RETIREMENT.
What wonder that Mrs. Siddons now seriously began to think of retirement.
Already, in 1805, she had written to a friend: “It is better to work
hard and have done with it. If I can but add three hundred a year to my
present income, I shall be perfectly well provided for; and I am resolved
when that is accomplished to make no more positive engagements in summer.
I trust that God in His great mercy will enable me to do it; and then,
oh, how lazy, and saucy, and happy will I be! You will have something
to do, I can tell you, my dear, to keep me in order.” This longing now
became a distinct determination.
In two letters written some time before, one to James Ballantyne and one
to Lady Harcourt, she gave expression to this determination. To Lady
Harcourt she wrote:—
“You see where I am, and must know the place by representations as well
as reports, I daresay, at least my lord does, yea, ‘every coigne and
vantage’ of this venerable pile, and envies me the view of it just before
me where I am writing. This is an inn. I set myself down here for the
advantage of pure air and perfect quiet, rather than lodge in Leeds,
most disagreeable town in His Majesty’s dominions, God bless him. This
day my task finishes. I have played there four nights, and am very tired
of Kirkstall Abbey. It is too sombre for a person of my age, and I am
no antiquarian. It is, however, extremely beautiful. I am going to York
for a week, and I hope while I am there to hear from you, my ever dear
Lady Harcourt. I must work a little while longer to realise the blessed
prospect (almost, I thank God, within my view) of sitting down in peace
and quiet for the remainder of my life. About £250 more a year will
secure to me the comfort of a carriage, and, believe me, it is one of
the favourite objects in that prospect that I shall have the happiness
of seeing you and my dear Lord Harcourt often, very often; for though
time and circumstances, and that proud barrier of high birth, have all
combined to separate our persons, yet allow me the modest ambition to
think our minds are kindred ones, and, on my part, united ever since
I had the honour and good fortune to be known to you. How could it be
otherwise, since to know you both is to esteem and love you? And now, my
dear Lady Harcourt, I must leave you to dress for Belvidera. It is very
sulky weather, and I am not i’ the mood for acting, but I must play yet a
little while longer, and then! how peaceful, how comfortable shall I be,
after the storms, the tempests, and afflictions of my laborious life! God
bless and preserve you, who are to make a large share of my happiness in
that hour of peace.”
To James Ballantyne she expresses herself in the same tenor:—
“I am wandering about the world to get a little more money. I am trying
to Secure to myself the comfort of a Carriage, which is now an absolute
necessary to me, and then—then will I sit down in quiet to the end of
my days. You will perhaps be surprised to hear that I am not abundantly
rich, but you know not the expences I have incurred in times past and
the losses I have Sustain’d; they drain ones purse beyond imagination.
I shall be at York till the 15th inst., from thence I go to Birmingham
where I shall remain till the 4th of August, from the 25th of August
till the 1st of Septr. I shall be at Manchester and then return ‘to that
dear Hut my home.’ You would scarcely know that Sweet little Spot it is
so improv’d Since you Saw it. I believe tho’ I wrote you about my new
dining Room and the pretty Bedchamber at the end of it, where you are
to sleep unannoyd by your former neighbours in their mangers, Stalls,
I _shou’d_ say, I believe. All the Lawrells are green and flourishing,
all the wooden garden pales, hidden by Sweet Shrubs and flow’rs that
form a verdant wall all round me: oh! it is the prettiest little nook
in all the world, and I do hope you will Soon come and Say you _think_
so. Your letter Surpris’d me in my _Garden of Eden_, where it found me,
‘chewing the Cud of Sweet and bitter fancy,’ you making that very moment
the principal person in the Drama of my musings—and ‘I said in my haste
all men are liars.’ It was more than probable that business, pleasure,
illness and persons perhaps less deserving your regard, might have
diverted recollection from one So distant So incapable of heightening the
joys, alleviating the Sorrows of this ‘working day world’ and our hearts
naturally yearn to those who Share our weal and woe. Yes, said I, his
taste and feelings are alive to my talents; but he does not know me well
enough to value me for Some qualities of greater worth, which in the
honest pride of my heart I will not blush to say I possess—he admires me
for my Celebrity which is all he knows of me. No blame therefore attaches
to him: he is ignorant of my real character, which if he knew he would
also approve; at least if I am not much mistaken in myself and him—in
myself I’m sure I am not mistaken. It is a vulgar error to say we are
ignorant of ourselves, for I am quite Sure that those who think at all
Seriously _must know themselves_ better than any other individual _can_.”
She had served the public for over thirty-five years, and was now in
her fifty-sixth year. Long since the ten thousand pounds, which was the
original sum with which in the heyday of her prosperity she said she
would rest content, had been doubled. Some of this had been unfortunately
invested by Mr. Siddons, and some had been lost in Sheridan’s bankruptcy;
but still, for a person who had no very expensive personal tastes, whose
children were all provided for, it was a handsome provision.
