegantly through [the] London of the ’Eighties” although as “a febrile being without heart,”7 he had inherited the Marlborough disdain for affection. Jennie’s sister, Leonie, by now married to Sir John Leslie, an Irish baronet, noticed that Randolph would shoo away his little sons with his newspaper when they were brought down to say good morning to him. “The two pairs of round eyes, peeping around the screen, longed for a kind word.”8 This froideur extended to Jennie, who confided in her sisters that Randolph had ceased to visit her bed after 1881.9 Jennie suspected that Randolph had become involved with Lady de Grey, a society beauty, although she had no evidence of this. Puzzled and hurt by Randolph’s neglect, Jennie attempted to “keep her mortification to herself.”10 Jennie also embarked on a string of affairs; it was widely believed that her second son, John, was actually the son of Viscount Falmouth. As is so often the case with politician’s marriages, Randolph’s floundered as his career flourished. The Liberal MP Henry Labouchere noted that “though [Randolph] gets on pretty well with his wife when they are together he is always rather glad to be away from her,”11 while the writer Frank Harris witnessed this scene between the couple:
The door opened and Jennie walked in. Out of courtesy, Harris stood up as Jennie entered the room, but Randolph remained seated.
“Randolph!” said Jennie. Randolph did not reply and in spite of his ominous silence, she came across to him. “Randolph, I want to talk to you!”
“Don’t you see,” he retorted, “that I’ve come here to be undisturbed!”
“But I want you,” she repeated tactlessly.
He sprang to his feet. “Can’t I have a moment’s peace from you anywhere?” he barked. “Get out and leave me alone!”
At once she turned and walked out of the room.12
Frank Harris also knew something that Jennie did not: Randolph had been to visit several doctors, convinced that he had contracted syphilis. This had been one of the reasons for breaking off relations with Jennie, for fear that he infect her. The frequent visits to Paris, which had made Jennie so suspicious, may have been trips to see specialists in venereal disease. Before the discovery of antibiotics, the only treatment for syphilis was mercury and potassium iodide,13 a poisonous combination. Even if Randolph had not been syphilitic, and his symptoms were due to a brain tumor, the side effects of the treatment would have been the explanation for his mood swings, nervous irritability, tremors, lethargy, and cognitive impairment. There was something else Jennie did not know: Randolph spent time with a secret homosexual coterie known as the Uranians, a group that included Lord Rosebery, John Addington Symonds, and Lord Drumlanrig, elder brother of Oscar Wilde’s lover “Bosie” Douglas.14 If Randolph had been homosexual this would have added to his stress. As well as the demands of a political career and a failing marriage, he would have had to endure the constant fear of blackmail and exposure.
As Randolph spent increasingly more time at his club, the Carlton, and traveling abroad with male friends, Jennie could at least distract herself with the world o
f the “Court and Social,” as The Times of London described it. In November 1885, Jennie was invited to Windsor, where the queen wished to confer the Order of the Crown of India upon her. Jennie wore a black velvet dress, so thickly embroidered with jet beads that “the pin could find no hold and, unwittingly, the Queen stuck it straight into me.”15 Jennie met the queen once again the following spring. On March 6, 1886, Jennie was presented to her in a variation of the debutante ceremony. As a married woman, Jennie was permitted to appear in a colored gown, and wore a magnificent golden dress made by Monsieur Worth to Jennie’s own design. “Diamonds flashed in her ears, on her throat and arms and her dress glistened like a glass of golden wine held to the sunlight”16 gushed one besotted journalist.
Jennie also had the consolation of her close friendship with Bertie, which she had renewed over the past two years. Following Randolph’s political success, Jennie had persuaded Bertie to forgive and forget, and Bertie had joined the couple for dinner in 1884. A more formal reconciliation took place in May 1886, when Bertie joined the prime minister, Mr. Gladstone, and his wife as guests of the Churchills at Connaught Place. It could have been an awkward evening, particularly when the electricity generator broke down and the house was plunged into a blackout,17 but Jennie handled it perfectly. Since then, their friendship had blossomed. Jennie and Randolph were invited to dine at Windsor Castle, where Queen Victoria noted that “Lady Randolph (an American) is very handsome and very dark.”18 The couple were also invited to stay at Sandringham, the royal family’s country house in Norfolk, the details of which Jennie noted like an anthropologist writing about a strange tribe, from the enormous meals, including a long leisurely breakfast,19 a picnic lunch in a tent for the shooting party, and a huge afternoon tea, to the horrors of the actual shoot itself. Although a keen foxhunter, Jennie loathed shooting, particularly when indulged in by women. “Crash, Bang! And the glorious creature became a maimed and tortured thing … if these things must be done, how can a woman bring herself to do them?”20 Jennie did at least have the opportunity to demonstrate her musical skills, playing duets with Princess Alexandra, who was particularly fond of Brahms’s Hungarian Dances, or struggling with a Schumann piano concerto in Princess Victoria’s sitting room. “The pace set was terrific, and I was rather glad there was no audience.”21
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