The Hammersley-Marlborough union was as successful as most marriages of convenience: it lacked the thrill of passion but was more harmonious than most love matches, which often end in disillusion. As Dr. Johnson said: “I believe marriages would in general be as happy, and often more so, if they were all made by the Lord Chancellor, upon a due consideration of characters and circumstances, without the parties having any choice in the matter.” It cannot be said that the eighth Duke of Marlborough was happy. He was probably bored by his second wife, but then he was bored by almost everybody and everything. At least she did not try to cheer him up by putting newts in his fingerbowl, and her money was freely spent on the installation of central heating and electric light at Blenheim. That she gained his approbation is proved by the fact that he made her executrix of his will and left her everything of which he could personally dispose. He died in 1892; and though after a decent interval she married Lord William Beresford, later the Marquis of Waterford, and was happy with him, she retained her first title, being known as Lily, Duchess of Marlborough.
The son of the eighth Duke by his first wife succeeded to the title, and like his father crossed the Atlantic in search of a wealthy bride for the upkeep of Blenheim. He found a Vanderbilt.
One of the richest families in the world, their fortune had been founded by Cornelius Vanderbilt early in the nineteenth century. He was born in 1794 and started to make money in the war between Great Britain and the United States during 1812. At the age of seventeen he borrowed a hundred dollars from his mother and bought a barge with which he ferried passengers and merchandise about the harbor of New York, continuing to do so when a British fleet arrived and his journeys were undertaken in face of their guns. He raked in the shekels and began to buy schooners, with which he engaged in the oyster trade. At the age of twenty-three he had a capital of ten thousand dollars and was known as “The Commodore,” having earned the nickname by his toughness, efficiency, and trenchant language.
His next act would now be regarded as piratical, for he set the law at defiance and traded in forbidden waters with a steamer. Soon he was running a line of steamers, and by opening a new route to California via Nicaragua he made vast sums during the gold rush. In 1853 he was able to visit Europe with his family on a splendid new steam yacht, specially constructed for his purpose. He was accompanied by a physician and a clergyman, not because his body or soul needed attention but because they seemed necessary adjuncts to a millionaire’s court. On his return he found that two of his associates had exceeded their duties by selling some of his interests, and wrote to them: “Gentlemen, you have undertaken to cheat me. I won’t sue you, for the law is too slow. I’ll ruin you.” Being a man of his word, he doubtless kept it in this case. Soon afterwards a new President of Nicaragua revoked the charter Cornelius had been granted for transporting merchandise across that country. He promptly organized an invading force, and later called on the State Department at Washington to protect American interests. Washington obeyed, and a force of Marines settled the matter.
He had always regarded railroads with distrust ever since 1833 when a train in which he was traveling toppled over a bank and all the passengers in his carriage were killed except himself, and he was badly injured. But in 1860 he perceived that railways would take the trade of steamboats, turned his attention to them, and by a judicious blend of manipulation and share-juggling made another fortune. When sixty-eight years of age he became the Government’s shipping agent during the Civil War, at the conclusion of which he was the only American who possessed over twenty million dollars.
He had developed some odd habits by the time he had reached seventy. Whatever the weather he wore a fur-lined overcoat out-of-doors. He did not drink spirits often, but whenever he felt the need of such stimulus he downed a tumblerful of neat gin. Twelve lumps of sugar in each cup of tea compensated for the lack of sweetness in his nature. His language was normally blue, but late in life he tried to tone down its color. When the rumor got about in the spring of 1876 that he was dying, reporters flocked to 10 Washington Place, where his second wife, much younger than himself, denied it, her contradiction being verified by the very audible voice of the invalid upstairs, who stated his intention of knocking hell out of anyone who paid attention to the rumor. For months the reporters remained on watch, taking a room nearly opposite the Commodore’s house, where they ate, drank and played cards.
