by Jane Dunn
But for some reason hope had left her. It seemed that on her journey from London to Chicksands the stark hopelessness of their position was suddenly clear and a dark pessimism overwhelmed her. This was the nadir of their relationship and Dorothy felt the only way to stop the suffering was to end their romance. A series of anguished letters followed, trying to convince William and also herself that it was folly to struggle any more against a fate that was determinedly against them. She set out to argue that it was less painful to accept what had to be: they were never to be lovers and must remain no more than friends. To use William’s own metaphor, Dorothy now preferred the unmitigated darkness of the dungeon to the exhausting fluctuation of disappointment and hope offered by the fitful glimmer of light flickering in the gloom. She wrote to an increasingly frantic William that their love had been too all-consuming and intense, challenging as it did the divine love owed to God alone.
‘I think I need not tell you how dear you have bin to mee nor that in your kindenesse I placed all the sattisfaction of my life, ’twas the onely happinesse I proposed to my selfe, and had sett my heart soe much upon it, that it was therfore made my punishment, to let mee see how innocent soever I thought my affection, it was guilty in being greater then is allowable for things of this world.’ Dorothy was careful to stress this decision was not a result of outside pressure or one of her periodic depressions: ‘’Tis not a melancholy humor gives mee these aprehensions and inclinations, nor the Persuasions of Others, tis the result of a longe Strife with my selfe … When wee have tryed all wayes to happinesse, there is noe such thing to bee found, but in a minde conformed to on’s condition whatsoever it bee, and in not aymeing at any things that is either imposible, or improbable. All the rest is but Vanity and Vexation of Spirritt.’
Both Dorothy and William long considered their own story followed the epic trajectory of fictional romance. But they would also have known that every romance had to have its reversal of fortune where misunderstanding, renunciation and despair marked the darkness before the dawn. This was the trial that the lovers had to endure in order to emerge triumphant, but at this unstable point in their own drama there was no indication that either Dorothy or William was able to take the long view. It was all too serious and painful, life and death seemed in the balance, and the sense of formidable family opposition and fatal miscommunication made their story less epic romance and more Shakespearean tragedy, mirroring the trials of Romeo and Juliet, with the spectre of its awful conclusion.
In her long sleepless nights Dorothy had struggled to understand what was best for them now that she was facing up to the stark reality of their lack of prospects. She likened this conflict within her to the devastation of civil war that leaves both sides ruined and exhausted and ‘usefull to none’.52 Dorothy certainly argued herself into a kind of stasis that recoiled from all high passion and seemed to wish for an insensate peace. But she had to try to persuade William of her reasoning. She thought the power of their desire had made them oblivious to everything else, had made dreams seem real and cast the rest of their lives into a kind of limbo:
wee have lived hitherto upon hopes soe Airye that I have often wonderd how they could support the weight of our misfortunes. But passion gives a Strength above Nature, wee see it in mad People, (and not to fflatter our selves) ours is but a refined degree of madnesse. What can it bee else, to be lost to all things in the world but that single Object that takes up on’s ffancy to loose all the quiet and repose of on’s life in hunting after it, when there is soe litle likelyhood of ever gaineing it, and soe many, more probable, accidents, that will infallibly make us misse of it [so many more chances that we will fail].53
In the middle of this feverish flurry of unhappy letters one of William’s letters went missing. This was almost the last straw for him. He was afraid that her brother had intercepted it. There was little doubt that the contents were incendiary. Dorothy assured him that Henry could not have concealed it from her, ‘As cunning as hee is, hee could not hide it soe from mee, but that I should discover it some way or other,’ and she had stayed indoors the whole day when the letter was due. She considered its loss, however, as further proof of their misfortunes and punishment for ‘inconsiderat passion … ’t has bin the ruine of us both’.54
