Cavalier, p.10
Cavalier, page 10
Bathing - which also takes place in the bedchamber - is something to be enjoyed with circumspection, as Elizabeth thinks that water could soak into and destroy the body during prolonged immersion. However, taking mineral waters in the town of Bath, for example, is already popular, and it is possible that the Cavendishes' fountain at Bolsover Castle is intended for use as a bathing pool in a similar manner, with seats provided in niches in its sides for naked bathers to rest between bouts of splashing.62 Hair washing is an annual ritual for the seventeenth-century diarist John Evelyn: he embarks upon a 'yearly course of washing my hair with warm water, mingled with a decoction of sweet herbs, and immediately, with cold spring water, which much refreshed me'. The Cavendish family doctor, on the other hand, 'mis-likes ye bathing of your head in cold water especially in winter'.63
The process of being 'physicked' is a mixture of discomfort and the kind of pleasurable relaxation techniques to be found in a health spa. During bathing, the inside of the bath is draped with linen cloths before the water is poured in, and the bather uses more thin linen cloths to dry him- or herself afterwards. The tub might still remain in Elizabeth's bedchamber from her earlier enjoyment of a sweet-smelling mineral bath, such as that prescribed for her son Charles:
let the liquor bee as warme as you can suffer it when you first goe into the bath & have hot ready to poure in as yt first cools continue in the bath neer an houre & while you are there chafe in well with your hands or a sponge ye liquor into both sides especially the left. When you have sate out your full time let some cotton wool well soaked & quilted with ye ointment be applied to each side & then get with all speed into your bed & sweat there the space of an houre, after which rub your body well with warme cloaths & dry it & remove the ointment if troublesome, &c drinke a draught of warme broath or caudle, keeping your self from cold for some times after.64
In this bedchamber Elizabeth also lies isolated from the household for months at a time by the arduous and dangerous duty of childbirth. 'Children come on apace,' writes William in 1633, and Elizabeth will give birth to eight of his children. She had already had three children by the age of nineteen, with her first husband Henry Howard, of whom only one, Catherine ('Cate'), survived infancy. Only six of Elizabeth's eleven children will reach adulthood. The birth and death of children in the seventeenth-century mortality lottery will cruelly leave her husband with only one male heir at the time of his death. Rates of infant mortality are actually higher in Stuart England than in the previous century: new diseases such as smallpox, and new strains of old diseases such as flu, carry off a grim proportion of babies.65
The family's London physician often sends his wife north to be with Elizabeth 'at the time of [her] travail', her labour made all the more arduous when William is at court and she is left lonely without him. At these times the company of women becomes even more important, and indeed, life-saving. William describes the women of the family taking over the household and creating feminine chaos when Elizabeth comes to term:
My wife did waken in a fearful fright
Falling in Labour in the dead of Night
Wives, widows, maids, disorderly did rise
Shoes off & stockings, rubbing off their eyes,
Mistaking things, & Every Things was said
Being half wakened from their drowsy Bed.66
Today, in July, 1625, Elizabeth's daughter Jane is nearly three and is upstairs in the nursery with her nurses. Who are these servants to whom Elizabeth entrusts the care of her daughter while she dresses in her bedchamber?
Some of these peculiar but important household characters appear in a dramatic entertainment written by Ben Jonson to celebrate the birth of a little Cavendish boy named Charles. This was possibly Elizabeth's son Charles, who died aged three in 1621. Jonson introduces the characters and duties of the wet nurse, dry nurse and midwife with whom Elizabeth is intimately acquainted.67 He jokingly names the dry nurse 'Kecks' (the word means 'dry stick') and the wet nurse 'Dugs' (breasts). A childbirth manual recommends of a nurse that 'her brests be full and have sufficient plentie of milke, and that they be neither too great, soft, hanging and flagging, neither too little, hard or contract'. Nor should the nurse's character be 'too fearfull or timorous: for these affections and qualities be pernitious and hurtfull to the milke, corrupting it, and passes forth through the milke into the child, making the child of like condition'.68 Jonson also introduces Mistress Holdback, the midwife, whose job is to hold the back of a woman in labour. The position favoured for seventeenth-century childbirth is squatting rather than lying down so that gravity can aid the process; a straw mattress is used to soak up the blood. Elizabeth may well have had a consultation with her midwife this morning, for the latter's prowess in discerning the presence and course of a longed-for pregnancy are highly valued. The techniques used are rather crude, and a boy baby is usually predicted with great gusto. One simple test is whether a woman experiences an orgasm during intercourse: if her husband 'finde[s] an extraordinarie contentment in the company of his Wife; and if he feele at the same time a kind of sucking or drawing at the end of his yard [. . .] a woman may have conceived'.69 However, the Cavendish midwife caricatured as Mistress Holdback is well acquainted with the more advanced techniques for diagnosing pregnancy outlined in Guillemeau's contemporary book on Child-Birth: 'When upon ye first view of my Ladyes breasts, and an inspection, of what passed from her [. . .] I told her Ladyship at first she was sped'.
