The First Iron Lady: A Life of Caroline of Ansbach. Matthew Dennison

      Blonde, buxom, with a rippling laugh and a raft of intellectual hobbyhorses, in 1714 she was also the mother of four healthy children. Her fertility was in stark contrast to the record of later Stuarts: barren Catherine of Braganza, Portuguese wife of Charles II; childless Mary II and Queen Anne, whose seventeen pregnancies fatally undermined her health but failed to produce a single healthy heir. Early praise of Caroline celebrated her fecundity. Poet Thomas Tickell’s Royal Progress of 1714 invites the reader to marvel at ‘the opening wonders’ of George I’s reign: ‘Bright Carolina’s heavenly beauties trace,/Her valiant consort and his blooming race./A train of kings their fruitful love supplies.’ Those magnificent breasts, so remarked upon by onlookers and commemorated in a formidable posthumous portrait bust by sculptor John Michael Rysbrack, were an obvious metaphor, key assets for the mother of a new dynasty.3

      With conventional hyperbole, the future Frederick the Great addressed her as ‘a Queen whose merit and virtues are the theme of universal admiration’.4 Voltaire acclaimed her as ‘a delightful philosopher on the throne’.5 Her niece, the Margravine of Bayreuth, praised her ‘powerful understanding and great knowledge’, and an Irish clergyman noted in her ‘such a quickness of apprehension, seconded by a great judiciousness of observation’.6 In his Marwnad y Frenhines Carolina (‘Elegy to Queen Caroline’), London-based Welsh poet Richard Morris called her ‘ail Elisa’, a second Eliza or Elizabeth.7 Jane Brereton’s The Royal Heritage: A Poem, of 1733, made another Tudor connection, linking the intelligent Caroline with Henry VIII: ‘O Queen! More learn’d than e’er Britannia saw,/Since our fam’d Tudor to the Realm gave Law.’8 More simply, her girlhood mentor described her company as ‘reviving’.9 Meanwhile Alexander Pope, a sceptical observer, was responsible for several critical poetic imaginings of Caroline. These include the personification of cynical adroitness he offered in Of the Characters of Women – ‘She, who ne’er answers till a Husband cools,/Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;/Charms by accepting, by submitting sways’ – a view in line with Lord Hervey’s statement that she ‘governed [George Augustus] by dissimulation, by affected tenderness and deference’.10 Caroline’s dissatisfaction with the conventional limits of a consort’s role – her reluctance to be defined by gynaecological prowess or her appearance – inspired conflicting responses among her contemporaries, but lies at the heart of her remarkable story.

      Caroline is the heroine of sparkling memoirs by her vice chamberlain, John, Lord Hervey, written shortly after the events they describe; she is at the heart of published memoirs and diaries by two of her closest female attendants, Mary, Lady Cowper, and Charlotte Clayton, afterwards Lady Sundon. Like the majority of primary sources, none is wholly reliable. In 1900, Caroline’s first full-length biography, Caroline the Illustrious, by W.H. Wilkins, lauded its subject as central to the successful transfer of the electors of Hanover to Britain’s throne. Unlike the author, reviewers glimpsed Caroline and her world through a prism of Victorian disapproval, firmly thrusting her back into a disreputable past. ‘She died as she lived, a strange mixture of cynicism and clairvoyance,’ commented the Spectator opaquely. ‘Herself the model of virtue, she spent her life in an atmosphere of vulgar vice.’11 In 1939, a biography by Rachel Arkell again acclaimed Caroline’s intellect and acuity. Both authors drew on source material in German archives subsequently damaged by wartime bombing. Published in the same year as Arkell’s account, Peter Quennell’s Caroline of England is lighter stuff, in part a portrait of robust Augustan London dandled in the face of Nazi aggression.

      And then a curtain descended. Like her husband George II, in 1973 the only British monarch not to merit a volume in Weidenfeld & Nicolson’s popular ‘Life and Times’ series, Caroline again fell out of view. Her reputation suffered eclipse by a better-known Queen Caroline, George IV’s despised wife Caroline of Brunswick. The latter’s rackety story invests her husband’s history with tabloid sensationalism. Caroline of Ansbach’s impact on her demanding spouse came closer to that of Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha on Queen Victoria or Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon on George VI, an admonitory, popularising presence, albeit exercised more covertly than Albert’s earnest pedagogy.

      Such wholesale neglect is the more surprising given that, in her lifetime, Caroline inspired reverence, adulation, sneering and hatred. A poem written to celebrate her coronation in 1727 pictured her unconvincingly as the embodiment of ‘Innocence and Mildness …/The sure Foundation of domestic Love’; a decade later, Richard West’s A Monody on the Death of Queen Caroline wrongly predicted ‘thy name, great Queen, shall … live in every age’.12 By contrast her father-in-law described her as a ‘she-devil’ or ‘fury’. She was burnt in effigy on the streets of London. A rancorous elderly courtier recoiled even from her appearance, her ‘face frightfull, her eyes very small & green like a Cat & her shape yet worse’.13

      To others she was a poster girl for Protestant piety and, in at least one case, no less than the earthly mediator of a Protestant God: ‘Th’Almighty seeing so much Christian Grace,/And how, on Earth, she ran the heavenly Race;/Has constituted ROYAL CAROLINE/His Agent here, to make his Glory shine.’14 A panegyric stated, ‘it appears to the admiration even of those who saw her at all times and seasons, and in every hour when the Mind is most unguarded, that her Majesty was always in a very eminent manner the same great and good Person’.15 A politician’s wife referred to Caroline’s ‘ears … always open to the cries of the distressed’.16

      The truth is seldom one-sided, and flattery distorts. Caroline was villain and victim, sinner as well as saint, fond and loving but a good hater too. Keenly interested in politics, in the decade until her death she played a part in George II’s government, while never revealing to that prickly and self-important prince the full extent of her interference when his back was turned. She had no truck with political impartiality. Whig politics – a Protestant, pro-parliamentary outlook – had placed her husband’s family on the throne, and in her relationship with pre-eminent politician of the period, Robert Walpole, satirised on her account as ‘the Queen’s Minister’, Caroline was as fully a Whig partisan as her husband or her father-in-law George I. ‘We are as much blinded in England by politicks and views of interest, as we are by mists and fogs, and ’tis necessary to have a very uncommon constitution not to be tainted with the distempers of our climate,’ wrote Caroline’s contemporary Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.17 Caroline shared the blindness of her adopted countrymen. ‘I am a woman and I delude myself,’ she once claimed with careful disingenuousness; she was concerned with status as well as power.

      During George’s absences in Hanover she acted as regent on four occasions. With regal élan, she exercised patronage, commissioning architects and garden designers, providing financial assistance for poets, overseeing loose coteries of philosophers, scientists and divines; building for herself a splendid royal library adjoining St James’s Palace. She championed inoculation. The report she commissioned on a Parisian orphanage shaped Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital, opened after her death. She identified grounds for prison reform during the regency of 1732, but failed to persuade Robert Walpole to action. And from early in her marriage, aware that her husband’s destiny lay in Britain, she worked consistently at self-anglicisation, this German princess determined to succeed in the role of British queen. In scale her anglophile initiatives were large and small – from cultivating the good opinion of politicians and militarists to drinking tea and subscribing £100 to Pope’s translation of The Iliad. None of these acts was either wholly accidental or disjointed.