During this frantic interchange of letters, Dorothy’s tone struggled for a pained rationality while William’s was wildly incontinent, accusing her of betraying their love, threatening violence to himself in his despair and demanding that she at least allow him to see her face to face. Dorothy agreed to this, even that he could come to Chicksands, despite the emotional consequences of being exposed to speculation and gossip: ‘I must indure the noise it will make and undergoe the Censors of a People that Choose ever to give the worst interpretation that any thing will bear,’55 but William had to wait until after Christmas, which was a week away. She did not want her concession, however, to give him any hope that she would change her mind: ‘lost and as wretched as I am, I have still some sence of my reputation left in mee … if you see mee thus, make it the last of our interviews. What can Excuse mee if I should Entertaine any Person that is known to pretend [be a suitor] to mee, when I can have noe hope of ever marryeng him.’56
William had somehow compared his own all-consuming passion for Dorothy with his father’s exclusive love for his wife, depriving him of any inclination to marry again. It seemed that William had threatened if he couldn’t have her as his love there would be nobody else for him, his life barely worth living. Dorothy was quick to point out an example of a passionate widow she knew who had sworn she never could or would love again, but eventually had confounded her own predictions and lived on in a new and happy conjugality. She exhorted him not to let his passions master him, but she seemed to be struggling to master her own. Having admitted on a dull Christmas Eve that she found the world a vile place and had lost all interest and care even for her nearest family, Dorothy was fast slipping, it seemed, into the inertia of a deep despair.
Much of the anxiety and fear experienced by both resulted from the difficulties of communication. Dorothy was marooned in the country with only the slow and uncertain progress of the post boy to bring any news, and that usually came at least twenty-four hours old. Travelling too was uncomfortable and slow and so if something happened to someone distant from you there was an inevitable, sometimes critical, delay in getting to that person in time. Added to this physical isolation was emotional loneliness, for Dorothy could not confide in any of her family, although she did have Jane Wright, a companion and stalwart friend to both her and William, who was often at Chicksands with her. But in reality she had to make her decisions and bear her fears alone.
There was no doubt that William in London, distant a good eighty miles or so from Dorothy, was distraught. The decision to end their love affair and dissolve their private engagement was imposed on him unilaterally by her and she seemed at first implacable in her resolve. The hope he had harboured over the last five years that he would live with the woman to whom he had given his heart was now denied him and he did not accept it quietly. From his letters and writing it was evident he was impetuous and emotionally highly responsive. In a piece of original composition in one of the romances he rewrote for Dorothy during their enforced absence, he elaborated on the reaction of his hero on receiving a letter telling him of the loss of his love: ‘his soule for a time seem’d to bee gone in quest of that dearest treasure it had lately lost, but comming back in despaire of ever finding it againe, his first thoughts after the recovery of his senses were how to lose them indeed, having now no object left wch deserv’d theire employment.’ Reaching for a dagger, he decides to open ‘a passage to his hearte the onely place now left where [his love] was to be found’.57
Undoubtedly William wrote very much in this vein to Dorothy and was swinging between wildly emotional statements, threatening violence to himself, perhaps even suicide, and attempts to counter her arguments with some rationale of his own. But han
ging over all the frenzy was the cloud of their mutual despair. Suddenly, emerging from her depressed denial of feeling, Dorothy’s warm heart was inflamed once more, this time by her concern over William’s state of mind: ‘I am Extreamly sencible of your affliction, that I would Lay downe my life to redeem you from it,’ she wrote in agitation, then, on realising that this self-sacrifice did not ask much of a woman who professed to value her life so lightly, she offered instead her reputation: ‘that’s all my wealth and that I could part with to restore you to that quiet you lived in when I first knew you.’ She was quick to point out again that she did not want this to raise his hopes that they could return to the relationship they had before: ‘that were to betray my self and I finde that my passion would quickly bee my Master again if I give it any liberty.’ She explained how much she feared her emotions and would have to battle them all her life. But then returned to William’s plight: ‘Why should you give your self over soe unreasonably to it [passion] good God, noe woman breathing can deserve halfe the trouble you give Your Selfe.’
