Courting Her Highness

THE FALL OF GODOLPHIN

In his Chelsea lodgings Jonathan Swift was waiting for the arrival of an important visitor. He stared gloomily into the fire and took up his pen to write to Esther Johnson in Ireland. It was one of his pleasanter diversions. Stella, as he called her, was as devoted an admirer as his dear friend Miss Vanhomrigh, who was Vanessa to him. Irascible, gloomy, he was dissatisfied with life because a man of his genius must be forced to lend his talents to men of lesser stature for the reason that they, through birth, riches or their own personalities, had forced themselves into positions of power. He hated his poverty, his caution, his ill temper. What a comfort it would be if Stella were with him now—or perhaps Vanessa. Both adored him; both were ready to give him the adulation he desired. Neither was poor. Stella had her fifteen hundred pounds on which she had believed she could get a better return in Ireland than in England. Vanessa was closer at hand to administer comfort.

But he was born disgruntled. He would not marry because he believed he could not afford to; he could not write as he wished to write for fear of landing in the pillory as poor Defoe had. Perhaps he would not have escaped so lightly.

His great pleasure on cold nights when there was not enough fire in the grate to warm his bones and his Irish servant was more incompetent than usual, was to write to Stella. He pictured her eagerly opening his letters and reading news of the English Court which he was able to give her. All the latest gossip gleaned in the coffee houses; the fall of Viceroy Sarah; the rise of Abigail Masham. This was an excellent state of affairs, he told Stella, for he considered the Whigs to be malicious toads; and Robert Harley was his friend and therefore so was Abigail Masham. The great Duchess was in decline; the Duke might follow her. Jonathan Swift was on the side of his good friend Robert Harley for whom he now waited.

There was the knocking on the door. Swift laid down his pen while his servant let in the visitor.

He rose then to greet Robert Harley.

“Ah, my friend,” cried Robert Harley. “Great news! At last we are on the way.”

He bade Swift sit and drew a chair for himself while from his pocket he took a bottle of wine and shouted to the servant to bring glasses. Robert Harley provided his own wine for he knew that his friend Swift could not afford the quality his palate demanded.

Swift watched his benefactor as he savoured the wine which he did with relish before he spoke.

“Sarah is dismissed,” he said. “Finally. Irrevocably.”

“There remains the Duke.”

“My dear Swift, you are your gloomy self. Of course the Duke remains. The hero of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet! Let us not forget Malplaquet where the losses were so great that it could scarcely be called a victory. There is still the Duke, but, my dear fellow, we must see that it is not long before he follows his good lady.”

“The Duchess invited dismissal. She is a virago who plays into the hands of her enemy. I have heard the Duke called one of the most charming men in England and the Queen is still fond of him in spite of his wife.”

“You are a pessimist, Jonathan. There are ways and means. There are two things Marlborough loves in this life besides his military glory—Sarah and money. He’ll stand by Sarah; he’ll refuse to see she brought this on herself. That will go against him. And money? He is a very rich man. How did he become so? Well, his wife was very clever in selling places, I’ll swear. And in squeezing gifts from her loving mistress. Sarah is a rich woman in her own right. But Marlborough always knew how to feather his nest. I have my friends in every place and they have told me many interesting things. Do you know that during his office the Duke of Marlborough has put away some fifty thousand pounds. How Jonathan? How? As for my lady, she is some way behind her husband with all the royal favour she once enjoyed. Her pickings were a mere twenty-two thousand.”

“Is it possible then that they have filched this from public funds?”

“Where else?” laughed Harley.

“It’s a scandal!”

“It is certainly so. Now, it is our task to see that it is not the secret scandal it has been until now. We will make it a public scandal.”

“I see,” said Swift, “the reason for your visit here tonight.”

Marlborough, white lipped, came into the bedroom he shared with Sarah, and handed her the copy of The Examiner.

“That fellow Swift,” he said. “By God, he dips his pen in poison.”

Sarah read Swift’s article and, clenching the paper in her hand, gave vent to such a spate of fury that Marlborough was afraid for her.

“Calm yourself, my love,” he begged.

“Calm myself. When this sort of thing is being written about us. You can be calm!”

The Duke might be outwardly calm but he did not like what he read at all. He thought of the comfortable fortune he and Sarah had set aside; and it was disconcerting to see in cold print such accusations.

“We are surrounded by enemies, Sarah. We are among wolves and tigers.”

“That may be so,” retaliated Sarah, “but these wolves and tigers will find they have to deal with a lion and his lioness.”

“Caution, Sarah. Caution.”

“You have been preaching caution for years.”

“And if you had listened to my sermons, my dearest, we might not have come to this pass.”

