1782 TO 1798.
Mrs. Siddons’s life between the years 1785 to 1798 was passed in the
professional treadmill, and her history during this period is best told
by an account of the characters she personated.
After her appearance as Lady Macbeth on February 2nd, she chose to
act Desdemona to her brother’s Othello, and, to everyone’s surprise,
acted it with a tenderness, playfulness, and simplicity hardly to be
expected of the majestic actress, who had terrified her audience by
her representation of the Thane of Cawdor’s wife. Campbell tells us
that even years after, when he saw her play this part at Edinburgh, not
recognising at first who was acting, he was spellbound by her “exquisite
gracefulness,” and thought it impossible “this soft, sweet creature could
be the Siddons,” until by the emotion and applause of the audience he
knew it could be no other.
Unfortunately, in her first representation of this part, she was
carelessly given a damp bed to lie on in the death scene, and caught so
severe a cold as almost to threaten rheumatic fever. From this time her
delicacy seems to date, for we now find her continually complaining and
incapacitated from appearing by ill-health.
After Desdemona she appeared in Rosalind, which we can dismiss with the
criticism of Young, the actor: “Her Rosalind wanted neither playfulness
nor feminine softness, but it was totally without archness—not because
she did not properly conceive it; but how could such a countenance be
arch?” Her dress, too, excited great amusement—“mysterious nondescript
garments.” We have a letter of hers to Hamilton the artist, asking “if
he would be so good as to make her a slight sketch for a boy’s dress to
conceal the person as much as possible.” The woman who was capable of
taking this view of the representation of Rosalind was not capable of
acting the part.
Imogen, Ophelia, Catherine in the _Taming of the Shrew_, and Cordelia,
all acted with her brother, followed in quick succession. This hard work
entitled her to a salary of twenty-four pounds ten shillings weekly,
while her brother drew ten pounds. Not contented with this, however, she
made a tour in the provinces, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, &c.
These country tours were not only fatiguing in consequence of the amount
of travelling to be done, but also in consequence of the unsympathetic
audiences to be faced, and the discomfort of country theatres. The
system, also, of absorbing all the profits of provincial actors made her
very unpopular in the profession. Some ridiculous stories are related of
these tours.
When playing the “sleeping scene” in _Macbeth_, at Leeds, a boy who had
been sent for some porter appeared by mistake on the stage, and walking
up, presented it to her. In vain she motioned him away, in vain he was
called off behind the scenes; the house roared with laughter, and all
illusion was dispelled for the rest of the evening. On another occasion
at Leeds, when about to drink poison on the stage, one of the audience in
the gallery howled out “Soop it oop, lass!” She endeavoured to frown down
the interrupter, but her own solemnity gave way. She was also at country
theatres often subjected to bearing the brunt of a local quarrel or
facetiousness directed against a member or members of the audience. Once
at Liverpool the play of _Jane Shore_, which had sent London audiences
into fits of sobbing and hysterics, was announced. The house was full,
and Miss Mellon, from whom we have the story, says the actors behind the
scenes expected a repetition of the same emotion; but the people in the
gallery, seeing the principal merchants with their families present,
thought this a delightful opportunity of indulging their wit respecting
the “soldiering.” Accordingly, they formed two bands, one on each side of
the gallery, and, from the commencement of the play to the end, kept up a
cross-dialogue of impertinence, about “charging guns with brown sugar and
cocoanuts,” and “small arms with cinnamon powder and nutmegs.”
Miss Mellon was in agony for the object of her theatrical devotion. She
cried, she ran about behind the wings as if she were going out of her
senses. Mrs. Siddons, however, calm though deadly pale, merely said to
her, with a slight tremor in her voice, “I will go through the _time_
requisite for the scenes, but will not utter them.”
She went on the stage; said aloud, “It is useless to act,” crossed her
arms, and merely murmured the speeches; and it is a fact that, on the
first night one of Mrs. Siddons’s masterpieces was acted in Liverpool,
she went through the entire performance in dumb show.