Dorothy’s attempt at cool rationality was over, the few weeks of self-denial and attempts at noble sacrifice to prove a greater love had proved impossible to maintain. Her life was quickening again, her letters written hastily and full of a terrible agitation were urgently intent on saving him from the ‘Violence of your passion … let mee beg then that you will leave of those dismall thoughts [.] I tremble at the desperate things you say in your letter.’58
William must have recognised that her struggle between reason and passion was swinging back against reason. She was in as volatile a state as he was himself. He booked his journey to Chicksands and took their fate firmly in his hands.
* * *
* William Lilly (1602–81) was a man of many talents and great energy. Teacher, writer, professional astrologer, medical practitioner, sometime magician, spin doctor for the parliamentarian forces during the civil wars and later even foreign policy adviser. He published an almanac from 1544 onwards and all his astrological publications were bestsellers, particularly Christian Astrology (1647), a thorough and sophisticated exegesis of astrological meaning and lore written in a simplified form so that others could learn the art too.
* Half a crown (12.5 new pence in decimal currency) in the middle of the seventeenth century was worth just over £10 by today’s standards.
* Astrologer Maurice McCann has suggested a possible decoding of this drawing in ‘The Secret of William Lilly’s Prediction of the Great Fire of London’, A.A. Journal, Jan/Feb 1990.
† John Evelyn (1620–1706) was a consummate seventeenth-century gentleman with royalist sympathies, a deep feeling nature and cultural interests that ranged from scientific research (as a member of the newly founded Royal Society) to the arts of engraving, architecture, gardens and the cultivation of trees. He was a friend of Pepys and like him is best known for his diary, fascinating for any student of the time, although less boisteriously earthy and self-centred than his friend’s. It was not published until 1818 and led to the eventual deciphering and publication of Pepys’s masterpiece in 1825.
* The most likely identity for Dorothy’s Lord L is Philip Sidney (1619–98), eldest son of the Earl of Leicester, who was known as Lord Lisle from 1627 before inheriting his father’s title in 1677. He was a soldier, diplomat and member of parliament in the one dissolved by Cromwell in 1653. He had been about to go to Sweden as ambassador but resigned in the aftermath of this action. A prominent Puritan and highly regarded by Cromwell, he nevertheless managed to evade any retribution once Charles II was restored to the throne and died of old age in his bed – unlike his younger brother Algernon, a radical republican who was implicated in various plots against the monarchy until finally being convicted of high treason and executed, still rebellious and unrepentant, at sixty-one.
* William Erbury (1604–54) was born in Glamorgan and studied at Brasenose College, Oxford, before returning to Wales to become an incumbent at St Mary’s Cardiff. At odds with the Church hierarchy from the beginning, he began preaching against bishops and ecclesiastical ceremony, was deprived of his ministry, became a chaplain to the parliamentary army, and eventually ended up in prison for his Nonconformist beliefs in 1652. Considered to be a holy and harmless man in person, his preaching and debates nevertheless caused numerous stirs, one at least ending in a riot.
* Edward Hyde, 1st Earl of Clarendon (1609–74), educated at Oxford and Middle Temple. A moderate royalist of great intelligence, presence and charm, he accompanied Charles II into exile, returning with him to become central in the early years of the restoration to policy-making and government. Inevitably he attracted scheming courtiers who attempted to impeach him. In 1667 he fled to France. In frustrated exile he wrote his monumental History of the Great Rebellion and a personal memoir, published after his death to great success. His daughter, Anne, married the future James II, making him the grandfather of two future queens, Mary II and Anne.
* Henry Molle (1597–1658), fellow, then bursar of King’s College, Cambridge, then university public orator before being expelled for refusing an oath of allegiance to Cromwell. He was still without office in 1653 and seemed to travel from one relation to another to pass the time. He was reinstated the following year by Cromwell as fellow commoner at Trinity College, Cambridge. His father John Molle had been imprisoned by the Inquisition for thirty years in Rome for being in possession of Protestant literature.