The eminent orator Henry Ward Beecher announced in a sermon that the rise and fall of Vanderbilt’s temperature was reported as carefully as the weather. It was generally believed that in the past years the maids in his house were constantly leaving on account of his amorous advances. Now his wife did her best to soften his paganism with hymns, but it was rough going until he became too weak to protest. He died suddenly at the beginning of January ‘77, regretting his inability to transfer his fortune to a bank in the next world, and leaving behind him over a hundred million dollars and twenty-eight steamboats. He was the first and last of the great unbridled millionaires, those who followed him being subjected to criticism by the public, the press, the preachers and the politicians. In spite of which his son, W. H. Vanderbilt, left over two hundred million dollars and became famous for his remark “The public be damned!”, though he disclaimed responsibility for this, telling everyone that he had merely said “Oh, my public be damned!”
The son of W. H. Vanderbilt married the daughter of Murray Forbes Smith, who was ruined by the liberation of the slaves. Having to face life with nothing but the name of Smith, not unknown in other parts of the world, this daughter determined to make up for lack of money and social eminence by marrying the first and achieving the second. She chose the Commodore’s grandson, an easy-going fellow, gentle and generous, who actually liked to see people happy. For this reason he was not allowed to see much of his children, who were completely under the dominion of their contentious, violent-tempered and dictatorial mother. “We were pawns in her game to be moved as her wishes decreed,” wrote one of her daughters, Consuelo, whose future was determined by this dragon of a mother. They were not allowed to think for themselves; she did all the thinking for them and they had to do as they were told. She administered corporal punishment for trivial offenses, and Consuelo’s legs were lashed with a riding whip for some childish misdemeanor.
Naturally such a woman was resolved to be a social autocrat, and backed by her husband’s money she soon attained her desire. She set a fashion for “period” houses, built three, ransacked European antique shops for suitable pictures and furniture, and instructed the social world in conduct as well as the arts. Her bullying nature and outbursts of rage created a strained atmosphere in the domestic circle, husband and children being equally intimidated, and when they made their last and longest yacht expedition to India in November 1893, Consuelo and the others were in a condition of nervous tension. Sixty years later Consuelo wrote her memoirs, from which we learn the story of a reluctant duchess.{9} They toured India either in special trains or in a private carriage attached to public trains. They were the guests of the Viceroy, Lord Lansdowne, at Government House, Calcutta, their hostess Lady Lansdowne being an aunt of the 9th Duke of Marlborough, son of the man who had not enjoyed practical jokes. Consuelo’s mother was so greatly attracted to the mode of life at Government House and by the conversation of the Viceroy’s wife that she decided then and there to marry Consuelo either to the Duke of Marlborough or to Lord Lansdowne’s heir.
The following May and June were spent in Paris, where five men disclosed a wish to marry Consuelo, their proposals being turned down by Mama, who thought that perhaps Prince Francis Joseph of Battenberg might be considered, but raised no objection when Consuelo expressed aversion to him. At one ball a dancing partner named Jacques Balsan decided he would like to marry her (and would do so, 27 years later). Leaving Paris, they took a house at Marlow on the Thames, Mrs. Vanderbilt having begun divorce proceedings against her husband. They visited London where their first call was made on
Lady Paget, who as Minnie Stevens of New York had been Consuelo’s friend. She, with the Duchess of Manchester, Lady Randolph Churchill and Mrs. Cavendish-Bentinck, represented America in the Prince of Wales’s set. Consuelo thought that Minnie had become like Becky Sharp in Thackeray’s novel, with her quick wit and worldly standards. At one of her dinner parties Consuelo met the Duke of Marlborough for the first time, a good-looking, intelligent young man six years her senior, with an aristocratic face, a large nose and the prominent blue eyes of his species. He seemed to be proud of his well-shaped hands, which he used in a dainty manner.
They returned to Marlow where a handsome Frenchman named Paul Deschanel called on them. He had been wounded in a duel with Clemenceau and was fond of French poetry, which he read frequently to Mrs. Vanderbilt; but one day he paused between couplets and asked permission to become her daughter’s suitor, adding quickly that it was his intention to become President of the French Republic. Mrs. Vanderbilt instantly lost interest in French poetry and sent him packing, eventually to attain the position he had indicated. There were several more proposals for the hand of Consuelo from men who fancied a dowry coupled with beauty; but Mrs. Vanderbilt entertained other views for her daughter and returned to America in the autumn of 1894.
