Exit Lady Masham

by Louis Auchincloss

  “Oh, I should be only too happy!”

  Mr. Harley fascinated me. Physically, I admit, he was not prepossessing. He was soft, pale and dumpy, with a round fat face, small, keen, blinking black eyes and a gleaming bald dome that I used to see in his soirées when he relaxed, wigless, smoking a long clay pipe. But he was invariably intelligent and quick-witted, and, unlike his friends, unlike most of the wits of the day, always humane. He would fan the air in mock dismay at the gibes and cuts of others; he would invoke the deity and roll his eyes to the ceiling at their “heathen Godlessness,” as he liked to call it; but the person who had the last word was apt to be he.

  Nor was all his conversation for his salon. He would draw me aside, as our friendship deepened, to show that he took a royalty sheds dignity over the most menial tasks. At Versailles, I have been told, a duke is not ashamed to bring a prince his chamber pot. Princess Anne was dressed, and her face and hands washed, by ladies of title. I saw her frequently, for I had regular duties to her wardrobe, but I never approached her person. She struck me as a solid, stolid, rather sullen-looking woman of middle age, very intent on the minutiae of her hourly existence, who never seemed to look beyond her immediate presence at the great world about her. Yet she had beautiful sad eyes that seemed to view her servants and courtiers with a faint apprehension, perhaps even a faint distrust.

  It was enough for me to know that this woman had lost seventeen babies for my heart to forgive her any distaste that she may have manifested for the obsequious humanity that pressed so closely about her. Her husband, Prince George, would have been almost an attractive man had he been more lively and less stout. Unlike his wife, he was cordial to all, but one received the impression that he did not distinguish between the people at whom he grinned. He looked very much what he was reputed to be: a prince of small mind and kind heart who sought only to keep out of the way. His sole function had been to supply an heir to the throne, and he had been made painfully aware that he had failed, though presumably through no fault of his own.

  The Princess and her late sister, Queen Mary, had quarreled bitterly over the former’s stubborn refusal to dismiss Lady Marlborough, whom Queen Mary had hated, and this quarrel had led to a great reduction in the honors and perquisites of the Denmarks, and even to the withdrawal of their guards, but after Mary’s death it had not been feasible for King William, sickly himself, to treat the heir apparent so contemptibly, and there had been some revival of their splendor. When the great day came, and Princess Anne found hermocking, at times savage, and Harley, raising his fat fists in gestures of denial and gasping with dismay—was like watching a sparring dialogue in a Congreve comedy. But a sharper mind than mine might have pierced to the deeper division under the surface one and predicted an ultimate falling-out in this too-political friendship.

  What fascinated (even if it at times appalled) me about the discussion in that narrow curving chamber, with its Dutch landscapes and the beautifully bound folios of Harley’s collection that he had to have always strewn about even a temporary habitat, was their extreme freedom. Most of this atmosphere could be attributed to St. John, who seemed to glory in his lack of loyalties, but Harley, for all his asides to the Almighty (“May the good Lord forgive me!”) and his playful deprecation of his “outrageous” disciple, nonetheless managed to convey an abundance of skepticism about the first principles of our church and constitution. I had never in my life, unless at my father’s, when I was too young to recall, been the member of a group where the members contributed their thoughts and laughter to a common pool of truth, seeking it without regard for the rank, wealth, convictions 01 prejudices of the participants.

  Strangest of all to me was the openness with which they discussed the progress of the war and the capacity of out military leaders. The great victory of Blenheim was then only a few months old, and the Duke of Marlborough was now the hero of Europe. Yet if my ears were correctly attuned, I heard St. John and Harley exchange anecdotes in which the Duke was said to be in correspondence not only with his nephew; the Duke of Berwick, a general in the French army, but with the Pretender himself! Nor did they hesitate to make mock of the Duke’s greed.

