At this time Randolph’s political career was still prospering, but clouds were gathering around Frances after her husband’s death, and her eldest son George was at the heart of them. John Winston and Frances had more or less given up all hope in him and tried to protect themselves from the succession of hurts he inflicted on them by raising no expectations. He was a rebel against the proprieties of his parents and their generation, seeing himself as a ‘modern man’. His values and attitudes were very different from their own. The things they held dear, such as the traditional morality based on Christian belief, especially in things such as marriage, and the importance of his family heritage, duty and responsibility, meant little to him. A directive in his will makes clear how great was the gap between himself and a saddened, uncomprehending Frances: he wished not to be buried in the vault in the Blenheim chapel because he disliked the sense of exclusiveness it symbolised.
For Frances, the mother of six daughters and a wife in a devoted and happy marriage of 40 years, the purity of womanhood was sacrosanct. In this regard, in particular, her eldest son had caused her much hurt and humiliation. He once expressed the view that the only thing in life worth pursuing was women, and his intentions were far from honourable.
George had pleased his parents at first by making a very suitable marriage into one of the best connected families in the country, the Abercorns. He soon tired of Bertha (Albertha), the Duke’s daughter, preferring the charms of his mistress, Lady Aylesford. Tiring of his infidelity, Bertha left him, finally obtaining a deed of separation which ensured she received maintenance; previously he had not given her a regular income, even though there were four children to support. After Edith Aylesford bore him an illegitimate son he deserted her, then Bertha divorced him. Undaunted, he embarked on another extra-marital relationship, this time with Lady Colin Campbell, whose husband cited him as one of four co-respondents in a well-publicised divorce case. He maintained this relationship until his death, despite marrying Lilian Hammersley in the interval, an American widow whose only attraction was her fortune of 5,000,000 dollars and an income of 150,000 dollars a year. Lilian took the view, not uncommon in wronged Victorian wives, including Princess Alexandra, that her husband’s infidelity was to be ignored. But the succession of public scandals was not something that Frances could dismiss so easily; such activity offended so much that she held dear. Her characteristic steadfastness and fortitude were needed. However, Duchess Lilian did (immediately after the 8th Duke’s death) tear down the life-size portrait of a nude Lady Colin Campbell that her husband had kept in his bedroom throughout their marriage.
There was one step that George took, however, that was too much for his mother. In 1886 he put up for sale a major part of the magnificent Blenheim picture collection. This was something Frances found distressing; an act of such despoliation undermined the glory of Blenheim. She saw the collection, gathered largely by the 1st Duke, as integral to Blenheim, an essential part of the historic symbolism of his great achievement; it was unlike the later gem collection of the 4th Duke or the Sunderland Library sold by John Winston, which were never part of the original Palace inheritance. A further sadness for Frances was the fact her wayward son had indirectly betrayed his father, by manipulating John Winston’s breaking of the entail in a way which John Winston had never contemplated and would never have done himself.
In order to finance such things as his scientific experiments, the installation of electricity and a telephone system, and the development of the farms, George ruthlessly disposed of some 227 major paintings, as well as fine porcelain, in major sales in the summer of 1886, despite Randolph’s and Frances’ protests. He eventually raised some £400,000 in a depressed market. The paintings included works by Rubens (18 paintings), Rembrandt, Raphael, Breughel, Jordains, Van Dyck, Teniers, Wouvermans, Cuyps, Reynolds, Gainsborough, Watteau, Claude, Poussin, Stubbs, Mytens, Caracci, Maratti, Giordano, Carlo Dolci, Titian, Veronese.