After receiving the good news, Mistress Holdback's master was anxious to know whether the baby would be the hoped-for son. Mistress Holdback had grounds for optimism, having considered her lady's complexion, the shape of her belly and the fact that her right breast grew harder than the left:
ye Nipple red, rising like a strawberry, ye milke white and thick, and standing in pearls upon my nail [. . .] a boy for my money; nor when ye milk dissolv'd not in water, nor scattered, but sank; a boy still; no, upon ye very day of my Lady's Labour, when ye wives came in [. . .] her Ladyship set her right foot, foremost, ye right pulse beat quicker, and stronger, and her right eye grown, and sparkling, I assure your Lordship, I offered to hold Mr Doctor a discretion, it was a boy.70
This and every morning Elizabeth hopes to hear good news of this nature, for she is under pressure to replace her lost son Charles with another male heir. Elizabeth is not expected to be present at her children's christenings, for they generally take place only three days after the birth. She remains in her darkened and sealed chamber, removed from the household and the world, for a further month of 'lying in'. Only after two or three weeks is a new mother washed, her soiled straw mattress removed and she herself allowed to sit up: the 'upsit-ting' and in due course the 'footing' a fortnight later are events often celebrated by the women of the household with a party.71 So keen was Thomas Salmon, a servant at Great Tew in Oxfordshire, to join in the 'good cheer' at the house of one Eleanor Rymel, who had just been 'brought a-bed', that he put on women's clothing to join in the drinking and gossiping undetected.72 However, the christening entertainment written by Jonson incorporates the raucous celebrations of the household that will take place downstairs while Elizabeth lies in her bloodied bed. In his words, the midwife Holdback triumphantly shouts out:
This is my day! my Lords and my Ladye howe like you my boy? 1st not a good-lye boy? [. . .] I ha' given measure, i'faith; hee'l prove a pricker (and god will) by one privie marke yt I founde about him.73
When a seventeenth-century midwife says she has given a baby boy a full measure, she means she has left a good long piece of his umbilical cord attached. Midwives allow 'more measure to the males: because this length doth make their tongue, and privie members longer: whereby they may both speake the plainer, and be more serviceable to Ladies'.74
Given the small chance their babies have of surviving to adulthood, how do William and Elizabeth equip themselves emotionally? It is tempting to suggest that seventeenth-century parents must harden themselves, holding back affection from their children as too great a risk for their peace of mind. Yet on the death of his baby boy, William's friends and relations write to him with their heartfelt condolences, and he does indeed seem to be a truly affectionate father.75 He is playful and teasing with his children, his letters creating a little window into a nursery world where, unexpectedly, even girls are encouraged to become writers. On another occasion he writes from court to little Jane:
Sweet Jane, I knowe you are a rare Inditer -
Ande hath the pen off a moste redye writer.
She replies shyly:
My Lord, I know you doo but Jest with mee
& so in obdence I right this nothing. Jane Cavendysshe.
William also tries to tempt his son Charles to reply:
Sweet Charles, This letter iff you like itt nott, then race-Itt [erase it?]
Butt Answer itt for Usus promtus facitt.
But Charles, a boy of few words, replies succinctly:
My Lord. I can not tel what to wright. Charles Mansfeild.76
Elizabeth does not doubt her husband's affection for his children: 'now my Lord', she writes, 'for your Childer I am confident that you Love them'.77 Yet despite William's liberal views on the possibility of his daughters becoming writers, he takes a domineering, high-handed line with his children, and this will cause a good deal of unhappiness. Dressed at last, Elizabeth now leaves her bedchamber and calls for her servants in order to spread the news contained in her husband's letter from court around the household. There are stores to be obtained, clothes to be brushed and beds aired for an influx of people, for the household must begin the preparations necessary for William's triumphant return home. Three days ago, according to the letter, William received momentous tidings: his appointment as Lord Lieutenant of Nottinghamshire, an important job that will now bring him back from court in London to the countryside with some urgency in order to take up his new administrative responsibilities. To be chosen as the leading figure in a county is a great responsibility and privilege, and he will have a role in raising the militia, in supervising justice and tax collecting. To Elizabeth, however, her husband's return means something more personal: relief from her loneliness and the resumption of her efforts to conceive.
4 -A Masque
BOLSOVER CASTLE, 30TH JULY, 1634
Nine years later, at around six o'clock on a summer's morning, William Cavendish opens his eyes in the bedchamber of his father's Little Castle at Bolsover.1 The creak of the studded door on its massive hinges has woken him as Gertrude, a maid, slips into the room. His personal servants enter William's line of vision from the left, provided the position of the bed's curtains admits enough of a view; his bed's head stands against the room's panelled southern wall. The delicately hinged shutters of the windows to the right of the bed are imperfectly closed and early fingers of sunlight are falling across the foot of the bed from their east-facing panes. On a special occasion like today, the servants are well advanced in their preparations, but ordinarily William is accustomed to shout out for Gertrude to bring his morning drink if he wakes before her arrival:
When I did wake from my perturbed dreams,
And saw forerunning Light of the Sun Beams,
I said 'twas day, chid Gertrude for the jar,
She swore 'twas moon-light but she was a Liar.2
Lying in bed, William can admire the shutters themselves and the panelling of the windowed wall of the room, intricately decorated with stencilled designs of flowers and foliage in black and gold. Much of the rest of the panelling is concealed behind tapestries of the 'verdure' or leafy variety commonly hung in bedchambers, apart from the areas where shelves set into the panelling contain books, jars and items of clothing.3 Between the windows bulges one of the Little Castle's distinctive ornate fireplaces, jewelled with touchstone and fossil-filled marble; translucent white alabaster lions' heads wink and growl at William from its hood.
