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Dedication
This book is dedicated to
Joan Williams
to whom I owe a great deal;
she knows why.
And also to my aunt
Winifred Wooley
who is a great lady.
Epigraph
‘How could this Lady Ellenborough, whose scandalous life is known to all the world, have deceived you, Your Majesty?’
Letter to King Ludwig I from his mistress’s maid
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Preface
1 Golden Childhood 1807–1823
2 The Débutante 1824
3 Lady Ellenborough 1825–1827
4 A Dangerous Attraction 1827–1829
5 Assignation in Brighton 1829–1830
6 A Fatal Notoriety 1830–1831
7 Jane and the King 1831–1833
8 Ianthe’s Secret 1833–1835
9 A Duel for the Baroness 1836–1840
10 False Colours 1840–1846
11 The Queen’s Rival 1846–1852
12 The Road to Damascus 1853
13 Arabian Nights 1853–1854
14 Honeymoon in Palmyra 1854–1855
15 Wife to the Sheikh 1855–1856
16 Return to England 1856–1858
17 Alone in Palmyra 1858–1859
18 The Massacre 1860–1861
19 Visitors from England 1862–1863
20 The Sitt el Mezrab 1863–1867
21 Challenge by Ouadjid 1867–1869
22 The Burtons 1870–1871
23 Untimely Obituary 1871–1878
24 Sunset Years 1878–1881
25 Funeral in Damascus 1881
Appendix: Last Will and Testament of the Hon. Jane Digby
Epilogue
Bibliography
Index
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Author’s Notes
Notes
Praise
By Mary S. Lovell
Copyright
About the Publisher
Preface
Friends often ask me how I choose my subjects. The answer is that my subjects usually choose me, and so it was with Jane Digby.
This book began at a cocktail party at the RAF Club in London in the spring of 1992 when Jane Digby’s name and her story came up in conversation. I had never heard of her, so I made a mental note to do some research and rapidly found myself in the early stages of an obsession that was to last several years. Who was Jane Digby, and why should she cast such an appeal?
Born into the English aristocracy with every conceivable advantage in physical beauty, social position and wealth, Jane spent the final years of her life married to a desert prince. The Palladian mansions and gilded Mayfair salons of her youth made way for low black goat-hair tents and rugs spread upon wind-washed sands. Even now, with jet travel and motorised transport, the Syrian desert is one of the few lonely places left on earth. What unlikely circumstance, I wondered, had led Jane Digby there a century and a half ago?
Barely out of the schoolroom, already regarded as one of the most beautiful women of her day, Jane had married an ambitious politician, Lord Ellenborough, who was twice her age. In achieving his desire for a Cabinet post, Ellenborough neglected his bride and she soon sought consolation elsewhere. Before she was twenty-one Jane’s love affair with an Austrian prince precipitated her into one of the most scandalous divorce cases of the nineteenth century. In April 1830, to the astonishment of its readers, The Times cleared its traditional front page of classified advertisements to carry a sensational news story – a verbatim report of the Ellenborough divorce hearing in Parliament which included intimate details about the beautiful peeress and her prince.
Jane did not dispute the charges. Head over heels in love, she had already run off to Europe. But her story did not end there. Subsequently, for over twenty years Jane was to have a number of love affairs with members of the European aristocracy including a German baron, a Greek count and the King of Bavaria, as well as an Albanian general from the mountains. During this time she also married twice and travelled from the royal courts of Europe to the wilder regions of Turkey and the Orient. After a succession of scandals and betrayals, she made a journey to Syria. By then she was almost fifty and feared her life was over. Astonishingly, the most exciting part of her story still lay ahead of her.
The Arab nobleman who had been engaged to escort her caravan to the ruined city of Palmyra fell in love with her. He was young enough to be her son, was of a different culture and already had a spouse; indeed, he had recently divorced a second wife but he asked Jane to marry him. Although she was doubtful at first, she was soon deeply in love and, ignoring the entreaties of British officials, placed herself willingly in the power of a man who could divorce his partners on a whim. Sheikh Medjuel el Mezrab was the love of her life, and he brought her all the romance and adventure she had ever dreamed of.