  St. John one night told this story about Marlborough’s leaving White’s Club after a gentlemen’s dinner:

  “His Grace claps his pockets and cries out that he has forgotten his purse! Will anyone be good enough to advance him the price of a chair? A dozen hands extend him coins; deprecatingly, he picks out the smallest. As soon as he goes we rush to the window and watch him passing up a line of waiting chairmen to take his pedestrian way home!”

  A gentleman was then about to tell a story about the Duchess, when Harley raised a warning hand:

  “None of that, my friend! We have Her Grace’s kinswoman with us. I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

  “Oh, no, please, Mr. Harley!” I heard myself protest. “If I am to be a drag on the party, I’ll take myself away.”

  And so, in a matter of weeks, I allowed myself to be put in a position where any spy of the Marlborough faction could have destroyed me with the Duchess. But I was having too good a time. I realized, more or less, that Mr. Harley, who had entirely neglected me in the days of my poverty, was noticing me now only because of my rumored intimacy with the Queen. But I had seen enough of court life at this point to suppose that this meant only that Mr. Harley was like any other courtier. What did I expect? To be loved for my red nose? I could consider myself fortunate that I had something that I could trade in return for membership in so charmed a circle.

  One night, when Harley himself walked me back to my apartment, I felt compelled at the door to make him a confession.

  “You’ve been very kind to me, sir, and I appreciate it deeply. I only regret there’s nothing I can offer you in return.”

  His small eyes glittered with what, in the candlelight, I took to be amusement. “Do you imply that I expected something?”

  “Well, in court isn’t that usually the way?”

  “Ah, I see! You thought that your wicked old cousin expected you to present some wily scheme for his advancement to Her Majesty? ‘Make Harley a marquis, ma’am! Make him a duke!’”

  “No, it was not that, sir. I assumed it would be something in the national interest. That is why I want you to know that the Queen never discusses anything of that sort with me. I am a kind of audience; that is all. She sometimes tells me stories while I rub her back.”

  Harley’s laugh was so loud that I feared it would rouse the guards. “History is made up of less than that, my lass! But don’t worry. Cousin Harley will ask you for nothing. You are welcome to my little evenings for yourself and yourself alone, my dear. If I ever come to you for a favor, it will be only that you tell Her Majesty that her faithful Secretary of State, who places her welfare far above his own, is waiting patiently in the corridor for the privilege of a few words!”

  I went to bed, that night, happy and reassured. Little did I realize how vast was the privilege that my kinsman had just asked and that I had just granted. I had yet to learn that access to the person of Anne Stuart was the one true avenue to power. Needless to say, this was a lesson that Mr. Harley had long since conned.

  5

  I was happy now with my life at court. I loved the long quiet hours with the Queen that my impatient cousin had found so stiflingly boring. I found my mistress sound, even shrewd, and at times keenly amusing. She could not be hurried, and she did not like to be argued with, but I should never have had the temerity or presumption to attempt either. After all, I was comfortably housed and excellently fed, and, with my memories of a bleak past, enlivened only by the tantrums and tempers of the Churchill clan, I sought no better future. If I could only spend the rest of my days in this quiet service I asked no more, except, perhaps, to use my scrap of influence to help my brother Jack in his military career. The innocuous diversion, which only an idiot would not have savored, of living close to the center of power was all the entert
ainment I required.

  It was inevitable that people should have accused me of meddling in politics and of seeking to influence the royal will. Certainly my cousin Sarah has openly indicted me with this often enough. But the curious fact—and one that she would never believe—is that I never did so until after her influence was entirely dead—exterminated by her own folly and passion. And my involvement then was only at the instigation of others, never on my own initiative. Left to myself I should not have attempted to convince the Queen of anything but that red wine and heavy meals were bad for her gout.

  Yes, it is true; in those first years at court my ambition was entirely sated with the spectacle of rule. I had no wish to be aught than an observer. It gave me a pleasurable excitement to consider that, whereas the eyes of the world might turn to the glittering Captain-General in Flanders or to the great Whig lords at home or to the imperious Sarah roaming the empty corridors of her vast new palace at Woodstock to supervise and excoriate the builders, I, quiet little Abigail, known to the court as “Mrs. Still,” was closer than any of them, as I rubbed the royal fingers with a hot rag, to the ineluctable force that controlled them all.

