HERMIONE.
It sends a pang through our heart as we hear Mrs. Siddons say in later
life, with a sigh, to Rogers the poet: “After I became famous, none of my
sisters loved me so well.” What a price to pay for fame! “Conversation”
Sharp was frequently consulted by her upon private affairs. She wept
to him over the ingratitude her sisters showed her. Money was lent and
never repaid; the prestige of her name was borrowed to obtain theatrical
engagements, but she never was thanked; every obligation seemed only to
cause a feeling of bitterness. Perhaps the fault lay a little on her
side as well as on theirs. Tact and graciousness were not her strong
points. She was absent-minded, all her attention being concentrated on
the study and comprehension of her profession, which gave her a proud,
self-contained manner, alienating unconsciously those who surrounded her
and were dependent on her. Her children adored her, but her brothers
and sisters stood, to a certain extent, in awe of her. All of them,
stimulated by the examples of the two eldest, went on the stage, but
none possessed her genius, or John Kemble’s talent and industry. The
affectionate comradeship in art that existed between Mrs. Siddons and
John Kemble is one of the pleasantest features in both their lives.
He was educated, as we have seen, principally at the Roman Catholic
College at Douay, where he became remarkable for his elocution, every
now and then astonishing his masters and schoolfellows by delivering
speeches in scholastic Latin, and learning with the greatest facility
books of Homer and odes of Horace. We are told that his noble cast of
countenance, his deep melodious voice, and the dignity of his delivery,
impressed his comrades considerably; especially in the scene between
Brutus and Cassius, which he got up for their benefit. It is a curious
proof of his want of facility that, although he was extremely fond of
the study of language, grammar being all his life his favourite _light
reading_, he never was able to master any language but his own. He read
Italian, Spanish, and French, but spoke none of them, in spite of his
education in France and his long residence later at Lausanne. He had no
ear, and it never could have been an easy task to him to learn the rhythm
of Shakespeare. We know the story of old Shaw, conductor of the Covent
Garden orchestra, who vainly endeavoured to teach him the song in the
piece of _Richard Cœur de Lion_, “O Richard—O mon roi!” “Mr. Kemble, Mr.
Kemble, you are murdering the time, Sir!” cried the exasperated musician;
on which Kemble made one of the few jokes ever perpetrated by him: “Very
well, Sir, and you are for ever beating it.”
After six years’ residence at Douay he made up his mind that he was not
suited to the church, and left for England, determined to follow his
father’s profession. He landed at Bristol in that very December, 1775,
that his sister made her unfortunate “first appearance” before the London
public. Dreading his parents’ wrath, he made his way to Wolverhampton,
and there joined a company under the direction of a Mr. Crump and a Mr.
Chamberlain. After going through all the humiliations and privations of
a penniless actor, but also after enjoying the valuable hours of study
and stern discipline of a stroller’s life, we find the future Hamlet,
by the aid of his sister, Mrs. Siddons, enabled to get his foot on
the first round of the ladder. Mr. Younger, manager of the Liverpool
Theatre, gave him an engagement in 1778. We find him afterwards playing
at Wakefield with Tate Wilkinson’s York company, and actually permitted
to act Macbeth at Hull. By the aid of quiet industry and determination he
was working his way to the goal he had in view. He perpetrated a tragedy,
_Belisarius_, that was given on the same occasion at Hull, wrote poetry
which he burnt, gave lectures on oratory, and, in fact, passed through
the curriculum necessary to the full completion of his powers.
On the 30th September 1783, John Kemble first appeared in London, at
Drury Lane, as Hamlet. The fiery criticisms launched against this
performance by the press, show that at least it was distinguished by
originality. Whatever its faults might be, they were unanimous in
declaring his reading to be scholarly and refined. He is said, in
studying the part of Hamlet, to have written it out no less than forty
times. Some time elapsed before he appeared in the same piece as his
sister; other actors had possession of the parts, and he had to bide his
time. That patient waiting on opportunity, however, was one of the great
Kemble gifts; there was no impatience, no complaining, but a steady,
dogged power of perseverance, with the profound conviction of their own
capabilities to make use of fortune when it came. At last he appeared as
Stukeley to his sister’s Mrs. Beverley, in _The Gamester_. Finely as the
part was played, the sister, not the brother, carried away the honours of
the performance.
After this, on several benefit nights they were able to appear together,
Kemble replacing Smith in the character of Macbeth to Mrs. Siddons’s Lady
Macbeth, and both of them acting later in _Othello_, he as the Moor, she
as Desdemona. This was not a distinct success. At last, however, his
power found its legitimate development. On the occasion of his sister’s
benefit in January 1788, he acted Lear to her Cordelia. The town was
electrified, and declared him equal to Garrick. Boaden tells us “that he
never played it so grandly or so touchingly as on that night.”