Inevitably, because of the years she spent in Arabia, Jane’s story invites comparisons with that of Lady Hester Stanhope, the niece and confidante of William Pitt who became the self-styled ‘Queen of the Desert’ a generation before Jane. But Hester Stanhope ended her life in Syria in abject poverty as an eccentric recluse, robbed, abused and eventually deserted by her Arab servants. Jane Digby lived as a respected, working leader of her adopted tribe, spending months at a time in the Baghdad desert, sharing the spare existence of the bedouin.
So astonishing was Jane Digby’s career to her contemporaries that no fewer than eight novels based on her character and various elements of her story were written during her lifetime – one for every decade of her life. From 1830 until her death in Damascus in 1881 her name was rarely out of the newspapers as she featured in one outrageous tale after another.
Was it possible, I wondered when I embarked upon this project, to discover the rationale of such a person who even as a young woman married to an eminent Cabinet Minister refused to concede to convention by hiding her illicit love affair? Who a century ahead of her time was completely free of any form of racial or cultural prejudice? Who saw travel to exotic destinations as a raison d’être second only to sharing her life with a great all-encompassing love (though she showed remarkably little regard for the immense difficulties involved in both)? Who had, even prior to her desert expeditions, carelessly abandoned the comfortable life of a royal mistress to live with an Albanian chieftain who was virtually a legitimised brigand?
Over a hundred years had elapsed since her death, but I knew that, in common with many contemporaries, Jane kept diaries all her life. Her first biographer, E. M. Oddie, who wrote A Portrait of Ianthe in 1935, had access to some of them; but several subsequent biographers (such as Lesley Blanch and Margaret Schmidt) declared that the diaries were lost. Since E. M. Oddie had quoted from the diaries hardly at all, this seemed especially tragic. So I set out to discover what had happened to them in order to learn about Jane through her own voice. I also decided to try to locate the diaries and correspondence of people who met or were friends with Jane, not only to see what more could be learned about her, but to give a three-dimensional perspective to her story.
I contacted Lord Digby, a direct descendant of Jane’s brother, Edward, and in April 1993 at his invitation I drove down to Minterne House in Dorset one morning to see his collection of Jane’s watercolours. Over lunch I told him about my work and, after a pause, he looked at me, seemed to come to a decision, and said, ‘Um, we do have Jane’s diaries here. But we’ve never shown them to anyone.’
Within a short time I was seated at a writing table with objects that had once been Jane’s; her notebooks and sketchbooks, and her diaries which covered more than three decades, principally those years she spent in the desert. All would need to be transcribed and indexed to be easily accessible. Some sections written in pencil were badly faded; many entries were written in code and there were passages written in French and Arabic. I realised too that the code, once broken, might translate into any of the many languages that Jane spoke; it would be a mammoth task. Five days later I was due to leave for Syria to research Jane’s life there. I asked to be allowed to return to Minterne at some date in the future for a very long time.
Somewhere there must be a patron saint of biographers, to whom I owe much. On my second visit Lord Digby showed me a small portrait of Jane which hangs in the great hall at Minterne. ‘We believe from portraits that she had the same colouring as my sister Pamela … we’ve always thought they were probably quite alike.’ The Hon. Pamela Digby, later Mrs Randolph Churchill and now US Ambassador Mrs Averell Harriman, shares a great deal with Jane: intelligence and charm, an unselfconscious sexuality, a disregard of the mores that accept (even admire) polygamy in men but deprecate similar behaviour in women. Mrs Harriman is widely regarded as a nonpareil among US Ambassadors to France and her ability to attract and fascinate is as legendary as that of her ancestor. Several portraits of Jane bear a remarkable likeness to Pamela Digby Harriman.
