Lady Colin Campbell
Although “Victorian Sex Goddess” is a rather sensational title for a book, this account of the redoubtable Lady Colin Campbell by G H Fleming is refreshingly understated. I’m sure few writers could resist the temptation to ham up one of the most dramatic court cases in British legal history. He mainly allows the case to speak for itself, but includes a plethora of seemingly insignificant details which both delight and enlighten the reader.
Lady Colin Campbell was born Gertrude Blood in 1857, and enjoyed a liberal upper-middle-class upbringing. She developed into an attractive, intelligent and urbane woman. Unfortunately, she was also impulsive, agreeing to marry Lord Colin Campbell MP just three days after they met on holiday in Scotland. A whirlwind romance ensured, followed by elevation into high society. Marital felicity was not to be her lot, however. Lord Colin, it appeared, had knowingly infected her with syphilis. The delicate state of his lower portions meant that they had initially refrained from sexual relations, but after a few months Lord Colin handed his wife a note from his doctor stating that intercourse would be beneficial to his health. Hardly a billet doux. As a husband’s conjugal rights were paramount, she consented.
Unsurprisingly, Lord Colin’s illness overshadowed the marriage, and the relationship quickly broke down. He was an irrascible patient and frequently violent towards his nurses. Lady Colin, understandably, kept her distance and tried to build an independent life for herself. It is hard to imagine that she would have agreed to marry Lord Colin had she know the full truth regarding his medical background and the risk it posed to her. Of course, it was unseemly for a woman to be even vaguely aware of such matters. As she tried to estrange herself from him, he simply asserted his legal mastery over her, and endeavoured to force her to leave the marital home. Had she done so, she could not have sued for maintenance, which would have left her destitute. Wives were unable to take this action until the passing of the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1886. Furthermore, choosing this course would have suggested that the blame lay with her and placed her in an invidious position.
The law did partially come to Lady Colin’s rescue. During a court hearing in March 1886, the judge was convinced that Lord Colin had infected her with syphilis and granted a decree of separation, a decision that was upheld on appeal. Lady Colin moved in with her parents, and the recently passed Married Women’s Property Act meant that she retained control over her own modest financial resources. Before 1882, they would have been automatically ceded to her husband on marriage.
Lord Colin was outraged by her defiance and pledged to ruin her reputation in a full divorce trial, knowing that her behaviour would be viewed by many to be unwifely. He accused her of adultery with a Duke, a General, a surgeon, and London’s fire chief (not at the same time), whilst she countered with charges of adultery and cruelty. At that time, wives could not divorce their errant husbands on grounds of adultery alone – it had to be “aggravated” by cruelty or desertion, this double standard having been enshrined in law by the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857. Lady Colin’s counsel argued that Lord Colin knowingly infecting her with syphilis constituted cruelty.
What followed was a forensic examination of an upper-class marriage. The case stretched over eighteen days during the final weeks of 1886, and saw a procession of more than fifty witnesses and a barrage of revelations concerning both parties. Fleming has carefully assembled a transcript from over forty newspaper reports and presented it with illuminating, yet unobtrusive, commentary. Fortunately, the quality broadsheets of the day tended to quote considerable chunks of court cases verbatim. The nineteenth-century tabloids, on the other hand, were obsessed with Lady Colin’s sexuality, one describing her as a “sex-goddess”, and another declaring that she possessed “the unbridled lust of Messalina and the indelicate readiness of a common harlot.”
Some witness extolled Lady Colin’s intellectual virtues, which actually did her more harm than good. The gentlemen of the jury (for there were no ladies at that time) were likely to be unimpressed by a woman defying her conventionally prescribed role. Her involvement in good causes also counted against her, the prosecution thundering that: “A married woman with a husband is better employed looking after him than in attending forty charitable concerts in the course of a year.” Although Lady Colin’s QC described how unbearable life with her husband had become, public opinion decreed that she should submit to him unquestioningly. Lord Colin was clearly upholding a husband’s right to behave badly with impunity, whilst his wife was far ahead of her time in believing there were limits to what she should reasonably be expected to tolerate.
The jury took some considerable time to reach a verdict, but eventually cleared both Campbells of adultery. As that was the only grounds for divorce at the time, they had to content themselves with a legal separation. Although her reputation had taken a considerable battering, Lady Colin was officially exonerated and she smiled as she left court. Lord Colin (or at least his father) was landed with a legal bill of £20,000 and soon departed for an undistinguished career at the Bar in Bombay.