In December 1785 her second son, George, was born. As soon as she was
able to write, she communicated the fact to her friends, the Whalleys, in
one of her lively, light-hearted letters:—
“I have another son, healthy and lovely as an angel, born the
26th Dec.; so, you see, I take the earliest opportunity of
relieving the anxiety which I know you and my dear Mrs. Whalley
will feel till you hear of me. My sweet boy is so like a person
of the Royal Family, that I’m rather afraid he’ll bring me to
disgrace. My sister jokingly tells me she’s sure ‘my lady his
mother has played false with the prince,’ and I must own he’s
more like him than anybody else. I will just hint to you that
my father was at one time very like the King, which a little
saves my credit. I rejoice that you are well, and have such
pleasant society, but I wish to God you would return! I have no
news for you, except that the prince is going to devote himself
entirely to a Mrs. Fitzherbert, and the whole world is in an
uproar about it. I know very little of her history more than
that it is agreed on all hands that she is a very ambitious and
clever woman, and that ‘all good seeming by her revolt will be
thought put on for villany,’ for she was thought an example of
propriety. I hear, too, that the Duchess of Devonshire is to
take her by the hand, and to give her the first dinner when the
preliminaries are settled; for it seems everything goes on with
the utmost formality—provision made for children, and so on.
Some people rejoice and some mourn at this event. I have not
heard what his mother says to it. The Royal Family have been
nearly all ill, but are now recovering, and they graciously
intend to command me to play in _The Way to Keep Him_ the first
night I perform. They are gracious to me beyond measure on all
occasions, and take all opportunities to show the world that
they are so. How good and considerate is this! They know what
a sanction their countenance is, and they are amiable beyond
description. Since my confinement I have received the kindest
messages from them; they make me of consequence enough to
desire I won’t think of playing till I feel quite strong, and a
thousand more kind things. I perceive a little shooting in my
temples that tells me I have written enough.
“I don’t take leave of you, however, without telling you that
I am very much disappointed in Sherriffe’s picture of me, and
am afraid to employ him about your snuff-box. I don’t know what
to do about it, for that promised to be so well that I almost
engaged him in the fulness of my heart to do it. I have not
been in face these last four months; but now that I am growing
as amiable as ever, I shall sit for it as soon as possible. God
Almighty bless you both!
“Yours,
“S. SIDDONS.”
Later she writes again to Whalley:—
“I have at last, my friend, attained the _ten thousand pounds_
which I set my heart upon, and am now perfectly at ease with
respect to fortune. I thank God who has enabled me to procure
to myself so comfortable an income. I am sure my dear Mrs.
Whalley and you will be pleased to hear this from myself.
What a thing a balloon would be! but, the deuce take them, I
do not find that they are likely to be brought to any good.
Good heaven! what delight it would be to see you for a few
days only! I have a nice house, and I could contrive to make
up a bed. I know you and my dear Mrs. Whalley would accept
my sincere endeavours to accommodate you; but don’t let me
be taken by surprise, my dear friend, for were I to see you
first at the theatre, I can’t answer for what might be the
consequence.
“I stand some knocks with tolerable firmness, I suppose from
habit; but those of joy being so infinitely less frequent, I
conceive must be more difficultly sustained.
“You will find I have been a niggard of my praise, when you
see your Fanny. Oh! my beloved friend, you could not speak to
one who understands those anxieties you mention better than I
do. Surely it is needless to say no one more ardently prays
that God Almighty, in His mercy, will avert the calamity;
and surely, surely there is everything to hope for from such
dispositions, improved by such an education. My family is well,
God be praised! My two sisters are married and happy. Mrs.
Twiss will present us with a new relation towards February.
At Christmas I bring my dear girls from Miss Eames, or rather
she brings them to me. Eliza is the most entertaining creature
in the world; Sally is vastly clever; Maria and George are
beautiful; and Harry, a boy with very good parts, but not
disposed to learning.”