Consuelo was by now a lovely girl, one of her many admirers observing that her attraction was enhanced by the deceptive melancholy of her expression and the pathos of her eyes. But there was nothing deceptive about her sadness, which deepened with a thwarted love affair. The more attractive she became, the more ruthless her mother’s behavior. But as Mrs. Vanderbilt was being subjected to some criticism on account of her pending divorce, she was liable to explosions of temper unrelated to their alleged cause. She refused to speak to anyone who dared to question her rightness and treated those who were not entirely with her as against her. While matters were in this tricky stage Consuelo was attracted to a man much older than herself named Winthrop Rutherfurd. Unable to mask her feelings, Mama never missed an opportunity to make withering remarks about him. One day their party were bicycling along Riverside Drive when she and Winthrop outrode the rest and he hurriedly proposed marriage, begged her to keep it secret because her mother would object, and said he would follow her to Europe, whither they were sailing next day, and then elope together on returning to America. Her mother spotted from her excitement that something had happened, and while they were in Europe never let Consuelo out of her sight. Rutherfurd called at their house in Paris, but was repulsed from the door; his letters were confiscated; hers were abstracted; Mrs. Vanderbilt was caustic about her “martyrdom”; and she was utterly wretched.
They went on to London, where Consuelo danced several times with the Duke of Marlborough at a Stafford House ball given by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland. In accordance with regulations laid down by her mother, she visited Blenheim and was shown over the estate by its impoverished proprietor. That same afternoon he decided to marry her and abandon the girl he loved, as he told Consuelo soon after their marriage, a confession which shows him to have lacked both sense and sensibility. The Duke was invited to Newport, Rhode Island, where many American millionaires resided in palaces and where Mrs. Vanderbilt’s mansion became Consuelo’s prison. She was not allowed to be “at home” to her friends in case of surreptitious messages; she was always kept in sight by a dependable warder; and the porter had instructions that she must not leave the house unless accompanied by someone in authority.
By accident she met Winthrop at a ball and they even had a dance together, but the “alert” was sounded and she was barricaded from him. Stung into action, she informed her mother that she intended to marry the man of her choice. A storm of rage and invective broke over her head, including libelous abuse of the man she had chosen, who was described as a Don Juan and a madman. She stuck to her guns for a while, but at last Mama threatened to shoot the brute who would ruin her daughter’s life, and as the action would result in her own execution Consuelo would be the cause of her mother’s death. As a final gesture to bring the disobedient girl to heel, Mrs. Vanderbilt decided to have a physical breakdown, and her intimate friend Mrs. Jay was empowered to tell Consuelo that her heartless behavior had caused her anxious parent a heart attack. Then the doctor was brought in to assure the potential matricide that he would wash his hands of the consequences if she persisted in opposing her mother’s wish. Blackmailed and harried into subjection, Consuelo gave way and asked Mrs. Jay to inform Winthrop that they could never be married.
By the time Marlborough arrived at Newport the unfortunate girl had agreed to save her mother’s life by committing spiritual suicide, and a tremendous ball was given in honor of the distinguished visitor; this being followed by a round of dinners and balls, dutifully attended by Consuelo in the company of the Duke and her sergeant-major of a mother, now happily recovered from her grievous affection of the heart. The financial arrangements being quite satisfactory (an income on two and a half million dollars for life as a marriage settlement in addition to an annual payment of a hundred thousand dollars to each of the parties), the Duke proposed to Consuelo “in the Gothic Room whose atmosphere was so propitious to sacrifice,” said she, and was accepted. The ceremony was fixed for November 5, 1895, her age at the time being eighteen, but this was changed to November 6th because, by some strange reasoning, the Duke decided he could not be married on the anniversary of the day when Guy Fawkes had attempted to blow up the House of Lords. Consuelo was not permitted to choose her trousseau, which had been arranged by her mother, with a clear foresight of the happy event, when she was last in Paris.