  But what about marriage? Did I not want what every woman was supposed to want: a home, children, my own establishment? The answer is that I had thought of these things, yes, in my days of penury, but only as fantasies never to come true. I had neither a dowry nor the beauty to induce a gentleman to waive one, and I had too much pride to marry into a class where dowries were not required. The few men, mostly older, who had professed an interest in my person had made as little secret of their base intentions as I had of my scornful rejection of their advances. And now I had arrived at the age of seven and twenty, when a woman may be deemed to have resigned herself to the single life. The reader may not believe it when I say that there had never once been a mutual attraction between myself and a man, but it is true. Love for me had been only daydreams. I have already spoken of my sentiment for Lord Marlborough; it was as close to a “love affair” as I had ever come.

  And so I proved an easy prey for Samuel Masham. It seemed to me a simple miracle that this handsome beau should feel, or even pretend to feel, an amorous inclination for red-nosed Abigail. All the fellow had to do was push, and down I went! He did not even have to convince me that his professed passion was genuine; he merely had to state it. He may even have winked as he did so; I was a disgrace to my sex.

  I wish I could say in my own defense that I had been deceived. The sorry thing is that I saw him from the beginning as he was. The person who seduced me was myself.

  But let me describe him. Although he was already showing signs of the fleshiness that has since overtaken him, he was still a fine physical specimen, thick-shouldered, stocky and well-coordinated. He had strong, regular features in a square, blunt face, but his eyes, large and gray-blue, had appeal and humor and even a hint of sensitivity. What attracted me most was my sense of the strong animal behind the mocking mincingness of his affectations. We were in an era famous for the exaggerated airs of its beaux. They liked to strut and saunter, showing off their fine muscles and limbs. It was their mode to underscore their masculine appeal by stressing its very opposite: by the elaborate ritual of raising snuff to the nostrils, or of contorting their features into theatrical expressions of woe and disgust, or of giggling like silly girls. Ours was a society in which it was considered a fine thing, in a duel of rapiers, to kill an opponent without drawing a bead of sweat.

  I saw that Masham was trying his hardest to be this type, and this is not hindsight. I knew, after all, a good deal about him. He was a groom of Prince George and a captain who had never seen field service. He was the heir of a baronet with a small estate, which was no great thing in court. But he was personable, merry, up-to-date in his gossip and very determined to make a good impression. I see him now, as he first appeared to me, in yellow satin knee breeches with a skirted scarlet coat wired to make its ends flare away from his thighs, a ruffled lace shirt and high red heels. His hat was of black felt with a gold band, and his sword hilt was studded with aquamarines. He carried a muff, from which he occasionally extracted a perfume bottle, and he wore a full-bottomed wig with curls to cover what I later discovered was a fine crop of curly blond hair. Oh, yes, I took in every detail!

  At Windsor, where members of the household in clement weather strolled at noon on the great terrace, Masham sometimes joined me. I thought little at first of his compliments, routine tributes to any person known to be in the least favored by royalty. But one morning I thought he seemed inclined to be more serious.

  “Mistress Hill, I am afraid you find me but a light fellow.”

  “I find you charming to Her Majesty’s women, Captain. His Royal Highness could ask no more of his grooms.”

  “You think it merely a duty?”

  “Merely? What is better than duty handsomely performed?”

  “I am obliged! But I assure you that it is far more than a duty.”

  “I am happy, anyway, that you do not find it an onerous one, sir.”

  I still thought we were engaged only in Windsor persiflage. But now he sounded a more personal note. “We have something in common that you do not suspect, Mistress Hill. A love of letters. You have, I know, a taste for fine writing. And a high style of your own.”

  Had he told me that my nose was white, I could not have been more surprised. I liked to flatter myself that my correspondence could boast an occasional happy turn of phrase. “Where have you seen any samples of my poor efforts, Captain?”

  “I have the honor of Mr. Harley’s friendship. He is your kinsman, I believe?”