In spite of her statement that once she had made ten thousand pounds
she would rest contented, we find her for the two next years working
without intermission, going from York to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to
Liverpool. In 1788 Kemble succeeded King as manager of Drury Lane, and
his sister returned to assist, first of all in his spectacular revival
of _Macbeth_, in which, among other innovations, he brought in the black,
grey, and white spirits, as bands of little boys. One of these imps was
insubordinate, and was sent away in disgrace; his name was “Edmund Kean.”
They then acted _Henry VIII._ together, Kemble contenting himself with
“doubling” the characters of Cromwell and Griffith, Bensley having
already possession of the part of Wolsey. The representation was a
success in every way, and Mrs. Siddons’s Queen Katherine was henceforth
ranked as equal to her Lady Macbeth.
On the 7th February following she played for the first time Volumnia to
her brother’s Coriolanus. An eye-witness tells us:—
“I remember her coming down the stage in the triumphal entry of her son
Coriolanus, when her dumb show drew plaudits that shook the building. She
came alone, marching and beating time to the music; rolling (if that be
not too strong a term to describe her motion) from side to side, swelling
with the triumph of her son. Such was the intoxication of joy which
flashed from her eye, and lit up her whole face, that the effect was
irresistible. She seemed to me to reap all the glory of that procession
to herself. I could not take my eye from her. Coriolanus, banner, and
pageant, all went for nothing to me, after she had walked to her place.”
Many are the testimonies of actors and actresses that show her
extraordinary personal power. Young relates that he was once acting
Beverley with her at Edinburgh. They had reached the fifth act, when
Beverley had swallowed the poison, and Bates comes in, and says to the
dying man, “Jarvis found you quarrelling with Jewson in the streets
last night.” Mrs. Beverley says, “No, I am sure he did not!” to which
Jarvis replies, “Or if I did?” meaning, it may be supposed, to add, “The
fault was not with my master.” But the moment he utters the words “Or
if I did?” Mrs. Beverley exclaims, “’Tis false, old man! They had no
quarrel—there was no cause for quarrel!” In uttering this, Mrs. Siddons
caught hold of Jarvis, and gave the exclamation with such piercing grief,
that Young said his throat swelled and his utterance was choked. He
stood unable to repeat the words which, as Beverley, he ought to have
immediately delivered. The prompter repeated the speech several times,
till Mrs. Siddons, coming up to her fellow-actor, put the tips of her
fingers on his shoulders, and said in a low voice, “Mr. Young, recollect
yourself.”
Macready relates an equally remarkable instance of her power. In the last
act of Rowe’s _Tamerlane_, when, by the order of the tyrant Moneses,
Aspasia’s lover is strangled before her face, she worked herself up
to such a pitch of agony that, as she sank a lifeless heap before the
murderer, the audience remained for several moments awe-struck, then
clamoured for the curtain to fall, believing that she was really dead;
and only the earnest assurances of the manager to the contrary could
satisfy them. Holman and the elder Macready were among the spectators,
and looked aghast at one another. “Macready, do I look as pale as you?”
inquired the former.
On another occasion, when performing _Henry VIII._ with a raw
“supernumerary” who was playing Surveyor, when she warned him against
giving false testimony against his master, her look was so terrific that
the unfortunate youth came off perspiring with terror, and swearing that
nothing would induce him to meet that woman’s eyes again.
Had Mrs. Siddons lived in our day, every shop-window would have been
crowded with photographs of her classically beautiful face, in every pose
and every costume. Mercifully she lived in the days of Gainsborough and
Reynolds, and is, therefore, the original of two of the most beautiful
female portraits ever painted. Sir Joshua is said to have borrowed his
conception from a figure designed by Michael Angelo on the roof of the
Sixtine Chapel. She is seated in a chair of state, with two figures
behind holding the dagger and the bowl. The head is thrown back in an
attitude of dramatic inspiration, the right hand thrown over an arm of
the seat, the left raised, pointing upwards. A tiara, necklace, and
splendid folds of drapery enhance the stateliness of the composition.
It is, undoubtedly, the great painter’s masterpiece. “The picture,”
Northcote says, “kept him in a fever.” The unfavourable reception his
pictures of the year before had met with made him resolved to show
the critics that he was not past his prime, while the grandeur and
magnificence of the sitter stimulated him to the exertion of all his
genius.