One memorable day I received a package from a descendant of Jane’s brother Kenelm, a branch of whose family moved to New Zealand some decades ago. It contained letters written by Jane to her family and others over a thirty-year period. Together with her diaries and other papers, they provide a unique insight into a remarkable life.
During my trip to Syria I encountered the seductive spell of the desert that so bewitched Jane. With the enthusiastic help of my guide and interpreter Hussein Hinnawi, I was able to locate the remaining traces of her residence in Damascus; her home with its celebrated octagonal drawing-room and the high cupola ceiling, its curved alcoves for books and china, and its treasury of gilded woodcarving; her grave and – not least – Jane’s lingering legend. Even after I left Syria, Hussein continued to research the story, purely out of interest, and his contribution to this book has been invaluable.
Had I simply copied all the information amassed during research, including relevant excerpts from over 200 books and scores of newspapers, parliamentary records, Jane’s own diaries, letters and sundry papers, and those of her many friends such as Lady Anne Blunt, Isabel Burton and Emily Beaufort, the result would have been many thousands of pages of text. However, the job of a biographer is not merely to unearth and assemble facts; one must also dissect, compare, confirm and analyse; then hone the result in order to present to the reader a historically accurate, digestible and, I hope, enjoyable account of the subject.
Here, then, is my portrait of Jane Elizabeth Digby.
I Golden Childhood 1807–1823
When Jane Elizabeth Digby was born at Forston House in Dorset on 3 April 1807 her parents had hoped for a son. However, she was such a beautiful child that her family were soon besotted with her. After all, there was time for sons and, as Jane’s aunt wrote, ‘providing the little girl is well and promising we must not hold her sex against her’.1
Later, with her large violet-blue eyes and pink-and-white complexion, little Janet (as her family called her then) was a pretty sight. Her waist-length golden hair, curling free from the prescribed banded and ringleted style, glistened halo-like in the sunshine. Her cheeks glowed: ‘a picture of health,’ local villagers said. As curious and agile as a kitten, as intelligent and eager as a puppy, she seemed to want to take the world by the coat-tails, and there was about her, even then, an irresistible charm.
This alert vitality captivated her grandfather, who was called ‘Coke of Norfolk’ throughout the country and ‘King Coke’ by everyone in Norfolk. Widely regarded as the most important and powerful commoner in England, Thomas Coke might have had a peerage for the asking; indeed, King George III was eager enough to bestow one. Yet this would have meant Coke giving up his independence and his seat in the House of Commons where he represented the county of Norfolk. He saw no merit in doing so.
Thomas Coke had three daughters, Jane, Anne and Elizabeth. They were all acknowledged beauties and all well educated; his late wife had seen to that when it became obvious there would be no male heir.2 In addition to these advantages, Mr Coke had dowered his girls generously so that their eligibility in the marriage market was assured, though, in the event, all three married for love.3 Since their sex prevented them from inheriting a title from their father, he therefore resisted ennoblement – once to the extent of openly rebuffing the King – spoke his mind freely and often bluntly, and owed allegiance to no man he felt had not earned his respect.
Coke’s home in Norfolk was Holkham Hall, a Palladian mansion more like a palace than the home of a country squire. Here, in the great house where her mother had grown up, Jane spent much of her childhood.