A bird's-eye view of Bolsover Castle. This shows the castle as it was towards the end of William's life when all his works were complete
Gertrude steps carefully through the doorway. The thresholds into this room are slightly elevated so that the rushes scattered across its floor are not trodden beyond its confines. Beneath the rushes the floor is made of lime ash, the ashy dregs from the bottom of a limekiln formed into an exceptionally durable grey plaster. She is carrying the tray containing the 'Morsel of Bread' that William is accustomed to eat for his breakfast.4 Setting down her burden on a side table, she pours out a glass of sack, the sweet wine that William always drinks at this time of day. He sits up and takes from her a conical glass with a circular base. He and his contemporaries are accustomed to take the delicate disc at the base of the glass between a thumb and forefinger rather than wrapping fingers and palm around the vessel.5 The liquid sugar scent of William's wine must fight for attention with the fading freshness of herbs scattered among the rushes on the floor and the whiff of the night soil.
Should William wish to relieve himself on rising from his bed, he needs only to turn right and push open the door to the tiniest of closets set into the turret of the castle, with its tawny limewashed walls and its own little latticed window overlooking his beloved Riding House. Here William's close stool stands, its padded velvet seat surmounting a wooden box concealing a chamber pot within. A convenient niche in the wall holds a candlestick during nocturnal visits. After setting down the breakfast tray, Gertrude removes the chamber pot from the close stool and sets it down outside the door for an inferior colleague - the 'necessary woman' - to hump away.
A MASQUE
The Little Castle, Bolsover. Plans of all four floors
Normally when William wakes up for a day at Bolsover Castle his mind is on pleasure: on horses, on poetry and on retirement from the cares of business and household. Yet this will be a uniquely stressful day. Early in the morning of 30th July, 1634, William's household is already busy preparing for the most exciting event it has ever known: the entertainment of the king and queen at Bolsover with a feast and a masque.
William has enjoyed nine years as Lord Lieutenant of Nottinghamshire, and six years ago he received the significant promotion to an earldom. He is now the first Earl of Newcastle, Elizabeth is his countess, and for the rest of his life he will sign his letters 'W. Newcastle'. His title was chosen because he does indeed have a 'new castle', the building at Bolsover in which he now lies.6 Today's masque is the next step in what William hopes will be a swift journey towards the highest of court offices. The day's entertainment will bring together architecture, music, food, dancing and garden design into a worthy setting for the peacock preening and finery of Charles I's courtiers.
A masque is not a play, nor is it a ball. It combines speeches, musical interludes, costume and marvellous special effects into a form of early opera in which members of a household themselves, as well as professional performers, will sometimes take part. The audience often stands up at the end of a performance to join in the final grand masquing dance. There is a particularly haunting description of a masque in William Shakespeare's The Tempest, which was performed for the first time in 1611. Some of the magician and ringmaster Prospero's best-known lines describe the masque that he stages on his island for Ferdinand and Miranda and the sense of evanescent wonder that it arouses.
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself
conjured up by Prospero are in fact the scenic backdrops created for a masque, magnificent yet quick to fade away when the performance is over. For a masque's magic to work, many hands must labour behind the scenes, and at Bolsover the preparations have been in progress for weeks. But at this point, early in the morning of 30th July, this masque's Prospero - William Cavendish - rises from his bed.
Excited but anxious about the day ahead, William now goes through to the Heaven closet off his bedchamber to run through his lists of provisions, instructions and copies of letters sent. Beyond the Heaven closet's dark green door painted in gold with Chinese scenes lies a cornucopia of colour. On the ceiling of this closet a crowd of painted cherubs with triangle, harp, pipes, recorders, tambourine and viol play the country-dance tune (a song about Robin Hood and Little John) to which the central figure of Jesus is dancing (Plate 11 ). Into the green-lacquered panelling are set a number of lockable cupboards, which, along with William's desk, contain books, bundles of letters and other treasures. A great many people both inside and outside the immediate household are involved in the masque's production, and William now flicks through the relevant papers to refresh his memory. As he settles to his work at the desk placed beneath the window, he hums to himself another song about Robin Hood, composed by himself: earlier this year his secretary John Rolleston carefully wrote down the words to his master's 'proper new Ballad, to be sung or whistled to the tune of Bessy Bell'.7