The bride spent the morning of her wedding day alone and in tears. Mrs. Vanderbilt was taking no chances and a footman was posted at her daughter’s door, possibly with instructions to shoot at sight anyone who attempted to enter. Mr. Vanderbilt was detailed to give his daughter away, and to disappear immediately after the service. Both parents were kept waiting at the church for twenty minutes while Consuelo was trying to remove the effects of her tears with a sponge, and it is pleasant to reflect on her mother’s feelings as the minutes slipped by. Perhaps the undutiful girl had escaped her after all? But no. She arrived at the altar of sacrifice; the Bishops of New York and Long Island effected the union; and while the choir sang “O Perfect Love, All Human Thought Transcending,” she glanced down at her husband, who was shorter than herself, and noticed that his eyes were “fixed in space.”
After the marriage the ducal couple repaired to Long Island for, in her words, “the week’s exclusion custom has imposed upon reluctant honeymooners.” On the way Marlborough read telegrams of congratulation, handing them to his wife with a gesture of significance if the sender was noble, of unconcern if otherwise. Consuelo thought that the one from Queen Victoria should have been handed to her on a silver platter. In due course she was lectured on the various families whose pedigrees, titles and positions she would have to learn by heart.
They went for a trip in the Mediterranean, the voyage across the Atlantic being made more depressing for her on account of the Duke’s seasickness and consequent melancholy. They saw the usual places in Spain and then visited Monaco, where the sight of fair women and well-groomed men pleased her. Her husband seemed to know many of them, but replied evasively when asked who they were. She later learned that the women were of “easy virtue,” owing to which social stigma she could not even claim acquaintance with certain of their male companions who had once been her suitors. The importance of the family into which she had married was impressed on her by the Duke, who described her as “a link in the chain,” and she perceived that her first duty was to perpetuate the house of Marlborough. After seeing something of Italy and making an uncomfortable trip up the Nile, they stayed at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, where her husband behaved as her mother had done and chose her gowns.
In London at last she was made acquainted with the Churchill clan, some of whom seemed to believe that all Americans lived on plantations with Negro slaves, in dai
ly dread of Red Indians with scalping knives. She was introduced to an intimidating old lady, her husband’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough, who had made Lady Randolph Churchill’s life so uncomfortable at Blenheim, and who now, using an ear trumpet, embarrassed Consuelo with an order and a question: “Your first duty is to have a child, and it must be a son, because it would be intolerable to have that little upstart Winston become Duke. Are you in the family way?” They proceeded to the family stud at Blenheim, being received by the mayor and corporation of Woodstock. Having delivered his speech of welcome, the mayor said to her: “Your Grace will no doubt be interested to know that Woodstock had a mayor and corporation before America was discovered.” Meditating on this weighty pronouncement she got into the carriage, which was dragged by the townsmen to the palace amid tumultuous cheers and beneath triumphal arches.
At Blenheim she discovered that she not only had to learn the pedigrees of the nobility but the social grades of the servants. One day she rang the bell and asked the butler to put a match to the fire. “I will send the footman, your Grace.” “Oh, don’t bother! I’ll do it myself.” The domestic hierarchy resembled a modern trade union.
She dreaded the ceremonious dinners with her husband, who had a habit of filling his plate with food, pushing it away with refined gestures, doing the same to the feeding and drinking utensils, backing his chair, crossing his legs, twirling a ring on his finger, and remaining for perhaps fifteen minutes in a state of abstraction; after which he would come to life, eat his food with much deliberation, and complain that it was cold. When inured to this process, she filled in the time by knitting. They seldom spoke. She thought him arrogant, despising everything not British, and her pride was hurt. On the other hand, “that little upstart Winston” was one of the few Churchills she liked. He was lively, enthusiastic and stimulating, the very opposite of his cousin the Duke, but of course he had the advantage of being half-American. She did her best to hit it off with the rest of the family, though the Dowager Duchess was heard to say: “Her Grace does not realize the importance of her position.” She had much to do at Blenheim, entertaining social and political bigwigs, visiting the poor, writing letters, supervising the running of the house. As they had never found love, she and her husband had none to lose; but the strain of maintaining the social and physical relationship essential to her position as a breeding duchess was never eased and steadily grew. In 1900 she was temporarily released from the Duke, who went to South Africa as Assistant Military Secretary to Lord Roberts; but the following year he became Under-Secretary of State for the Colonies, and she had to learn all about the leading colonials who were entertained at Blenheim.
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