Mrs. Siddons was fond, in later years, of describing her sittings.
“Ascend your undisputed throne,” said the painter, leading her to the
platform. “Bestow on me some idea of the tragic muse.” And then, when it
was ended, the great painter insisted on inscribing his name on her robe,
saying that he could not lose the honour of going down to posterity on
the hem of her garment. We, who only know of her greatness from hearsay,
can form some idea of what she must have been from this magnificent
conception.
Very nearly as noble and beautiful is the portrait by Gainsborough. The
delicacy of a refined English complexion has never been so beautifully
painted, while the tone and colour is as exquisite as anything
Gainsborough ever did. The light transparent blue, cool yellow, crimson,
brown, and black, forms an enchanting setting for the lovely head, which
stands out clear and delicate. It is said, that while Gainsborough was
painting her, after working in an absorbed silence for some time, he
suddenly exclaimed, “Damn it, Madam, there is no end to your nose!” And,
indeed, it does stand out a little sharply. But the great feature of
the Kembles was the jaw-bone. The actress herself exclaimed, laughing,
“The Kemble jaw-bone! Why, it is as notorious as Samson’s!” Mrs. Jameson
declares that she saw Mrs. Siddons sitting near Gainsborough’s portrait
two years before her death, and, looking from one to the other, she says,
“It was like her still, at the age of seventy.”
Years after, Fanny Kemble, her grand-daughter, while walking through the
streets of Baltimore, saw an engraving of Reynolds’s “Tragic Muse” and
Lawrence’s picture of John Kemble’s “Hamlet.” “We stopped,” she says,
“before them, and my father looked with a great deal of emotion at these
beautiful representations of his beautiful kindred. It was a sort of sad
surprise to meet them in this other world, where we are wandering aliens
and strangers.”
From the numerous portraits extant of Mrs. Siddons we can form an idea
of her appearance, of which such legendary accounts have been handed
down. She was much above middle height; as a girl she was exceedingly
thin and spare, and this remained her characteristic until she was about
twenty-two or three. “Sarah Kemble would be a fine-looking woman one of
these days,” a friend of her father remarked, “provided she could but add
flesh to her bones, and provided her eyes were as small again.”
This is, in fact, what did occur. Her increasing plumpness rounded off
all angles, making the eyes less prominent; and at the age of twenty-four
or twenty-five she was in the very prime of her marvellous beauty. She
had a singular energy and elasticity of motion. Her head was beautifully
set on her shoulders. Her features were fine and expressive, the nose
a little long, but counterbalanced by the height of the brow, and
firmly-modelled chin. The eye-brows were marked, and ran straight across
the brow; her eyes positively flamed at times. A fixed pallor overspread
her features in later days, which was seldom tinged with colour. It is
difficult, looking at the stately fine lady painted by Gainsborough, to
imagine the bursts of passion that convulsed her on the stage. Her voice,
as years matured its power, was capable of every inflection of feeling;
while her articulation was singularly clear and exact. There was no undue
raising of the voice, no overdoing of action; all was moderate and quiet
until passion was demanded, and then swift and sudden it burst forth.
In Kemble’s manner at times there was a sacrifice of energy to grace.
This observation, Braden tells us, was made by Mrs. Siddons herself,
who admired her brother, in general, as much as she loved him. She
illustrated her meaning by rising and placing herself in the attitude
of one of the old Egyptian statues; the knees joined together, and the
feet turned a little inwards. Placing her elbows close to her sides, she
folded her hands, and held them upright, with the palms pressed to each
other. Having made those present observe that she had assumed one of the
most constrained, and, therefore, most ungraceful positions possible, she
proceeded to recite the curse of King Lear on his undutiful offspring, in
a manner which made _hair rise and flesh creep_, and then called on us to
remark the additional effect which was gained by the concentrated energy
which the unusual and ungraceful posture in itself implied.