Only two were bought for the nation: Raphael’s ‘Ansidei Madonna’ (for £70,000) and Van Dyck’s ‘Equestrian Portrait of Charles I’ (for £17,500), both of which are now in the National Gallery. The Rothschilds bought Rubens’ ‘Three Graces’ (for 25,000 guineas) and self-portraits of the artist and of his wife (55,000 guineas). Randolph violently opposed the sales and fell out with his brother over them. Years later he was enraged to come across three great Blenheim paintings in a Berlin gallery: Raphael’s ‘Fornarina’, and Rubens’ ‘Andromeda’ and ‘Bacchanalia’. Some paintings were lost sight of altogether. Only in 2006 did Van Dyck’s fine 1635 portrait of Katherine, Lady Stanhope, later Countess of Chesterfield, part of the 1st Duke’s collection, come to light, having ‘disappeared’ after being sold to a New York dealer in the 1886 sale.1
Frances registered her disapproval in the most forceful way available to her: she left Blenheim, where her agreement over the guardianship of George’s son and heir Charles had kept her, and returned to her London home.
Now another problem arose for Frances. Brought into close contact with her daughter-in-law through their joint activity in the Primrose League, Frances’ relationship with Jennie had steadily improved. Because of this, in the summer of 1886 Jennie was able to confide in Frances her worries about her marriage: she was convinced there was another woman. A number of long letters from Frances to Jennie at this time have survived and in them Frances reveals much of herself. The first letter, of 8 September 1886, is typical, characterised by warmth and readiness to help:
Huntercombe [Frances’ country house near Henley]
8 September 1886
Dearest Jennie,
I thought so much about you that I was very glad to get your letter; I will begin with the end of it. Rely on one thing which is – I may not be able to do any good but I will do no harm and not like poor Cornelia [her eldest daughter] put the fat in the fire in my desire to help you. Meantime I pray you do not breathe thoughts of revenge against any one. It will bring you no blessing. Accept your present worry and anxiety patiently and strive to dispel it by the exercise of domestic virtues!!! looking after the children and the new cook etc. – avoiding excitement and the society of those friends who while ready enough to pander to you would gladly see you vexed or humbled as they no doubt are jealous of your success in society. How dull and tiresome you will think me and how little comfort – I think Lady Mandeville would be true – but oh she is indiscreet and things do come round so. I wish so much that you had your sisters for they are to be trusted and I would really trust no one else. Try dear to keep your troubles to yourself – this is hard for you for you have a tell-tale face – though you do tell little fibs at times – It is a horrid time of year for you to be in town. If you do not go to Scotland with him dear Jennie do come and vegetate quietly here. Bring Jack and we will try to make you as happy as possible. I am sure it will show Randolph you care for him and he has a good heart and will give you credit for it. If I were you I would not if it killed me let the heartless lot you live with generally see there was ‘a shadow of a shade of a shred’ wrong, only he should know it and feel that it makes you miserable. And meantime though it is a humdrum task try to make yourself so essential to him that he must recognise it … God bless you, I pray for you and my dear R. every day that God may give you patience, strength and gentleness and that He may watch over dear R. and keep him straight.
Believe me, Yours most affectionately
F.M.2
Wise in knowledge of human affairs, she advised patient virtue rather than revenge and acknowledged a long-lasting worry, Jennie’s choice of friends: ‘the heartless lot’. She was aware of how different from herself Jennie found her, ‘dull and tiresome’, and urged one of her own principles and priorities on her: discretion. Frances had suffered too much from publicised family indiscretions. Typically, she extended a warm invitation to Jennie and Jack to stay quietly with her in the country. Her essential Christian belief in God’s goodness, which characterised both herself and her husband, was cle
ar.
Frances faced a difficult challenge, trying honestly to make clear to Jennie where the problems and solutions lay, while maintaining a caring relationship. She succeeded remarkably well. For some weeks her letters continued in the same vein, her affection constant if rather dutiful: ‘I do not see how I can show you more affection and sympathy than I do.’ But, as so often in the past, she was concerned with Randolph’s lack of financial prudence (‘more money borrowed’). Directly, as was her way, if rather tactlessly in the circumstances, she laid the blame at Jennie’s door (‘he said he relied on you doing for him’), and made clear just how much she worried about Jennie’s undesirable friends: ‘You must sacrifice yourself and lead a different life.’ She seems to have had a clear idea of Jennie’s lifestyle, but did not refer to it directly.
