There is a wonderful portrait of Kenelm Digby by Van Dyke. He is dressed in black. His hand is on his heart. Behind him is a vast, wilting sunflower. The sunflower is a symbol of constancy — it follows the sun. When his wife Venetia died in 1633, when Kenelm was 29, he went into a profound mourning that lasted for the rest of his life — another 30 years. The sun had gone out of his life.
From the moment he discovered her dead body, seemingly asleep in her bed, his behaviour was, to say the least, a little odd. He took plaster casts of her hands, feet and face. He had Van Dyke paint a portrait of her in death. He commissioned a phalanx of poets, led by Ben Jonson (who was summoned to the deathbed so that he would be inspired by the sight), to write poems in her praise. He insisted on attending the dissection which sought to find the cause of her death, and discovered that her brain had turned to mush. He built a vast, black mausoleum for her body: it was surmounted by a golden bust. He abandoned his career at court. He never married again, not even to provide a stepmother for his infant children. This is the man in the portrait.
Kenelm apparently attributed his wife’s death to the drinking of viper wine, which was supposed to preserve indefinitely the beauties of youth. Kenelm was the cook, the apothecary, the alchemist; Venetia, who had once had a reputation as a courtesan, was now a pious Catholic and had given herself over to a life of religious contemplation and mortification. Had Kenelm fed the viper poison to her, as some suspected? Had she taken it in the hope that he would stop chasing after other women, as he had been doing? We do not know, and never will.
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