It is a characteristic trait, that by the Kemble family John should have
been considered a finer player than Sarah. We know that he continually
gave her directions and instructions, which she accepted with all
humility, and followed, until she had made herself _sure_ of her ground.
No one, however gifted, could then shake her conscientious adherence to
her own views.
The subtle difference that lies between genius and talent separated
the two. Kemble repeated beautiful words suitably; Mrs. Siddons was
magnificent before she spoke, thrilling her audience with a silence more
significant than all else in the development of human emotion. We can see
how grand she was, independently of her author, by the miserable plays
she made famous; when her genius was no longer present to breathe life
and passion into them they passed into oblivion.
The number of indifferent plays she was entreated to appear in were
legion. All her friends seemed to think they could write plays, and that
she was the one and only person who could appear in them. We find her
piteously writing to a friend who had sent her a tragedy:—
“It is impossible for you to conceive how hard it is to say that
_Astarte_ will not do as you and I would have it do. Thank God, it is
over! It has been so bitter a sentence for me to pronounce, that it has
wrung drops of sorrow from the very bottom of my heart. Let me entreat,
if you have any idea that I am too tenacious of your honour, that you
will suffer me to ask the opinion of others, which may be done without
naming the author. I must, however, premise that what is charming in the
closet often ceases to be so when it comes into consideration for the
stage.”
Conceited Fanny Burney must needs write a tragedy, _Edwin and Elgitha_.
Her stumbling-block was “Bishops.” At that time there was a popular drink
called “Bishop,” composed of certain intoxicating ingredients. When,
therefore, in one of the earlier scenes the King gave the order “Bring in
the Bishop,” the audience went into roars of laughter. The dying scene
seemed to have no effect in damping their mirth. A passing stranger, in
a tragic tone, proposed to carry the expiring heroine to the other side
of a hedge. This hedge, though remote from any dwelling, proved to be a
commodious retreat, for, in a few minutes afterwards, the wounded lady
was brought from behind it on an elegant couch, and, after dying in the
presence of her husband, was removed once more to the back of the hedge.
The effect proved too ridiculous for the audience, and Mrs. Siddons was
carried off amidst renewed roars of laughter.
Dr. Whalley must then needs press a tragedy of his own upon her, _The
Castle of Mowal_, which was yawned at for three nights. It is said that
when the author went down to Mr. Peake, the treasurer, to know what
benefit might have accrued to him, it amounted to nothing. “I have
been,” said the doctor, an old picquet-player, “piqued and repiqued”; and
so he retired from the scene of his discomfiture to Bath, where he plumed
himself on the fact of having “run for three nights.”
Her next essay in the cause of friendship was in Bertie Greatheed’s
tragedy of _The Regent_. She writes in reference to it:—
“The plot of the poor young man’s piece, it strikes me, is very lame, and
the characters very—very ill-sustained in general; but more particularly
the lady, for whom the author had me in his eye. This woman is one of
those monsters (I think them) of perfection, who is an angel before her
time, and is so entirely resigned to the will of Heaven, that (to a very
mortal like myself) she appears to be the most provoking piece of still
life one ever had the misfortune to meet. Her struggles and conflicts are
so weakly expressed, that we conclude they do not cost her much pain, and
she is so pious that we are satisfied she looks upon her afflictions as
so many convoys to Heaven, and wish her there, or anywhere else but in
the tragedy. I have said all this, and ten times more, to them both, with
as much delicacy as I am mistress of; but Mr. G. says that it would give
him no great trouble to alter it, provided I will undertake the milksop
lady. I am in a very distressed situation, for, unless he makes her a
totally different character, I cannot possibly have anything to do with
her.”
The piece was eventually performed for twelve nights, and then consigned
to oblivion; but the author was so satisfied that he gave a supper, which
was followed by a drinking-bout at the “Brown Bear” in Bow Street, at
which a subordinate actor named Phillimore was sufficiently tipsy to
have courage enough to fight his lord and master, John Kemble, who was
elevated enough to defend himself, and generous enough to forget the
affair next morning.