The undiminished love Frances had for Randolph shines through these letters: ‘He has a good heart’; ‘my dear Randolph’. She went to see him on Jennie’s behalf and reassured her daughter-in-law there was no other woman. Randolph seems offhand in his letters to Jennie at the time, but there is no evidence of another woman. The reason for their unhappiness is more likely to have been the tensions of his political life at the time as both Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House.
On 3 October Frances wrote to Jennie of her delight in Randolph’s success: she called it ‘statesmanlike, tactful and forcible’. Almost immediately, of course, Randolph’s impetuous resignation began his political decline, which it was Frances’ ordeal to witness over a number of years. Then suddenly, in November 1892, she was stunned by the news that the 8th Duke had been found dead in his rooms at the age of 48. It was a shock to everyone but there was particular anxiety about the Dowager Duchess. Two letters sent by Randolph to his mother from Blenheim, where he had arrived to take charge of things, survive. He wrote with consideration and affection (‘Dearest Mama … Ever your most affectionate son’) and appears to know what his mother’s overriding concerns would be. He assured her that he was looking after the widowed Duchess, Lily, and young Charles, now the 9th Duke. He sought to comfort his mother by describing George’s death gently and sympathetically (‘He looked very peaceful’), and giving the probable cause of death as loss of consciousness following acute indigestion, from which he suffered: his brother had actually died of a heart attack. He quelled any anxiety about practicalities by clarifying all the arrangements: coroner, post-mortem, lawyer, will, funeral. All in all it is a well-judged letter, revealing Randolph’s care for his mother and explaining why she lavished her love on him.
His second letter three days later was much more personal, written out of genuine love and concern. It is a letter of consolation, unsentimentally calculated to bring Frances peace of mind by assuring her that all the distress and anxiety his brother George had caused her in life was now at an end. Randolph reminded her how hard she had tried with the recalcitrant George: ‘for long and weary years you lavished upon him all that duty required – or affection and love inspired’. No longer would she suffer the shame and disgrace he brought upon the family. ‘Much wrong will now be righted,’ he says and ‘a great name will be well sustained’. She would no longer have the anxiety of worrying what George would do next, and a particularly raw wound could heal: ‘there will be quieter and more orderly times at Blenheim’. He ended by deliberately giving Frances an especially strong expression of his love: ‘Ever your most affectionate son …’
Although his impetuosity had by now ruined his political career and his health, the effort Randolph made to support his mother was impressive. There was one further service he did for Frances: despite George’s wish to the contrary, Randolph’s advice and support determined her to bury her eldest son in the family vault below the chapel at Blenheim. She had at last the satisfaction of restoring him to the family tradition and heritage he had so disregarded, which she and John Winston held so precious.
George’s talents were never properly fulfilled. He had the reputation of being gifted, particularly in scientific matters, and had taken his own path in life while Randolph and the six sisters came together in a close family way. Very little is known of his early life except that he was expelled from Eton for using a catapult. While Randolph pursued his university studies, his elder brother was serving as an Army officer in the Household Cavalry and thoroughly enjoying himself. His intellect and ability were never in doubt; Lord Redesdale called him:
a youth of great promise, marred by fate, shining in many branches of human endeavour, clever, capable of great industry and within measurable distance of reaching conspicuous success in science, mathematics and mechanics.3
With his own laboratories at Blenheim and a level of scientific knowledge which enabled him to produce his own telephone system, much seemed possible. But his failure to express himself through the achievement he desired created in him ‘an inner source of restlessness incapable of satisfaction’. It is difficult to understand why, with all his intellectual and social advantages, he preferred the company of the Marlborough House set and chose to neglect his own particular gifts.