  “He is good enough not to deny the bedchamberwoman.”

  “He is proud enough to acknowledge the Queen’s friend! Mr. Harley took the liberty of reading me a letter that you wrote him when the court was at Greenwich. It contained a charming description of the Lord Mayor’s barge. Mr. Addison could scarcely have improved on it.”

  I was charmed. I had been particularly proud of that letter. “I blush that Mr. Harley should have made so much of my humble prose. Are you a writer, Captain?”

  “I am writing a tragedy.”

  “Indeed! Is it in couplets?”

  “I prefer not to be the prisoner of rhyme. My thoughts disdain fetters. But, of course, I use the heroic meter.”

  I repressed a smile at the grandeur of his disdain. Mr. Dryden had not deemed rhyme so limiting. “May I ask the subject of your tragedy?”

  “I have taken it from the French master, Corneille. It is an adaptation of his tragedy Pulcherie. Do you recall the story? No? It is about a Byzantine empress, a virgin, who, having succeeded to the throne in early middle age upon the decease of her younger brother, is urged by her council to marry. Not wishing to share the imperium with any man, she rejects a young prince, whom she adores, for an aged general. Her condition is that the marriage shall not be consummated.”

  There was a pause as I considered this bizarre plot. “But would that not defeat the purpose of the council? Did they not seek an heir to the throne?”

  “Apparently not. The council was less concerned with an heir than with having a man to guide the sovereign in affairs of state.”

  “But why the condition, then? Would not even a nominal husband have had the same right to guide his spouse?”

  “I presume not, under Byzantine law. At any rate, Pulcherie feels that she will be stronger as a virgin monarch.”

  “I see. It’s most interesting. Do you believe it will be a subject of interest to a London audience?”

  “Not precisely. My tragedy would appeal to a more select group. Perhaps in a performance here. I see it as a delicate compliment to the Queen.”

  I stared. “Surely you are not suggesting, sir, that Her Majesty’s marriage contains a parallel?”

  Masham laughed loudly, even rather crudely. I was destined to become much acquainted with that laugh. “Hardly, after all those stillborn babes! I could be sent to the Tow
er for such a suggestion. No, I am reflecting on the fact that the Queen likes to preserve the rule entirely to herself, a resolution that the Prince honors and understands. We all know that Her Majesty welcomes comparisons to the great Elizabeth. It is only politically that I consider her a virgin queen.”

  This, I was to discover, was typical of Masham. He was totally unable to conceive that other persons might view things differently from the way he did. Fortunately, he had so many little projects in his mind that they were rarely executed. Pulcherie never grew beyond a single act.

  “Do you contemplate a career as a man of letters?” I inquired politely.

  “Perhaps not quite a career. A gentleman couldn’t very well do that, could he? But statesmen and diplomats today are inclined to the pen. A taste for letters has become very much the thing. Your cousin Mr. Harley collects rare books. Mr. Prior is accounted a first-class poet. Sir Thomas Hanmer is supposed to be editing Will Shakespeare. Mr. Addison and Mr. Steele are received in the greatest houses.”

  “And Monsieur Racine gave up the stage to become King Louis’s historiographer.”

  “Precisely. You are well informed. Happily for Racine, he did not live to be obliged to record the recent victories of our Captain-General. But to return to a humbler scribe, would you condescend to read some pages from my tragedy and favor me with your words of wisdom?”

  “I should be only too pleased.”

  And so our more intimate acquaintance began. We met daily now, sometimes on the terrace, but more often in Mr. Harley’s apartments, where Masham was a regular guest. I never did see any pages of the famous tragedy, for after a bit he seemed to forget all about it. If my reader is surprised that Masham should have been so welcome in Harley’s intellectual circle, let me explain that he provided his host with a perfect foil. Masham’s laugh was loud, constant and infectious, and he could be pleasantly ribald when he was not quite adequately witty. I was titillated but ashamed when Harley joked about my obvious interest in his “protégé.” But he soon waxed more serious.