Other parts were declined by her for other reasons. Colman had written an
epilogue to Mr. Jephson’s _Julia_, which she refused to speak because she
declared it to be “coarse;” and the part of Cleopatra, she said she never
would act, because “she would hate herself if she were to play it as she
thought it should be played.” And there she was right; the “Serpent of
Old Nile” was not within her range.
One of her admirers tells us that her majestic and imposing person, and
the commanding character of her beauty, militated against the effect she
produced in the part of Mrs. Haller. “No man alive or dead,” said he,
“would have dared to take a liberty with her; wicked she might be, but
weak she could not be, and when she told the story of her ill-conduct in
the play nobody believed her.” Another eye-witness, speaking of “the fair
penitent,” said that it was worth sitting out the piece for her scene
with Romont alone, to see “such a splendid animal in such a magnificent
rage.”
And yet, what a kind heart it was to an erring sister! “Charming and
beautiful Mrs. Robinson,” she writes, referring to Perdita Robinson, “I
pity her from the bottom of my soul.” And what a generous helping hand
she stretched out to her younger colleagues. When Miss Mellon, twenty
years her junior, was acting with her at Liverpool, Mrs. Siddons one
morning at rehearsal turned to an actor, a friend of hers, who had known
her for years, and said:
“There is a young woman here whom I am sure I have seen at Drury Lane.”
He told her it was Miss Mellon, who had just come out.
“She seems a nice, pretty young woman,” returned the great actress, “and
I pity her situation in that hotbed of iniquity, Drury Lane; it is almost
impossible for a young, pretty, and unprotected female to escape. How has
she conducted herself?”
The person she addressed, who relates the story, replied:
“With the greatest propriety.”
“Then please present her to me.”
The young lady, colouring highly and looking very handsome, came forward.
The Queen of Tragedy took her by the hand, and, after a few kind
encouraging words, led her forward among the company and said:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am told by one I know very well that this
young lady has always conducted herself with the utmost propriety. I,
therefore, introduce her as my young friend.”
This electrified the parties in the green-room, who had not looked for
such a flattering distinction for the young actress; but, of course, they
were all too glad to follow Mrs. Siddons in anything, and Miss Mellon was
overwhelmed with attention. Afterwards, on the return of Mrs. Siddons
and Miss Mellon to their duties in London for the succeeding season, the
former repeated the compliment she had paid her at Liverpool, making the
same statement regarding her excellent conduct; and by thus bringing her
forward under such advantageous circumstances, procured her admission to
the first green-room, where her inferior salary did not entitle her to
be, except on such a recommendation as that of Mrs. Siddons.
In the summer of 1790, being in delicate health, and disgusted at
Sheridan’s treatment of her, she went with her husband to France,
accompanied by Miss Wynn. They first stopped at Calais, where their
daughters, Sarah and Maria, were at a boarding-school, and then went
on to Lisle. The letter she wrote to Lady Harcourt on her return is so
characteristic in its energetic, outspoken sincerity, that it seems
unjust not to quote every word of it:—
“Sandgate, near Folkestone, Kent. August 2nd.
“MY DEAR LADY HARCOURT,
“After so long a silence, your good nature will exalt itself
to hear a long letter full of egotism, and I will begin with
Streatham, where you may remember to have heard me talk
of going with no great degree of pleasurable expectation,
supposing it impossible that I should ever feel much more for
Mrs. P.[2] than admiration of her talents; but, after having
very unexpectedly stayed there more than three weeks, during
which time every moment gave me fresh instances of unremitting
kindness and attention to me, and, indeed, a very extraordinary
degree of benevolence and forbearance towards those who have
not deserved much lenity at her hands (and it is wonderful how
many there are of that description), I left them with great
regret; and between their very great kindness, their wit, and
their music, they made me love, esteem, and admire them very
much. In a few days I set out with Mr. S., Miss Wynn, and her
brother, for Calais, and, after a very rough passage, arrived
at Calais, and found my dear girls quite well and improved
in their persons, and (I am told) in their French. I was very
much struck with the difference of objects and customs when I
reflected how small a space divides one nation from the other,
like true English. We saw all we could, and I thought _of_ my
dear Lord Harcourt, though not _with_ him, in their churches.