“I have had to contend with that tiresome woman until she drove me to show what I really felt for her.”

“If you had but remembered that she was the Queen.”

“Queen! That bundle of blubber! Nay, John, if you will accept these insults, I will not.”

“Sarah, where are you going?”

“I am going to do something, John Churchill. I am going to show our enemies—be they royal Queens or paid scribblers—that it is a mistake to cross swords with Sarah Churchill and attempt to taunt the victor of Blenheim.”

“Sarah … Sarah … I beg of you.”

But she flounced away from him. Sarah was listening to no one … not even John.

Sarah unlocked the drawer and took out the letters. There was a large packet of them and she selected one at random and read it through.

Oh damning letters! Letters betraying a deep and strange affection—careless letters, the kind of letters a lover would write; and the Queen had written these to Sarah Churchill in the days of the foolish fondness Mrs. Morley had felt for Mrs. Freeman.

She took another. It had been written in the days when the Princess Anne so turned against her own father that she plotted against him with her sister Mary and Mary’s husband William. Not the sort of letters which a Queen would wish her subjects to read. And here was another—showing clearly her hatred for her own sister, then Queen Mary, and that “Dutch Abortion” her husband.

Stupid Anne, fat and foolish Queen, who was so unwise as to alienate a woman who could reveal so much.

Sarah was not going to consult with John … dearest but oh so cautious John! Sarah had done with caution.

How many times, she asked herself, have I demeaned myself … waiting in ante-rooms like a Scotchwoman trying to present a petition! How many times have I been told that Her Majesty cannot see me … and she shut away with that whey-faced Abigail Masham, tittering together, laughing because they are insulting the Duchess of Marlborough!

Sarah knew what she was going to do, and she needed no advice from anybody.

She asked Sir David Hamilton, one of the Queen’s physicians, to come to her, and when he came she greeted him graciously and bade him sit down for she wished to talk to him.

He was astonished to be thus summoned, and more so as he began to understand the reason for the invitation.

“I am at the end of my patience,” said Sarah imperiously. “I have asked for audiences with the Queen and always I am refused. I know my enemies have succeeded in working against me, but I am not a woman to accept defeat. You are in attendance upon the Queen?”

“Yes. Her Majesty is in constant need of attention.”

“So you will have no difficulty in taking a message for me.”

“I do not think Her Majesty wishes to receive …”

“She will certainly not wish to hear this message. But nevertheless I am sure she will want to know what I intend doing … before I do it.”

“I am afraid I do not understand Your Grace’s meaning.”

“It is simple. Her Majesty turns her back on me. If she continues in this attitude I shall publish all the letters she has written to me since the earliest days of our friendship. Tell her this. I think she will be prepared to go to great length to prevent this happening.”

“Your Grace cannot be serious.”

“I was never more so.”

“You are threatening the Queen.”

“No. Only threatening to publish her letters.”

Sir David Hamilton bade farewell to the Duchess and went at once to the Queen.

Anne was alarmed. She thought back over the years of foolish fondness, of absolute trust. How had she betrayed herself? Her intimate life would be exposed to her people. They would read of her wicked conduct towards her own family; and although she now recognized this as wickedness and knew that Sarah Churchill had largely been responsible for making her act as she did, that was no excuse.

How could she ever have been deceived by that woman! But what could she do now?

She sent for Sir David Hamilton and the Duke of Shrewsbury.

“At all costs,” she said firmly, “the Duchess of Marlborough must be prevented from publishing the letters. You must find some way of stopping her.”

Sarah was now growing alarmed on her own account, for Swift’s article was being discussed throughout the Court and in every tavern and coffee house. It would not have surprised her if charges were brought against her for bribery and peculation; and she could not see how, if this were so, she could defend herself. She remembered an occasion when John had been a prisoner in the Tower and how he had come near to losing his life during the reign of William.

When Shrewsbury and Hamilton came to talk to her about the Queen’s letters this fear was uppermost in her mind.

In her blunt fashion she betrayed this to her visitors who immediately saw in her fear a means of gaining their desire.

“Grave charges have been made against Your Grace,” Shrewsbury pointed out.

“You have come to tell me this?” asked Sarah fearfully.

“There is no need, Your Grace, to tell you what you know already,” pointed out Hamilton.

“If such a charge were brought against me I should have no alternative but to publish the Queen’s letters,” bartered Sarah.

She had made her conditions. No charges; no publication of letters.

Since there had been no intention of making a charge at this stage the two men were well pleased with their visit. They were able to return to the Queen and tell her that the Duchess of Marlborough would not publish the letters if no charge was brought against her for helping herself to public funds.