Notes
1. Tate Britain Exhibition ‘Van Dyck and Britain’, Spring 2009.
2. Frances to Jennie, 1886, cited by Churchill and Mitchell in Jennie, pp.142-3.
3. Lord Redesdale, Memoirs II, p.685.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE LAST DAYS
* * *
In the summer of 1892, a few months before his brother’s death, Randolph was showing odd signs of irritability. One week he had a particularly pleasant dinner with Joseph Chamberlain, a long-time friend; the very next week, however, at another dinner and apparently without reason, he spoke rudely and aggressively to Chamberlain and ordered that a bowl of flowers be placed to separate them. Shortly after Blandford’s death more serious signs appeared of Randolph’s declining mental health. For the next two years Frances had the grim ordeal of watching her son’s mental deterioration, and not just in private. Rosebery, his lifelong friend, summed it up: ‘He died in public, by inches.’
The excessive length and shaky writing of his letters at the time confirms the beginning of the decline, although for a short while his political fortunes rose. He was invited back on to the Front Bench and joined meetings of the Tory party leaders, the Shadow Cabinet as it would be called today. The penetrating wit and dramatic style which had characterised his speeches and made his mother so proud, did not return, however, and his doctor began to be concerned about his mental condition. Dizziness, palpitations, numbness of the hands, difficulty in speaking and deafness seemed to indicate a serious brain condition. There has been over a century of speculation as to its nature. Popular opinion enjoyed the sensational possibility of its being syphilis, the idea even being used by his political enemies to denigrate Winston years later. As one of his granddaughters later recorded, 26 years after Randolph’s death one of Winston’s enemies within the Conservative party tried to keep him from office by describing him as ‘the alcoholic son of a syphilitic father’. The foundation for the theory rests on very unreliable sources, such as Frank Harris, a journalist and writer, and members of Jennie’s family who resented Randolph. Informed medical opinion has now made it clear that Randolph died of an undiagnosed and inoperable brain tumour, which has similar symptoms.1
The mercurial and confused state of Randolph’s mind at the time are demonstrated by two encounters he had with Winston, quite close together, in which he revealed himself in totally different mental states. On a happy occasion in the autumn of 1892, Randolph spoke to Winston rationally and calmly in a situation when he could well have flown off the handle. It was a moment of intimacy Winston had never previously shared with his father, and which he relished:
Only once did he lift his visor in my sight. This was at our house at Newmarket in the autumn of 1892. He had reproved me for startling him by firing off a double-barrelled gun at a rabbit which had appeared on the lawn beneath his windows; he had been very angry and disturbed. Under
standing at once that I was distressed, he took occasion to reassure me. I then had one of the three or four intimate conversations with him which are all I can boast. He explained how old people were not always very considerate towards young people, that they were absorbed in their own affairs and might well speak roughly in sudden annoyance. He said he was glad I liked shooting, and that he had arranged for me to shoot on September 1st (this was the end of August) such partridges as our small property contained. Then he proceeded to talk to me in the most wonderful and captivating manner about school and going into the Army and the grown-up life which lay beyond. I listened spellbound to this sudden departure from his usual reserve, amazed at his intimate comprehension of my affairs. Then at the end he said, ‘Do remember that things do not always go right with me. My every action is misjudged and every word distorted … so make some allowances.’2
Only a few months later Randolph had deteriorated to the extent that when, in August 1893, Winston wrote to tell him he had passed into Sandhurst at the third attempt, the reply was irrational, caustic, even brutal. In a tirade that goes on relentlessly for 47 lines, Randolph entirely dismissed Winston’s success, condemning him in terms no father should ever use to a son. Winston’s failure to pass high enough for the infantry was ‘slovenly’, an achievement fit ‘only for the second or third rate’. With vicious sarcasm he ridiculed his son and complained that his getting into the cavalry would cost an extra £2,000 a year. He told Winston not to write about such so-called successes in future, as he would not attach the slightest importance to anything he might say. He describes Winston as leading an ‘idle, useless, unprofitable life’, becoming a ‘social wastrel’, who will lead ‘a shabby, unhappy and futile existence’. This was clearly the outpouring of a mind at least temporarily unhinged. If there is any doubt of this, Randolph ended his letter with the words ‘Your mother sends her love, Your affectionate father …’
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