I own (though I blame myself at the same time for it) I was
disgusted with all the pomp and magnificence of them, when I
saw the priests ‘playing such fantastic tricks before high
Heaven as (I think) must make the angels weep’; and the people
gabbling over their prayers, even in the _act of gaping_, to
have it over as quick as might be. Alas! said I to myself, in
the pitifulness, and perhaps vanity, of my heart, how sorry I
am for these poor deluded people, and how much more worthy the
Deity (‘who does prefer before all temples the upright heart
and pure’) are the sublime and simple forms of _our_ religion.
Indeed, my dear Madam, I am better satisfied with the ideas and
feelings that have been excited in my heart in _your_ garden at
_Nuneham_, than ever I have been in those fine gewgaw places,
and believe Mr. Haggitt, by his plain and sensible sermons, has
done more good than a legion of these priests would do if they
were to live to the age of Methusalem. I am willing to own that
all this may be prejudice, and that _we_ may not _mean_ better
than our _neighbours_; but _fire_ shall not burn my opinion
out of me, and so _God mend all_. Now, to turn to our _great
selves_. We took our little folks to Lisle; it is a very fine
town, and, though I know nothing of the language, the acting
was so really good that it gave me very great pleasure. The
language of true genius, like that of Nature, is intelligible
to all. We stayed there a few days, and you would have laughed
to have seen my amazement at the valet of the inn assisting
the _femme de chambre_ in the making of our beds. The _beds_
are the best I ever slept upon; but the valet’s kind offices I
could always, I think, dispense with, good heavens! Well, we
returned to Calais, where I would have stayed a few months,
and have employed myself in acquiring a few French phrases
with the dear children, if Mrs. Temple would have taken me
in; but she said she had not room to accommodate me, and I
unwillingly gave up the point. In a day or two we set sail,
after seeing the civic oath administered on the fourteenth.
It was a fine thing even at Calais. I was extremely delighted
and affected, not, indeed, at the _sensible objects_, though a
great multitude is often a grand thing, but the idea of so many
millions throughout that great nation, with one consent, at one
moment (as it were by Divine Inspiration), breaking their bonds
asunder, filled one with sympathetic exultation, good-will,
and tenderness. I rejoiced with them from my heart, and most
sincerely hope they will not abuse the glorious freedom they
have obtained. We were nearly twenty hours on the sea on our
return, and arrived at Dover fatigued and sick to death. Dr.
Wynn was obliged to make the best of his way to London on
account of a sermon he was engaged to preach, and took his
charming sister with him. _We_ made haste here, and it is the
most agreeable sea-place, excepting those on the Devonshire
coast, I ever saw. Perhaps _agreeable_ is a bad word, for the
country is much more sublime than beautiful. We have tremendous
cliffs overhanging and frowning on the foaming sea, which is
very often so saucy and tempestuous as to _deserve_ frowning
on; from whence, when the weather is clear, we see the land
of France, and the vessels cross from the Downs to Calais.
Sometimes, while you _stand_ there, it is amazing with what
velocity they skim along. Here are little neat lodgings,
and good wholesome provisions. Perhaps they would not suit
a great _countess_, as our friend Mr. Mason has it, but a
little great actress is more easily accommodated. I’m afraid
it will grow larger, though, and then adieu to the comforts of
retirement. At present the place cannot contain above twenty
or thirty strangers, I should think. I have bathed four times,
and believe I shall persevere, for Sir Lucas Pepys says my
disease is entirely nervous. I believe I am better, but I get
on so slowly that I cannot speak as yet with much certainty.
I still suffer a good deal. Mr. Siddons leaves me here for a
fortnight while he goes to town upon business, and my spirits
are so bad that I live in terror of being left alone so long.
We have been here nearly three weeks, and I propose staying
here, if possible, till September, when I shall go to town to
my brother’s for some days, and then set off for Mr. Whalley’s
at Bath. I shall hope to see you at Nuneham, though, before you
leave it.