Jane’s mother, Thomas Coke’s eldest daughter Jane, was known as Lady Andover, a form of address she used for the remainder of her life. The title was retained from a previous (childless) marriage which had ended in tragedy when she was twenty-one. Her husband Lord Andover had been killed as the result of a shooting accident that she had accurately foreseen in a dream. She had rushed out to him upon hearing the news, and almost his last words to her were: ‘My dear, your dream has come true!’4 It was not her only successful prediction and, curiously, her second husband had a similar ability, claiming that he owed his first success to a voice in a dream which told him to change the direction in which his ship was headed and even the course to steer.5
Captain Henry Digby, Jane’s father, was a fair, handsome and much decorated naval hero. Prior to his marriage to Lady Andover he had distinguished himself at Trafalgar as commander of HMS Africa. In a letter to his uncle, the Hon. R. Digby (later Lord Digby), at Minterne he wrote of his part in the battle:
HMS Africa at sea off the Straits November 1, 1805
My dear Uncle,
I write merely to say I am well, after having been closely engaged for 6 hours on 21st October. For details, being busy to the greatest degree, I have lost all my masts in consequence of the action and my ship is otherwise cut to pieces but sound in the bottom. My killed and wounded number 63, and many of the latter I shall lose if I do not get into port …
After passing through the line in which position I brought down the fore masts of Santisima Trinidad mounting 140 guns, after which I engaged with pistol shot L’Intrépide 74 guns, which afterwards was struck and burnt, Orion and Conqueror coming up. A little boy that stayed with me is safe. Twice on the poop I was left alone, all about me being killed or wounded. I am very deaf.6
Before Trafalgar he had been posted aboard the frigate Aurora and in less than two years had captured six French privateers (thanks to the voice in his dream) and one corvette, L’Egalité, making a total of 144 guns and 744 men, besides 48 merchant ships taken or sunk. In command of the Leviathan he assisted in the capture of the island of Minorca. Later he captured two French men-of-war, Le Dépit and La Courage; and in 1799 two Spanish frigates Thetis and Brigide, which carried between them 3 million dollars in gold. Fifty military wagons were needed to convey the spoils from Plymouth Dock to the Citadel. By the time he was thirty, Captain Digby had earned himself over £57,000 in prize money alone, and another £7,000 over the next five years.7
At the time of Jane’s birth Captain Digby owned Forston House, a pleasant country property in Dorset. It overlooked the famous Cerne Abbas giant and was close to his uncle’s estate, Minterne. It was because of her father’s frequent absences at sea, and her mother’s natural wish to spend time ‘at home’ at Holkham while he was away, that Jane and her two younger brothers, Edward and Kenelm, were often at their grandfather’s house and, like their mother, came to regard Holkham as a second home. Here the eleven children of Lady Andover’s sister Anne and her husband, Lord Anson, were also educated in the capacious schoolroom. Jane was particularly close to her Anson cousins Henry and Fanny who were nearest to her in age.
Those first decades of the nineteenth century were a golden era for the rich. Vast country houses surrounded by shaved lawns and pleasure gardens, with artificial lakes, follies and deer parks, stables full of hunters, hacks and work-horses, and coach-houses full of elegant equipages, provided work and livings for hundreds of servants indoors and out. Holkham was no exception.
Tom Coke could not be described as extravagant; he spent shrewdly enough, but no visitor ever walked through the deliberately unpretentious front entrance of Holkham Hall without being stunned at what lay within. The massive entrance hall, modelled on a Roman temple of justice, is an extravaganza of marble, alabaster and carved stone. Fluted Ionic columns support the domed Inigo Jones roof, a gilded crown for this masterpiece of light and space. Around the walls are bas-relief and marble sculptures, and the classical theme continues throughout the house. Holkham was – and remains – richly endowed with Greek and Roman statuary, but it is also famous for its art collection, its rich and rare furnishings and sumptuous Genoese velvet hangings, and its incomparable library. It is still regarded, along with Chatsworth, Blenheim, Badminton and Burghley, as one of the truly great houses of England.
Such grandeur, however, was not the brainchild of Jane’s grandfather. The property was bought in 1610 by Edward Coke, the famous jurist, who became Lord Chief Justice. The first Earl of Leicester built the present house in 1734 and, when the direct line failed, the estate, but not the title, passed to Thomas William Coke. If Thomas Coke ever was inclined towards prodigality, the money was spent on his lands rather than his house. Politically he was a staunch Whig, but first and foremost he was a dedicated agricultural reformer, who spent a fortune8 transforming a rugged wasteland ‘where two rabbits fought over a single blade of grass’ into a fertile, productive, ‘scientifically controlled’ region famous for its barley soil.9 He convinced men of substance to invest in long-leases of farms and to ‘induce their sons, after [reading] Greek and Latin in public schools, to put themselves under the tuition of well-informed practical farmers to be competent for management.’10 It is no exaggeration to say that this far-sighted man was the architect of modern farming methods throughout the world.