His really great gift was his large and cultivated understanding, that
enabled him to grasp the spirit of the author he sought to interpret,
giving a new emphasis and truth to scenes that were hackneyed and stale
by a conventional method of rendering. This was particularly the case
with Shakespeare, whose beauties he and his sister first revealed to
their generation. The difference, however, between them was that he
possessed superlative talent, she possessed genius. In speaking to
Reynolds the dramatist, she defined completely the difference between
them, “My brother John, in his most impetuous bursts, is always careful
to avoid any discomposure of his dress or deportment, but in the
whirlwind of passion I lose all thoughts of such matters.”
He is said to have nourished a tender affection for the
“Muse”—beautiful, clever, fascinating, stuttering Mrs. Inchbald.
When her husband died, it was universally said he would marry her.
Fanny Kemble tells an incident that occurred long after Kemble was
married. Mrs. Inchbald and Miss Mellon were sitting by the fire-place
in the green-room, waiting to be called upon the stage. The two were
laughingly discussing their male friends and acquaintances from the
matrimonial point of view. John Kemble, who was standing near, at length
jestingly said to Mrs. Inchbald, who had been comically energetic in her
declarations of whom she could or would or never could or would have
married, “Well, Mrs. Inchbald, would you have had me?” “Dear heart,” said
the stammering beauty, turning her sweet sunny face up to him, “I’d have
j-j-j-jumped at you!”
The lady he did eventually marry was no beauty and no “Muse,” but, much
to the indignation of Mrs. Siddons, as people said at the time, a very
ordinary young woman, daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins, prompter and
actress at Drury Lane. Priscilla, however, made him a good wife, and he
never had cause to regret his choice.
The next brother to John, Stephen, although almost born on the stage, had
none of the requisites either of talent or facility to make him a good
actor. Only a few days before John’s first appearance in London, Stephen
appeared before the public as Othello. It was said that the manager had
made a mistake, and had engaged the “big” instead of the “great” Mr.
Kemble. Stephen’s great boast all his life was that he was the only actor
who could play Falstaff “without stuffing.” His qualifications were those
of a boon companion rather than of an actor. He very soon quitted the
London stage and became manager of a provincial theatre.
Frances, the great actress’s second sister, inherited a considerable
portion of the family beauty, but little dramatic power, and what she had
was rendered inoperative by her unconquerable shyness. Mrs. Siddons first
brought her out at Bath. The papers vented their spleen against the elder
sister on the younger. It was natural, they said, that she should wish to
bring her forward, but they hoped she had learned, by the utter failure
of her attempt, not to “cram incapable actresses down the throats of the
public.” One of the theatrical critics, Steevens, fell in love with her;
but his proposals being rejected, he became her bitterest enemy.
Mrs. Siddons writes to tell Dr. Whalley of this love affair:—“My sister
Frances is not married, and, I believe, there is very little reason to
suppose she will be soon. In point of circumstances, I believe, the
gentleman you mention would be a desirable husband; but I hear so much of
his ill-temper, and know so much of his caprice, that, though my sister,
I believe, likes him, I cannot wish her gentle spirit linked with his.”
Mrs. Siddons had judged her sister’s suitor exactly. The engagement
was soon broken off, and the girl married Mr. Twiss, another dramatic
critic, whom Fanny Kemble, in her _Records of a Girlhood_, describes
as a grim-visaged, gaunt-figured, kind-hearted gentleman and profound
scholar, who, it was said, at one time nourished a hopeless passion for
Mrs. Siddons. The Twisses later set up a genteel seminary at Bath, where
fashionable young ladies were sent “to be bettered.” Mrs. Twiss died in
October 1822, and Mr. Twiss in 1827. Mrs. Siddons ever kept up the most
affectionate intercourse with them, and their son Horace Twiss was her
favourite nephew.
Her next sister, Elizabeth, though apprenticed to a mantua-maker, was
soon bitten with the dramatic enthusiasm of the family. She obtained an
engagement through the influence of her famous sister, but made no way in
London; and after her marriage with Mr. Whitelock, one of the managers
of the Chester company, in 1785, she went with him to America, where she
seems to have had some success.
Mrs. Whitelock, we are told, was a taller and fairer woman than Mrs.
Siddons. When she returned to England years later, she wore an auburn
wig, which, like the tall cap that surmounted it, was always on one side.
She was a simple-hearted, sweet-tempered woman, but very imperfectly
educated. Her Kemble name, face, figure, and voice helped her in the
United States, but her own qualifications were but meagre. Nothing could
be droller, we are told, than to see her with Mrs. Siddons, of whom she
looked like a clumsy, badly-finished imitation. Her vehement gestures
and violent objurgations contrasted comically with her sister’s majestic
stillness of manner; and when occasionally Mrs. Siddons would interrupt
her with “Elizabeth, your wig is on one side,” and the other replied,
“Oh, is it?” and, giving the offending head-gear a shove, put it quite
as crooked in the other direction, and proceeded with her discourse,
Melpomene herself used to have recourse to her snuff-box to hide the
dawning smile on her face.
Another sister, Jane, appeared in Lady Randolph at Newcastle when
she was nineteen. She had all the Kemble faults in acting carried to
excess. She was, besides, short and fat; and when a character in the
play, describing her death, said, “She ran, she flew, like lightning
up the hill,” the audience roared with laughter. Shortly after this
discouraging attempt she married a Mr. Mason, of Edinburgh, and retired
from the profession. She died in 1834, leaving a husband, five sons,
and a daughter, who almost all went on the stage. With one unfortunate
exception, the Kemble family were remarkable for their decorous,
well-regulated lives. Although all the brothers married actresses, their
children were admirably brought up, and their households models of
propriety. The unfortunate exception we mentioned was Ann Curtis, the
fourth sister. To a woman of Mrs. Siddons’s proud, sensitive temper, the
vagaries of this wretched woman must have been painful beyond expression.
She was said to be lame, which prevented her going on the stage. In
1783, the year of her great triumph in London, the young actress had the
pleasure of reading in all the papers the following advertisement. Under
the guise of charity it is easy to see the motive that prompted it, and
shows the envy and malignity that pursued her during her career.
DONATIONS IN FAVOUR OF MRS. CURTIS, YOUNGEST SISTER OF MRS.
SIDDONS.
A _private_ individual, whose humanity is far more extensive
than her means, having taken the case of the unfortunate MRS.
CURTIS into consideration, pitying her youth, respecting
her talents for the stage, which, unhappily, misfortune has
rendered useless, and desirous to restore a useful member to
Society, earnestly entreats the interference of a generous
public in her behalf, that she may be enabled by the efforts
of humanity to procure such necessaries as may be requisite to
relieve her immediate distress, and for her getting her bread
by needlework, artificial flowers, &c., in which she is well
skilled, and in which she will be happy to be well employed.
Mrs. Curtis is the youngest sister of _Messrs. Kemble_ and
_Mrs. Siddons_, whom she has repeatedly solicited for relief,
which they have flatly refused her; it therefore becomes
necessary to solicit, in her behalf, the benevolent generosity
of that public who have so liberally supported _them_.
Deny not to Affliction Pity’s tear,
For Virtue’s fairest when she aids Distress!
Mrs. Curtis’s _Search After Happiness_.
Donations will be thankfully received at Mr. Ayre’s, Printer of
the Sunday _London Gazette_ and _Weekly Monitor_, &c., No. 5
Bridges Street, opposite Drury Lane Theatre; and at No. 21 King
Street, Covent Garden.
All efforts to reclaim her being unavailing, she gradually descended
lower and lower in the social scale. Rumours were circulated of her
having attempted to poison herself, and again her brother and sister were
accused of undue harshness; but almost everything connected with the case
points to their having done all they could, though she proved perfectly
irreclaimable.
During the latter part of her life she was allowed a small annuity of
twenty pounds a year, which was continued to her in Mrs. Siddons’s will.
She lived until 1838.
Charles, who approached more nearly in intellectual powers to his
celebrated sister and brother than any of the others, was nearly twenty
years younger than Mrs. Siddons. When thirteen years of age, he was
sent by John Kemble to Douay College, where he remained three years. He
appeared at Drury Lane in 1794. He was a gentlemanly, refined actor;
there were certain characters which he made entirely his own. Charles
married, in 1806, an actress of the name of De Camp. Like Mrs. Garrick,
she had been a ballet-dancer, and had come over from Vienna, brought by
Garrick with the rest of the troupe. In consequence of a riot directed
against the employment of foreigners, the greater part of the troupe was
obliged to return to Vienna. Miss De Camp, however, remained, learnt
English, and, by dint of perseverance, achieved a good position at Drury
Lane. They had three children—Adelaide, who sang professionally, but soon
left the stage to marry Mr. Sartoris; Fanny, authoress of the _Record of
a Girlhood_, who became Mrs. Butler; and a son, John Mitchell Kemble.
Charles Kemble suffered much from deafness during the latter years of his
life, and was entirely ruined by his gift of the share in Covent Garden
valued at £50,000. Mrs. Siddons reappeared for his benefit on the 9th
June 1819.
Mrs. Siddons had five children who lived to grow up—Henry, who was
born at Wolverhampton on the 4th October 1774; Sarah Martha, born at
Gloucester, November 5th, 1775; Maria, born at Bath, July 1st, 1779;
George, born in London, December 27th, 1785; and Cecilia, born July 25th,
1794. She sent her son Henry to France to study under Le Kain. He went on
the stage, but had none of the qualifications of a good actor.
Mrs. Siddons, with her usual sensible acceptance of things as they were,
tried to make the best of his powers. On the occasion of his first
appearance, she writes to Mrs. Inchbald from Bannister’s, where she was
stopping with her friend Mrs. Fitzhugh:—
“I received your kind letter, and thank you very much for the interest
you have taken in my dear Harry’s success. It gives me great pleasure
to find that Mr. Harris appreciates his talents, which I think highly
of, and which, I believe, will grow to great perfection by fostering, on
the one hand, and care and industry on the other. I have little doubt
of Mr. Harris’s liberality, and none of the laudable ambition of my son
to obtain it. It is so long since I have felt anything like joy, that
it appears like a dream to me, and I believe I shall not be able quite
to convince myself that this is real till I am present ‘to attend the
triumph and partake the gale.’ I am all anxiety and impatience to hear
the effect of Hamlet. It is a tremendous undertaking for so young a
creature, and where so perfect a model has been so long contemplated. I
was frightened when I yesterday received information of it. Oh! I hope to
God he will get well through it. Adieu, dear Muse.”
Henry Siddons soon quitted the stage, married a Miss Murray, daughter
of an actor, and herself an actress, and in 1808 became manager of the
Edinburgh Theatre.
The death of her daughter Maria was the first serious grief Mrs. Siddons
had known. We have touched on Lawrence the painter’s proposal to her,
and the transference of his affection, after a short engagement, to her
sister Sarah. Mrs. Siddons did everything she could to soften the blow
to the poor deserted girl. We find her writing in desperation to her old
friend Tate Wilkinson:—
“My plans for the summer are so arranged that I have no
chance of the pleasure of seeing you. The illness of my
second daughter has deranged all schemes of pleasure as well
as profit. I thank God she is better; but the nature of her
constitution is such that it will be long ere we can reasonably
banish the fear of an approaching consumption. It is dreadful
to see an innocent, lovely young creature daily sinking under
the languor of illness, which may terminate in death at last,
in spite of the most vigilant tenderness. A parent’s misery
under this distress you can more easily imagine than I can
describe; but if you are the man I take you for, you will not
refuse me a favour. It would, _indeed_, be a great comfort to
us all, if you would allow our dear Patty to come to us on our
return to town in the autumn, to stay with us a few months.
I am sure it would do my poor Maria so much good, for the
physician tells me she will require the same confinement and
the same care the next winter; and let it not offend the pride
of my good friend when I beg it to be understood that I wish
to defray the expense of her journey. Do, dear soul, grant my
request. Give my kind compliments to your family, my love to my
own dear Patty, and accept yourself the best and most cordial
wishes of
“S. SIDDONS.”
From this time until Mrs. Siddons’s death, Patty Wilkinson never left her
house, and remained ever the intimate and beloved friend of her and her
daughters.
Maria was taken to Clifton at the doctor’s suggestion, while Mrs. Siddons
went a provincial tour to make money enough to meet the heavy demands
upon her purse. At last even the poor mother saw all efforts were
unavailing, and when, on the 6th October 1798, the blow at last came, she
met it with resignation and courage. To Mrs. Fitzhugh she wrote:—
“Although my mind is not yet sufficiently tranquillised to talk much,
yet the conviction of your undeviating affection impels me to quiet your
anxiety so far as to tell you that I am tolerably well. This sad event
I have been long prepared for, and bow with humble resignation to the
decree of that merciful God who has taken to Himself the dear angel I
must ever tenderly lament. I dare not trust myself further. Oh! that
you were here, that I might talk to you of her death-bed—in dignity of
mind and pious resignation far surpassing the imagination of Rousseau
and Richardson in their Heloïse and Clarissa Harlowe; for hers was, I
believe, from the immediate inspiration of the Divinity.”
Troubles now began to fall thick and heavy. Mr. Siddons, actuated by
a morbid jealousy of his wife’s energy and success, entered into a
connection with Sadler’s Wells Theatre without consulting her, or even
taking her into his confidence. A considerable amount of her savings
were sacrificed to save him from his ill-advised venture. In spite of
ill-health and lassitude, however, we find her unmurmuringly taking up
her burden to make good the loss. On the 14th of July 1801 she writes
again to Mrs. Fitzhugh:—
“In about a fortnight I expect to commence my journey to Bath. Mr.
Siddons is there, for he finds no relief from his rheumatism elsewhere.
His accounts of himself are less favourable than those of anyone who
writes to me about him; but I hope and trust that we shall find him
better than he himself thinks; for I know by sad experience with what
difficulty a mind, weakened by long and uninterrupted suffering, admits
hope, much less assurance. I shall be here till next Saturday, and
after that time at Lancaster till Tuesday, the 28th; thence I shall
go immediately to Bath, where I shall have about a month’s quiet, and
then begin to play at Bristol for a few nights. ‘Such resting finds the
sole of unblest feet!’ _When_ we shall come to London is uncertain,
for nothing is settled by Mr. Sheridan, and I think it not impossible
that _my_ winter may be spent in Dublin; for I must go on _making_ to
secure the few comforts that I have been able to attain for myself and
my family. It is providential for us all that I can do so much; but I
hope it is not wrong to say that I am tired, and should be glad to be at
rest indeed. I hope yet to see the day when I can be quiet. My mouth is
not yet well [she had had an attack of erysipelas, the disease that was
ultimately to kill her], though somewhat less exquisitely painful. I have
become a frightful object with it for some time, and, I believe, this
complaint has robbed me of those poor remains of beauty once admired—at
least, which, in your partial eyes, I once possessed.”
She did not go to Dublin, but returned early in the following year to
Drury Lane, where she performed above forty times.
On the 25th March 1802 she performed for the first time Hermione in the
_Winter’s Tale_. The enacting of this part is to be counted amongst her
great successes. It was more suitable to her age and appearance than
others that she undertook in later life. On the second or third night she
had a narrow escape of being burned to death. We can give the incident as
related in a letter to Mrs. Fitzhugh:—
“London, April 1802.
“... Except for a day or two, the weather has been very
favourable to me hitherto. I trust it may continue so, for the
_Winter’s Tale_ promises to be very attractive; and, whilst
it continues so, I am bound in honour and conscience to put
my shoulder to the wheel, for it has been attended with great
expense to the managers, and, if I can keep warm, I trust I
shall continue tolerably well. As to my plans, they are, as
usual, all uncertain, and I am precisely in the situation of
poor Lady Percy, to whom Hotspur comically says: ‘I trust
thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.’ This must
continue to be the case, in a great measure, whilst I continue
to be the servant of the public, for whom (and let it not be
thought vain) I can never sufficiently exert myself. I really
think they receive me every night with greater and greater
testimonies of approbation. I know it will give you pleasure
to hear this, my dear Friend, and you will not suspect me of
deceiving myself in this particular. The other night had very
nearly terminated _all_ my exertion, for whilst I was standing
for the statue in the _Winter’s Tale_, my drapery flew over the
lamps that were placed behind the pedestal. It caught fire, and
had it not been for one of the scene-men, who most humanely
crept on his knees and extinguished it without my knowing
anything of the matter, I might have been burnt to death, or,
at all events, I should have been frightened out of my senses.
Surrounded as I was with muslin, the flame would have run
like wildfire. The bottom of the train was entirely burned.
But for the man’s promptitude, it would seem as if my fate
would have been inevitable. I have well rewarded the good man,
and I regard my deliverance as a most gracious interposition
of Providence. There is a special providence in the fall of
a sparrow. Here I am safe and well, God be praised! and may
His goodness make me profit, as I ought, by the time that is
vouchsafed me.”
We later find her making every exertion to rescue the son of the man who
had saved her, from punishment for desertion.
“I have written myself almost blind for the last three days, worrying
everybody to get a poor young man, who otherwise bears a most excellent
character, saved from the disgrace and hideous torture of the lash, to
which he has exposed himself. I hope to God I shall succeed. He is the
son of the man—by me ever to be blest—who preserved me from being burned
to death in the _Winter’s Tale_. The business has cost me a great deal
of time, but if I attain my purpose I shall be richly paid. It is twelve
o’clock at night; I am tired very much. To-morrow is my last appearance.
In a few days I shall go to see my dear girl, Cecilia. How I long to see
the darling! Oh! how you would have enjoyed my _entrée_ in Constance last
night. I was received really as if it had been my first appearance in the
season. I have gone about to breakfasts and dinners for this unfortunate
young man, till I am quite worn out with them. You know how pleasure, as
it is called, fatigues.”