* Covent Garden in London was once part of the garden at Westminster Abbey. At the time when Dorothy was leaving her letter with Mrs Painter, next to the Goat tavern, the area had just been laid out with a piazza and connecting roads by the great architect Inigo Jones. The Earl of Bedford, Francis Russell, had been the instigator of this grand plan and his names live on in the streets around.
* Lady Mary Wroth (1587–1651) was born Mary Sidney, the daughter of Robert Sidney, who became Earl of Leicester, and niece of the soldier poet Sir Philip Sidney. She was married in 1604 to Sir Robert Wroth, a drunkard and womaniser who died ten years later leaving his widow in crippling debt. She was very much part of court circles until she published The Countess of Montgomeries Urania in 1621, inspired by her uncle’s Arcadia and taking love as its theme. However, her depiction of unsuitable, faithless men was too close to the mark and one, Edward Denny, Baron Waltham, charged her with slander which meant she withdrew the book, her reputation was battered and her life at court curtailed.
* Lady Newcastle had published in 1653 not only her Poems and Fancies but also Philosophicall Fancies, a collection of essays and some poems exploring rather haphazardly her theory of matter and motion.
† Madeleine de Scudéry (1607–1701) was perhaps the most popular European novelist of her age. Her books were translated into many languages and she was uniquely able to earn her living as a writer. She and her brother Georges, under whose name she published, were orphaned when she was six and they lived together for half her life. She never married but wrote not only immensely successful and interminably long pseudo-historical novels, enlivened by recognisable portraits of court life and characters, but also handbooks on the craft of letter-writing and conversation, and fictional orations of famous women. Her most successful novels were Artamène: ou Le Grand Cyrus (1649–53) and Clélie (1654–60). Her Saturday salons in Paris were legendary. Cruelly she went deaf in her late middle age but died a very old lady still with all her intelligence and lively spirit intact, having been the first recipient of the Académie Française prize.
* Roger Boyle (1621–79), Baron Broghill, 1st Earl of Orrery, was an Irish politician and writer and brother of the scientist Robert Boyle. He wrote several tragedies in verse and a romance Parthenissa that Dorothy reviewed thus: ‘’tis handsome Language you would know it to be writt by a person of good Quality … but in the whole I am not very much taken with it, all the Story’s have too neer a resemblance with those of Other Romances’.
* On another occasion, Dorothy described Mr Gibson as ‘a Civ
ill well natur’d man as can bee, of Excellent principles, and an Exact honesty. I durst make him my Conffesssor though hee is not Obliged by his orders to conceal any thing that is told him’. She used him as a go-between, taking letters occasionally for her to William.
* This painting is the one reproduced on the jacket and inside and belongs still in the family. Sir Peter Lely (1618–80) was the famous Dutch painter who had settled in England and became court painter after the restoration. He painted the great and the good of the courts of Charles I and II and the protectorate. He painted Dorothy and William as well as William’s sister Martha and Oliver Cromwell, who did not want to be prettied up and is said to have shouted, ‘Paint the warts! Paint the warts!’
CHAPTER SIX
A Clear Sky Attends Us
Let us ’scape this cloud, this absence that has overcast all my contentments, and I am confident there’s a clear sky attends us
WILLIAM TEMPLE, letter to Dorothy Osborne, May 1654
nothing can alter the resolution I have taken of setting my whole stock of happinesse upon the affection of a person that is deare to me whose kindnesse I shall infinitely preffer before any other consideration whatsoever
DOROTHY OSBORNE, letter to William Temple, March 1653
CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR 1654 was a miserable time for Dorothy and William, made even more joyless by the lack of seasonal goodwill: for the last seven years all Christmas celebrations and feasting had been banned in the Puritan revolution, making it hard even to find a church service to attend. Any private marking of the day had to be domestic and low-key, as the usual semi-pagan traditions and excesses of every kind were now outlawed.