His livestock, particularly sheep, were selectively bred for meat, breeding stock and wool. His annual sheep-shearing, known as Coke’s Clippings, became a sort of four-day county fair which attracted thousands of sightseers from all over the country, and overseas. Exhibitions of every aspect of rural industry, from animal husbandry to flax weaving and the building of agricultural cottages, were presented. Conferences were held during which papers were given on agricultural matters such as crop rotation and stock-breeding, and these were a magnet for the guests assembled at Holkham for the Clippings, almost all of them titled.11 The autumn and winter shooting parties at Holkham included royalty and top political figures of the Whig Party, as well as sporting squires, and Mr Coke’s hospitality was legendary.
Despite his leaning towards outdoor pursuits, Thomas Coke did not neglect the arts. Educated at Eton (where on one occasion, to avoid being caught poaching on the neighbouring royal estates, he swam the River Thames with a hare in his mouth),12 he spoke both Greek and Latin. He inherited the vast library of classical literature and manuscripts at Holkham, considered to be a national treasure (when he took over Holkham he found hundreds of rare books from Italy still unpacked in their crates), but he continued throughout his life to purchase rare books, and works of art by such contemporary geniuses as Gainsborough, to add to those by Titian, Van Dyck, Holbein, Rubens and Leonardo da Vinci.
It was in this atmosphere that Jane spent much of her youth. She was encouraged by her grandfather to ride, to take an interest in the active management of horses and small farm animals, to read the classics and to be aware of the ancient civilisations represented at Holkham, as well as modern politics. She lived the privileged life of a cosseted only daughter, surrounded on all sides by love and admiration, and the constant companionship of her two brothers and numerous cousins. In turn she worshipped her hero father, adored her lovely mother, who was called by all three children ‘La Madre’, and loved and revered her aunts.
We have mere glimpses of Jane in those days. A family friend who peered round the door of an upper-floor room saw through the dust motes of an early summer morning that ‘the schoolroom was nearly full … there was Miss Digby – so beautiful – and the two Ansons, such dear and pretty children’.13 Another noted Jane’s vitality and grace of movement, but judged that ‘her chief glory was her hair, which fell, a rippling golden cascade, down to her knees.’14 An aunt recollected that as a child Jane used to refer to annoying incidents with the impatient phrase, ‘it is most provocative and bothersome.’15 In later years, Jane’s own diary recalls the wonderful, rumbustious, ‘old-fashioned’ Christmases at Holkham, with all the traditions of feasting and mummers and laughter and games, and the annual servants’ party. We also know from the diaries of her relatives, and visitors to Holkham, of the gargantuan dinners of dozens of courses for scores of appreciative diners from the Prince of Wales (a frequent visitor before he became Regent) to scholars, to which the children were sometimes invited. Again, we learn from her own diary that Jane’s chief delight was to beat her brothers in their frequent mock horse-races.16 She had no time for dolls and girlish toys but preferred riding and playing with dogs and the numerous family pets.17 Totally fearless, she could ride anything in the Holkham stables, and was as at home looking after a sick beast as riding one – which must have especially endeared her to her grandfather.
That she was frequently wilful is enshrined in family legend, as is the further characteristic that she was so prettily mannered and always so abjectly apologetic at having offended that she was instantly forgiven. It was a happy childhood, but her natural high spirits led her into many ‘scrapes’, as she called them, and a picture emerges of a highly intelligent, active, perhaps somewhat spoiled little girl who instinctively threw up her head at any attempt to check her. She was not unfeeling in her pranks, however; her anxious cajolery shines through the tear-stained and ink-blotted note of apology that she wrote to her mother at the age of about eight: