SUCCESS.
At last all difficulties were arranged between the manager of Drury Lane
and Mrs. Siddons, and the day dawned on which she was again destined
to make her bow before a London audience. It was the 10th October
1782. Important changes had taken place in the theatre since the fatal
December seven years before. The proud pre-eminence of Drury Lane had
passed away; the magic circle of theatrical genius that Garrick kept
together by his personal influence had been broken up and dispersed
under Sheridan’s erratic management. Mrs. Abington, Mrs. Yates, and
Miss Young had deserted to other companies. So that the fine selection
of plays, ever ready with the same set of players at hand to act them,
ensuring a perfection never achieved before, were now mounted without
care of thought, and acted by whomever the capricious manager chose to
select for the moment. Old trained hands, accustomed to the methodical
rule of Garrick, would not submit to be transferred from part to part,
receiving no due notice beforehand, and, above all, they would not submit
to the irregularity in the money arrangements which had begun almost
immediately after the impecunious Irishman took the reins of government.
There were hardly any names of note now to be seen on the bills except
those of Smith, Palmer, and King, and they openly talked of deserting the
sinking ship.
There is something almost heroic, therefore, in the appearance of the
young actress on the boards of Drury Lane at this particular juncture.
Alone and unaided, against enormous odds, she saved the famous theatre,
endeared to every lover of dramatic art, from artistic and financial
ruin. She had hitherto proved herself to have indomitable industry and
energy, to have all the qualities of a hard-working, painstaking artist;
now she was suddenly to flash forth in all the splendour of her genius
and power. And yet how simple and womanly she remained. There was no
undue reliance on her own gifts, in spite of the indiscriminate praise
that had been heaped on her at Bath by too zealous friends. She turned
a deaf ear to Miss Seward—“all asterisks and exclamations,” and to Dr.
Whalley—“all sighs and admiration”; but listened to the wise suggestions
of Mr. Linley and of old Sheridan, the father of Richard Brinsley
Sheridan, himself a retired actor with full knowledge of the stage and
its requirements. She and they were afraid her voice was not equal to
filling a large London theatre. “But we soon had reason to think,” she
tells us, “that the bad construction of the Bath theatre, and not the
weakness of my voice was the cause of our mutual fears.”
Isabella, in Southerne’s pathetic play of _The Fatal Marriage_, was the
part Sheridan recommended her to choose for her first appearance, and
the selection showed his appreciative knowledge both of her powers and
of the audience she was to act to; the combined tenderness, grief and
indignation showing the variety and range of expression of which she
was capable. Hamilton painted a picture of her in this part, dressed
in deep black, holding her boy by the hand, and appealing for help to
her father-in-law, that even now brings the tears to one’s eyes as one
looks at it. Her son Henry, then eight years old, acted with her. It is
said that, observing his mother at rehearsal in the agonies of the dying
scene, he took the fiction for reality, and burst into a flood of tears.
She herself for the fortnight before her appearance suffered from nervous
agitation more than can be imagined. The whole account of her mental
state is best told in her own words.
“No wonder I was nervous before the _memorable_ day on which hung my
own fate and that of my little family. I had quitted Bath, where all
my efforts had been successful, and I feared lest a second failure in
London might influence the public mind greatly to my prejudice, in the
event of my return from Drury Lane, disgraced as I formerly had been. In
due time I was summoned to the rehearsal of Isabella. Who can imagine
my terror? I feared to utter a sound above an audible whisper; but by
degrees enthusiasm cheered me into a forgetfulness of my fears, and I
unconsciously threw out my voice, which failed not to be heard in the
remotest part of the house by a friend who kindly undertook to ascertain
the happy circumstance.
“The countenances, no less than tears and flattering encouragements of
my companions, emboldened me more and more, and the second rehearsal was
even more affecting than the first. Mr. King, who was then manager,
was loud in his applause. This second rehearsal took place on the 8th
October 1782, and on the evening of that day I was seized with a nervous
hoarseness, which made me extremely wretched; for I dreaded being obliged
to defer my appearance on the 10th, longing, as I most earnestly did, at
least to know the worst. I went to bed, therefore, in a state of dreadful
suspense. Awaking the next morning, however, though out of restless,
unrefreshing sleep, I found, upon speaking to my husband, that my voice
was very much clearer. This, of course, was a great comfort to me; and,
moreover, the sun, which had been completely obscured for many days,
shone brightly through my curtains. I hailed it, though tearfully, yet
thankfully, as a happy omen; and even now I am not ashamed of _this_
(as it may, perhaps, be called) childish superstition. On the morning
of the 10th my voice was, most happily, perfectly restored; and again
‘_the blessed sun shone brightly on me_.’ On this eventful day my father
arrived to comfort me, and to be a witness of my trial. He accompanied me
to my dressing-room at the theatre. There he left me; and I, in one of
what I call my desperate tranquillities, which usually impress me under
terrific circumstances, there completed my dress, to the astonishment
of my attendants, without uttering one word, though often sighing most
profoundly.”
The young actress had been puffed industriously before by Sheridan in
the play-bills, and he had, no doubt, circulated in his dexterous way
that the cause of her previous failure had been Garrick’s jealousy, as,
indeed, we know he told the actress herself.
There was a certain amount of expectancy and discussion. The house
was full of all that was most brilliant, intellectual, and “tonish”
in the London of that day. They had all come with powdered heads,
gold-laced coats, and diamond-encircled throats to see a pretty woman
act an affecting play; but they were hardly prepared for the passion and
pathos that for the time being shook them out of their artificial lace
handkerchief grief and bowed the powdered heads with genuine emotion. She
was well supported—Smith, Palmer, Farren, Packer, and Mrs. Love acting
with her, to say nothing of the veteran Roger Kemble, her father, who
was, she tells us, little less agitated than herself. Her husband did not
even venture to appear behind or before the scenes, his agitation was so
great.
“At length I was called to my fiery trial. The awful consciousness that
one is the sole object of attention to that immense space, lined, as
it were, with human intellect from top to bottom and all around, may,
perhaps, be imagined, but can never be described, and can never be
forgotten.”
If that night were never to pass from the memory of Mrs. Siddons, neither
would it ever pass from the memory of those who were present, nor ever be
erased from the annals of the English stage, of which that beautiful and
pathetic face and form was to be for many years the chief pride.
The story of _Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage_, is simple in
construction, the interest centring in one figure, that of the heroine.
Biron, son of a proud and worldly-minded man, marries a girl beneath him
in station, contrary to his father’s wish. A son is born, but Biron has
hardly had time to rejoice over his birth before he is called away to the
war, and, after some months, is reported as killed in battle. The wife
appears with the child in the first scene, appealing in vain, for pity’s
sake, to her father-in-law to give her something to support her and the
infant. As the bailiff enters to arrest her for debt, Villeroy (whose
attentions she had repelled, grieving as she was for her husband) comes
forward, frees her from the importunities of her creditors, and induces
her, for her child’s sake, to marry him. Hardly is she Villeroy’s wife
before Biron returns. In despair, she kills herself.
There were moments, sentences that became traditional after this first
night, as when, in reply to the question put to her on the arrival of
the creditors as to what she would do, she answered, “Do! Nothing!” the
very tone of the words told all her story. Miss Gordon fainted away on
hearing the cry “Biron! Biron!” while we know Madame de Staël’s account
in _Corinne_ of the hysterical laugh when Isabella kills herself at the
end.
It was an extraordinary evening. The house was carried away in a storm of
emotion; men were not ashamed to sob, and many women went into violent
hysterics. It is difficult, indeed, for us now to understand such
agitation; we fritter away our sentiment on the ordinary business of
life:—
The town in those days mostly lay
Betwixt the tavern and the play.
The penny press had not yet come within the radius of everyone, and men
depended on the theatre for their fictitious excitement. A new play, a
young actor or actress, were greater subjects of interest than even Mr.
Pitt’s or Mr. Fox’s last speech, which they only heard of piecemeal.
Mrs. Siddons had the good fortune still to play to audiences who were in
the full enjoyment of their natural and critical powers of appreciation.
She bent all her powers to calling forth their emotions. She touched
them to the quick with her pathos and power. The audience surrendered
at discretion to the summons of the young enchantress. Her own simple
account of it all is very attractive; and afterwards, in the history of
her life, when a little hardness, or a rather too abrupt assertion of
superiority, is to be regretted, we turn to this spontaneous, almost
girlish account of her first triumph—through which we can see the smiles
beaming, the tears glistening—with pleasure and relief.
“I reached my own quiet fireside,” she says, “on retiring from the
scene of reiterated shouts and plaudits. I was half dead; and my joy
and thankfulness were of too solemn and overpowering a nature to admit
of words, or even tears. My father, my husband, and myself sat down to
a frugal neat supper in a silence uninterrupted except by exclamations
of gladness from Mr. Siddons. My father enjoyed his refreshments, but
occasionally stopped short, and, laying down his knife and fork, lifting
up his venerable face, and throwing back his silver hair, gave way
to tears of happiness. We soon parted for the night; and I, worn out
with continually broken rest and laborious exertion, after an hour’s
retrospection (who can conceive the intenseness of that reverie?), fell
into a sweet and profound sleep, which lasted to the middle of the next
day. I arose alert in mind and body.”
And so the seven long years spent in tempering her genius, in working to
gain strength and confidence, had borne their result, for we will not
allow, as Mr. Fitzgerald says, that her present success was owing to the
absence “of the restraint from the patronizing instruction of Garrick,”
or any other exterior circumstance. The change had come from within,
not from without. Hers was essentially a genius of tardy growth, both
physically and mentally she did not reach her full development until the
time when most actresses have enjoyed seven or eight years’ success. She
had worked, and, like all other workers, had reaped her reward; though,
unlike the common run of workers, having genius to back her, the reward
she reaped was not only a temporary success, but fame. The memory of
this night has been handed down to us in company with Garrick’s first
appearance in _Richard III._ and Edmund Kean’s in Shylock in 1814.
The critics next day were unanimous in her praise. Some found the voice
a little harsh, the passion a little too “restless and fluttering,” but
all were agreed that a great event had occurred in the dramatic world.
It is of little use repeating the praise and criticism, all _that_ can
be done in a reviewal of her artistic life; we are more interested in
the personal history of the woman who had thus stirred up the waters
that had threatened to become stagnant since the retirement of Garrick.
It is natural for us rather to like to hear personal anecdotes of those
who appear publicly before us than pages of hackneyed verbiage on their
acting and appearance.
She wrote to Dr. Whalley one of those genuine, spontaneous letters
that show how she was misunderstood by those who thought her hard and
reserved:—“My dear, dear friend, the trying moment is passed, and I am
crowned with a success which far exceeds even my hopes. God be praised!
I am extremely hurried, being obliged to dine at Linley’s; have been
at the rehearsal of a new tragedy in prose, a most affecting play, in
which I have a part I like very much. I believe my next character will be
Zara in the _Mourning Bride_. My friend Pratt was, I believe in my soul,
as much agitated, and is as much rejoiced as myself. As I know it will
give you pleasure, I venture to assure you I never in my life heard such
peals of applause. I thought they would not have suffered Mr. Packer to
end the play. Oh! how I wished for you last night, to share a joy which
was too much for me to bear alone! My poor husband was so agitated that
he durst not venture near the house. I enclose an epilogue which my good
friend wrote for me, but which I could not, from excessive fatigue of
mind and body, speak. Never, never let me forget his goodness to me. I
have suffered tortures for (of?) the unblest these three days and nights
past, and believe I am not in perfect possession of myself at present;
therefore excuse, my dear Mr. Whalley, the incorrectness of this scrawl,
and accept it as the first tribute of love (after the first decisive
moment) from your ever grateful and truly affectionate, S. SIDDONS.”
On the next night her success was even greater. The lobbies were lined
with crowds of ladies and gentlemen “of the highest fashion.” Lady
Shelburne, Lord North the politician, Lady Essex, Mr. Sheridan and the
Linley family weeping in his box, and hosts of others.
She very soon began to reap substantial benefits from her success.
“I should be afraid to say,” she continues, “how many times _Isabella_
was repeated successively, with still increasing favour. I was now
highly gratified by a removal from my very indifferent and inconvenient
dressing-room to one on the stage-floor, instead of climbing a long
staircase; and this room (oh, unexpected happiness!) had been Garrick’s
dressing-room. It is impossible to conceive my gratification when I saw
my own figure in the self-same glass which had so often reflected the
face and form of that unequalled genius—not, perhaps, without some vague,
fanciful hope of a little degree of inspiration from it.”
For eight nights the play was acted, and still every time she appeared
the tide of popular favour ran higher. The box office was besieged by
people wanting tickets, and the most ridiculous stories were told of
the crush. Two old men stationed themselves to play chess outside at
all hours, so as to secure tickets. Footmen lay stretched out asleep
from dawn to buy places for their mistresses. Years afterwards, when
at a great meeting at Edinburgh, Mrs. Siddons’ health was proposed,
Sir Walter Scott described the scene on one of those far-famed nights:
the breakfasting near the theatre, waiting the whole day, the crushing
at the doors at six o’clock, the getting in and counting their fingers
till seven. But the very first step, the first word she uttered, was
sufficient to overpay everyone their weariness. The house was then
electrified, and it was only from witnessing the effects of her genius
that one could guess to what a pitch theatrical excellence may be
carried. “Those young fellows,” added Sir Walter, “who have only seen the
setting sun of this distinguished performer, beautiful and serene as it
is, must give us old fellows, who have seen its rise, leave to hold our
heads a little higher.”
After _Isabella_, the actress appeared in Murphy’s _Grecian Daughter_, a
very indifferent play, but one into which she breathed life and beauty by
the power of her intuition.
Not yet had the ninety-one of the past century dawned upon civilisation
with its Goddess of Reason, its scanty classic draperies, and its
sandalled, bare-footed beauties. Toupees, toques, bouffantes, hoops,
sacques, and all the paraphernalia of horse-hair, powder, pomatum, and
pins were still in the ascendant. Not yet had Charlotte Corday sacrificed
her life for the liberty of her people; but the muttering of the coming
storm was heard in the distance, and, with the prescience of genius, the
young actress anticipated its advent, and amazed her audience by the
simple beauty of her classic draperies, and shook them with excitement by
her rapturous appeals to Liberty.
There was a glorious enthusiasm about her delivery of certain portions.
She came to perish or to conquer. She seemed to grow several inches
taller. Her voice gained tones undreamt of before:—
Shall he not tremble when a daughter comes,
Wild with her griefs, and terrible with wrongs?
The _Man of blood shall hear me_! Yes, my voice
Shall mount aloft upon the whirlwind’s wing.
Her scorn was magnificent. Her reply to Dionysius, when he asks her to
induce her husband to withdraw his army—
Thinkest thou then
So meanly of my Phocion? Dost thou deem him
Poorly wound up to a mere fit of valour,
To melt away in a weak woman’s tears?
Oh, thou dost little know him.
At the last line, Boaden tells us, there was a triumphant hurry and
enjoyment in her scorn, which the audience caught as electrical and
applauded in rapture, for at least a minute:—
A daughter’s arm, fell monster, strikes the blow!
Yes, _first_ she strikes—an injured daughter’s arm
Sends thee devoted to the infernal gods!
After this she acted Jane Shore. “Mrs Siddons,” as one of the critics
remarked on this performance, “has the air of never being an actress; she
seems unconscious that there is a motley crowd called the pit waiting
to applaud her, or that a dozen fiddlers are waiting for her exit.”
Her “Forgive me, but forgive me,” when asking pardon of her husband,
convulsed the house with sobs. Crabb Robinson, while witnessing this
harrowing performance, burst into a peal of laughter, and, upon being
removed, was found to be in strong hysterics.
After Jane Shore, she appeared as Calista, Belvidera, and Zara. All were
received with the same enthusiasm.
On the 5th June she acted Isabella for the last time that season, having
performed in all about eighty nights, and on six of them for the benefit
of others; and during that short time she may be said to have completely
revolutionised the English stage. Nothing now was applauded but tragedy.
The farces which before had won a laugh, were now not listened to. The
young actress so completely depressed the spirits of the audience,
that the best comic actor seemed unable to raise them. Already she was
preparing the way for the stately solemnity of John Kemble and the
Revival of Shakespearean Tragedy.
The town went “born mad,” as Horace Walpole said, after her. The papers
wrote about her continually, her dress, her movements. Nothing else
seemed to have the same interest. Her salary, originally five pounds a
week, was raised to twenty pounds before the end of the season, and her
first benefit realised eight hundred pounds.
On this latter occasion she addressed a letter to the public:—
“Mrs. Siddons would not have remained so long without expressing the
high sense she had of the great honours done her at her late benefit,
but that, after repeated trials, she could not find words adequate to
her feelings, and she must at present be content with the plain language
of a grateful mind; that her heart thanks all her benefactors for the
distinguished and, she fears, too partial encouragement which they
bestowed on this occasion. She is told that the splendid appearance on
that night, and the emoluments arising from it, exceed anything ever
recorded on a similar account in the annals of the English stage; but
she has not the vanity to imagine that this arose from any superiority
over many of her predecessors or some of her contemporaries. She
attributes it wholly to that liberality of sentiment which distinguishes
the inhabitants of this great metropolis from those of any other in the
world. They know her story—they know that for many years, by a strange
fatality, she was confined to move in a narrow sphere, in which the
rewards attendant on her labours were proportionally small. With a
generosity unexampled, they proposed at once to balance the account, and
pay off the arrears due, according to the rate, the too partial rate,
at which they valued her talents. She knows the danger arising from
extraordinary and unmerited favours, and will carefully guard against
any approach of pride, too often their attendant. Happy shall she
esteem herself, if by the utmost assiduity, and constant exertion of her
poor abilities, she shall be able to lessen, though hopeless ever to
discharge, the vast debt she owes the public.”
Mrs. Siddons was always too fond of taking the public into her
confidence. Everything in this letter can be taken for granted; and it
would have been more dignified to have kept silence.
More pleasing and natural are the letters written to her friends. She
wrote thus to Dr. Whalley about this time:—
“Just at this moment are you, my dear Sir, sitting down to supper,
and ‘every guest’s a friend.’ Oh! that I were with you, but for one
half-hour. ‘Oh! God forbid!’ says my dear Mrs. Whalley; ‘for he would
talk so loud and so fast, that he would throw himself into a fever, and
die of unsatisfied curiosity into the bargain.’ Do I flatter myself, my
dear Sir? Oh no! you have both done me the honour to assure me that you
love me, and I would not forego the blessed idea for the world ... I
did receive all your letters, and thank you for them a thousand times.
One line of them is worth all the acclamations of ten thousand shouting
theatres.”
And so closes this wonderful year in the great actress’s life—the one
to which she always looked back as the climax of her happiness and good
fortune.