The people in the streets hated the imperious Duchess. On the other hand they loved the Queen. The stories of the Marlboroughs’ riches were discussed and magnified. Marlborough was the warmonger and what good did war bring the poor? And did they know that since the Queen no longer favoured the Duchess the latter had threatened to publish her letters?

Crowds clustered outside Marlborough House. Sarah listened to their shouts. What was it they were saying?

She shuddered as she listened.

If the Duchess of Marlborough published anything to harm the Queen they would storm Marlborough House; they would drag her into the streets and there they would proceed to tear her to pieces.

Who would have believed, Sarah asked herself, that during the reign of Queen Anne she, who had done so much to put the Queen on the throne and keep her there, should find herself in such a position?

They were saying in the streets that this was the end of the Marlboroughs’ glory. Some might think so. Not Sarah.

Harley was constantly with the Queen. The time was fast approaching when the Whig Parliament should be dissolved. Then it was in the hands of the people, but Harley was confident of a Tory victory. The trial of Dr. Sacheverel had damaged the Whigs irrevocably and since the charges of dishonesty had been aimed at the Marlboroughs, it was certain that the Ministry would fall.

Anne had always disliked Sunderland and had been reluctant to appoint him; he was the first to be dismissed.

Sarah was frantic with rage. Her son-in-law dismissed from office! Godolphin would be the next—and after that would it be Marlborough?

How could she stand by and watch her schemes dissolving into nothing?

She sent for Godolphin and Sunderland; John was with her when they arrived.

“There is only one course open to us,” she declared, and when they looked at her expectantly she said: “Anne must be forced to abdicate.”

“Abdicate!” stammered Godolphin.

“Don’t look so startled,” retorted Sarah scornfully. “Catholic James was forced to … why not his doltish daughter?”

“And in her place?” asked Sunderland.

“Marl can call on the Elector of Hanover … and sound him.”

They stared at her in astonishment; but she saw that her son-in-law Sunderland who was ever ready for rash adventure, was beginning to smile.

Godolphin knew that the end of his career was in sight. He was old and he had never been a man to take his duties lightly, but he had been timorous and had allowed Sarah Churchill to dominate him as she had never been able to dominate her own husband. Now Sarah herself was out of favour and the ministry which he had led was about to decline. The Queen who had once shown him favour was seeking an opportunity to be rid of him and this had been brought about by the high-handed conduct of Sarah.

Godolphin was melancholy, considering what a deep effect the quarrels of women could have on a country’s affairs.

He was in this mood when he attended the Cabinet meeting at which the Queen would be present. He was fully aware of the antagonism of his enemies. They were as vultures hovering about his head … waiting for his fall.

Shrewsbury, one of the most powerful of them, opened the attack by making sarcastic comments which Godolphin could not allow to pass. He should, of course, have answered in the same vein, but he was tired and worried and he found himself attacking Shrewsbury in the querulous tones of the tired old man he was.

“My lord,” protested Anne, “I beg of you to curb your anger. It is of no use to this Council.”

Godolphin turned to the Queen. “Your Majesty, my task is becoming more difficult as the days pass. I am surrounded by those who seek to undermine me. What good can come when those in high places turn their backs on the legitimate ministers of the country and give ear to secret counsels.”

This was a direct attack upon the Queen, and Anne, mortified, remained silent. But all present knew that this must be the end of Godolphin.

Anne sat in the oak-panelled closet at Kensington.

She was sad. In the past she had been truly fond of Godolphin—Mr. Montgomery as she had affectionately called him. She had felt so secure with such a minister as her friend; and there was his family connection with the Duke who had always been so thoughtful and charming. But Sarah had poisoned those relationships as she had poisoned everything she came near.

Wherever she looked she was brought back to Sarah. It was time she finished with everything connected with her. She took up her pen and wrote:

“The uneasiness that you have shown for some time has given me much trouble, though I have borne it, and had your behaviour continued the same as it was for a few years after my coming to the Crown, I could have no dispute with myself what to do. But the many unkind returns I have received since, especially what you have said to me personally before the Lords (in council) makes it impossible for me to continue you any longer in my service, but I will give you a pension of four thousand pounds a year, and I desire that instead of bringing the Staff to me you will break it, which I believe will be easier for us both.”

Sunderland gone! Godolphin gone! The Whig administration was over. Now it remained to be seen what happened at the polls, though there could be little doubt of the result.

A Tory majority was returned to Parliament. Robert Harley was Chancellor of the Exchequer and virtually the Leader of the Government with his friend and protégé Henry St. John a Privy Councillor and Secretary of State.

This was defeat for the Churchills; and they waited in trepidation for what would happen next.