Lady Colin did a much better job of reinventing herself, although she never quite escaped the notoriety of having been part of the longest running divorce case ever seen. She found herself a modest apartment and embarked upon a varied and prolific career in journalism, also writing several novels and a play. She espoused such causes as the introduction of cycle lanes and equal smoking rights for women. She could easily have settled for a quiet life of pentinence and reflection, but instead continued to push the boundaries. Lord Colin died of pneumonia in 1885, leaving Lady Colin free to marry, an opportunity of which she declined to avail herself. Debilitating rheumatism left her increasingly reclusive and she died in 1911 at the age of 53. Ahead of her time, as ever, she opted for cremation over the more traditional burial.
As this book focuses on the trial and its background, there is only brief consideration given to her subsequent career. Happily, a spot of Googling has shown that a full-length biography by Anne Jordan is forthcoming. Lady Campbell should be remembered for more than just her unfortunate choice of husband.
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{ 11 comments… read them below or add one }
That syphilis gets everywhere. Seriously, though, this sounds fascinating. The dissertationer in me wonders whether there was any reference to the unlucky couple considering children in any way, shape, or form?
I did think of you when I saw mention of syphilis, although in good way, obviously. One witness for Lord Campbell did claim that Lady Campbell had suffered a miscarriage, although her implication was that the pregnancy was the result of an adulterious liaison. Both parties employed euphemisms extensively, so clarity is a problem, but it seems as though they used some form of prophylactic.
Hmm, interesting. I wonder if their ‘preventative checks’ had anything to do with passing syphilis on to any children. That, of course, would be ridiculously convenient for me…
Well, I suspect Lord Campbell was far more interested in protecting his heirs than protecting his wife. It might be worth looking at the divorce court reports in The Times during December 1886, as there will no doubt be more information than was included in the book. Also, Anne Jordan who I mentioned at the end of the review might be able some elucidation.
You do find the most interesting people stories! Why did Lord Colin pursue her so viciously when it’s clear he was in the wrong? Oh I may of course have answered my own question there.
I think Lord Colin made the reasonable assumption that his wife would be treated far more harshly by the court. Although he had acted despicably, she was still expected to serve and endure. Women couldn’t divorce on grounds of adultery alone until the twentieth century, so the double standard was very much enshrined in law.
We are currently reading Guy de Maupassant’s _Bel Ami_ on the 19thLit group. In that novel, a woman character smokes a cigarette in her living room (this would have been about 1880). Some of the members were surprised at this act, though I wonder if French women were freer to indulge the habit than English women at the time. In any case, do you know, Catherine, when the act to permit English women to smoke was enacted, or did smoking among weomen eventually become so common that the prohibition was considered frivolous? Was there an actual law preventing women from partaking of the weed?
Of course the social stigma attached to anyone smoking nowadays probably carries as much weight as any statute in Victorian times.
What an awful story. Campbell should have been run out of the country. It appears from what you say, however, that Lady Campbell didn’t suffer the usual effects of syphilis, especially the dreaded third stage in which paralysis sets in.
Bob
Many thanks for your interesting comments, Bob. Women weren’t forbidden to smoke by law, but there was a social stigma attached, which was an equally effective deterrent. Writers such as Eliza Lynn Linton and Marie Corelli castigated the bicycle-riding, cigarette-smoking New Woman as “mannish”, and no doubt there were also Freudian interpretations which were just as alarming. I suspect you’re right that French women were freer to indulge in the habit than their English counterparts. I haven’t come across any female characters in Victorian novels who just “happen” to smoke; it’s always used to indicate that she’s subversive.
It wasn’t clear from the book whether Lady Campbell actually contracted syphilis. I’m hoping the forthcoming biography will go into more detail. I don’t know much about this field of study, but her story does seem to be depressingly common. I have huge admiration for Lady Campbell’s actions, as she made a very public point that his behaviour was unacceptable. I wonder whether it made other husbands think twice about subjecting their wives to such appalling treatment?
I’ve just been reading around in an edition of the Goncourt journals, looking for material on Maupassant, who died of syphilis. In the latter stages of the disease, he appeared to go mad. As the disease destroys the brain. evidently, it produces psychotic-like symptoms. It is, in any case, a terrible disease to die from, the equal of Altzheimer’s in its ravages.
Bob
That does indeed sound awful, Bob. Did you enjoy the Goncourt Journals? I’ve been meaning to read them for a while.
Catherine,
Anyone interested in 19th-century French literature will relish the material in the Goncourt journals. I have a one-volume edition, _Pages from the Goncourt Journal_, published by the New York Review Books Classics. The translator is Robert Baldick, who does a wonderful job. The selection begins in 1851 and ends in 1896. Just about everybody who is anybody in French literature during that period makes an appearance, often accompanied by witty remarks, opinions of literature, and personal anecdotes It’s a good investment.
Bob