“Now, my dear Lady Harcourt, let me congratulate you upon
having almost got to the end of this interesting epistle and
_myself_, in the honour of your friendship, which has flattered
me into the comfort of believing that you will not be tired of
your prosing, but always very affectionate and faithful servant,
“S. SIDDONS.
“Pray offer my love, and our united compliments, to all.”
Michael Kelly gives an account of the landlady’s opinion of _La grande
actrice Anglaise_ at the hotel at St. Omer, where he stopped shortly
after Mrs. Siddons had been there. She considered her handsome, declared
she was trying to imitate French women, but fell very far short of them.
She was induced to return to Drury Lane about the end of 1790, and in
April we find Horace Walpole writing to tell Miss Berry that he had
supped with Kemble and Mrs. Siddons “t’other night at Miss Farren’s, at
the bow-window house in Green Street, Grosvenor Square.” He pronounces
the actress to be “leaner.” We can see the party: cynical, sneering
Walpole; beautiful Miss Farren, afterwards Countess of Derby, the
hostess; Mrs. Siddons, “august” and matronly; and solemn John, who had
just made a hit as Othello.
It was the last year of old Drury’s existence, and, for her brother’s
sake, she bore her part bravely, acting when called upon; but she soon
flagged, and could only act a few nights. Her reappearance was welcomed
with wild enthusiasm; she seemed as popular as ever. One night over four
hundred pounds was paid by the public to see her in Mrs. Beverley.
About 1792 or 3 she seems to have taken a house at Nuneham, near the
Harcourts—the Rectory, we presume, for we find her writing to Lord
Harcourt, devising little comforts for their summer residence at Nuneham,
thanking him for his “neighbourly” attention; and one or two letters she
writes to John Taylor are dated Nuneham Rectory. One is on the subject of
a Life of herself which he wished to undertake; the other refers to her
modelling, and an accident which happened to her husband and children.
“I am in no danger of being too much occupied by my ‘favorite clay,’
for it is not arriv’d—how provoking and vexatious! particularly as I
am dying to attempt a Bust of my sweet little George, and his Holidays
will be over, I fear, before I am able to finish it. Apropos to George,
the dear little Soul has escapd being dangerously hurt, if not kill’d
(my blood runs cold at the thought), by almost a miracle. Mr. Siddons
and Maria have not been so fortunate, they are both cripples at present
with each a wounded Leg, but I hope they are in a fair way to get better.
The accident (so these things are called, but not by _me_; I know
you’ll deride my _Superstition_, but this kind of Superstition has not
unfrequently afforded me great aid and consolation, and I hate to discard
an old friend because she happens to be a little out of Fashion, so Laugh
on, I dont care) happen’d from their being forcd to jump out of a little
Market Cart which Mr. Siddons had orderd to indulge the children in a
drive. Thank God I did not see it and that they have escapd so well!!!
This is the Sweetest Situation in England, I believe. I wish you would
come and see it. If I had a Bed to offer you I should be more pressing,
but I could get you one at the Inn in the Village, if you should be
disposd to go to those fine doings at Oxford, where all the world will
be, except such Stupid Souls as myself. Mr. Combe is at Lord Harcourt’s;
I understand he is writing a History of the Thames, and his Lordships
House is the present Seat of his observations. I have not the pleasure to
know him, but am to Dine with him at Lord H⸺’s to-morrow. [This is the
Combe of Wolverhampton memory, whom Mrs. Kemble had refused as instructor
for her daughter. The stately “I have not the pleasure to know him” is
so like Mrs. Siddons.] Give my kind love to Betsey when you See her, and
I earnestly entreat you (if it be not too much vanity to Suppose you wᵈ
_wish_ to preserve them a moment beyond reading them) that you will burn
all my Letters; tell me Seriously you will do so! for there is nothing
I dread like having all one’s nonsense appear in print by some untoward
accident—not accident neither, but wicked or _interested design_, pray do
me the favʳ to ask at our House why my precious Clay has not been Sent,
and tell me Something about it when you write again. Adieu.”