Physical disabilities also began now to interfere with her dramatic
effects. Alas! for the days when an “exquisite, fragile, creature” acted
Venus in Garrick’s procession, and with her rosy lips whispered promises
of sweetmeats into little Tommy Dibdin’s ear. The actress had grown stout
and unwieldy in person. When she acted Isabella, and knelt to the Duke,
imploring mercy for her brother, two attendants had to come forward to
help her to rise; and to make this appear correct, the same ceremony was
gone through with a young actress who performed the same part and did not
need any assistance whatever. By caricatures and portraits done of her at
the time we can see how unshapely she had become. Conventionality and
hardness replaced the old spontaneity and pathos; the action of the arms
was more pronounced, the voice was unduly raised, and the deficiency in
beauty and charm was supplied by energy and rant. Mrs. Siddons was only
two years older than her brother, but her physical and mental gifts had
deteriorated much more rapidly. The fact of the sister’s dramatic power
having been a natural gift, and his the result of industry and hard work,
made hers fail more completely with waning strength. Besides all the
disabilities of advancing age, that terrible fear of being supplanted
was ever before her eyes. Mrs. Jordan had some years before snatched
the laurels from her brow in Rosalind; now rumours were wafted across
the Channel of a young and lovely actress, Miss O’Neill, who had taken
all hearts captive as Juliet (a part Mrs. Siddons could never personate
satisfactorily); the matchless beauty of form of the young aspirant, her
sensibility and tenderness were the theme of every tongue. “To hear these
people talk, one would think _I_ had never drawn a tear,” she said sadly.
The old sensitiveness and pride remained. She accused the public of
taking pleasure in mortifying their old favourites by setting up new
idols; “I have been three times threatened with eclipse, first by means
of Miss Brunton (afterwards Lady Craven), next by means of Miss Smith,
and lastly by means of Miss O’Neill; nevertheless,” she added, “I am not
yet extinguished.” Mrs. Siddons had no right to complain. She had drunk
fully the draught of success and appreciation, and had been singularly
exempt from rivalry in her own particular walk. No public, however
indulgent, can save an actress from the penalties of old age. She
herself had supplanted Mrs. Crawford, and not very gently. The transition
point—the last in her life—had been reached, the chapter of active
professional life was closed for ever, yet she could not resign herself
to accept the decrepitude and inactivity of old age. “I feel as if I were
mounting the first steps of a ladder conducting me to another world,” she
sighed. Moore mentions meeting her at the house of Rogers:
“Mrs. Siddons came in the evening; had a good deal of conversation with
her, and was, for the first time in my life, interested by her off the
stage. She talked of the loss of friends, and mentioned herself as having
lost twenty-six friends in the course of the last six years. It is
something to _have had_ so many. Among other reasons for her regret at
leaving the stage was, that she always found in it a vent for her private
sorrows, which enabled her to bear them better; and often she has got
credit for the truth and feeling of her acting when she was doing nothing
more than relieving her own heart of its grief.”
She took her professional farewell of the stage on the 29th of June 1812.
As early as three o’clock in the afternoon people began to assemble
about the pit and gallery doors, and at half-past four the mob was so
great, that those who had come early, in the hope of getting a good
place, were carried away by the rush of the increasing crowd under the
arches. So great was the concourse of people, that not more than twenty
of the weaker sex obtained places in the pit, and the house was crammed
in every part. The play was _Lady Macbeth_. When the great actress made
her appearance, she was received with thunders of applause; for a moment
emotion overcame her, but, collecting herself, she went through her
part as magnificently as in the early days. Often have old play-goers
described the scene on that night. The grand pale face; the pathetic
voice on the stage, speaking its last to those whom it had delighted and
thrilled for so many years. While among the audience, the heart-felt
sorrow, the deep silence, only broken by smothered sobs; then the
irrepressible burst of feeling when the scene, in which she appears for
the last time in _Lady Macbeth_ was over, for the audience could bear it
no longer. The applause continued from the time of her going off till
she again appeared, to speak her address. When silence was restored, she
began the following farewell, written by her nephew Horace Twiss:—
Who has not felt how growing use endears
The fond remembrance of our former years?
Who has not sigh’d, when doom’d to leave at last
The hopes of youth, the habits of the past,
Ten thousand ties and interests, that impart
A second nature to the human heart,
And wreathing round it close, like tendrils, climb,
Blooming in age, and sanctified by time!
Yes! at this moment crowd upon my mind
Scenes of bright days for ever left behind,
Bewildering visions of enraptured youth,
When hope and fancy wore the hues of truth,
And long forgotten years, that almost seem
The faded traces of a morning dream!
Sweet are those mournful thoughts: for they renew
The pleasing sense of all I owe to you,
For each inspiring smile, and soothing tear—
For those full honours of my long career,
That cheer’d my earliest hope and chased my latest fear.
And though for me those tears shall flow no more,
And the warm sunshine of your smile is o’er;
Though the bright beams are fading fast away
That shone unclouded through my summer day;
Yet grateful memory shall reflect their light
O’er the dim shadows of the coming night,
And lend to later life a softer tone,
A moonlight tint—a lustre of her own.
Judges and Friends! to whom the magic strain
Of nature’s feeling never spoke in vain,
Perhaps your hearts, when years have glided by,
And past emotions wake a fleeting sigh,
May think on her whose lips have poured so long
The charm’d sorrows of your Shakespeare’s song:
On her, who, parting to return no more,
Is now the mourner she but seemed before;
Herself subdued, resigns the melting spell,
And breathes, with swelling heart, her long,
Her last Farewell.
As she reached the end, all stage exigency and restraint was forgotten,
her voice was broken by real sobs. As soon as the hush of emotion had
passed, the audience seemed suddenly to awake to the fact that it really
was the last time they would ever see the marvellous actress, whom at
one time they had almost idolised. Not satisfied with their usual method
of expressing their feelings, they stood upon the seats, and cheered
her, waving their hats for several minutes. It appeared to be the wish
of the majority of the audience that the play should conclude with this
scene, the curtain was therefore dropped; but Kemble came forward, and
announced that, if it was the wish of the house, the play should proceed.
The audience was divided, and the farce of _The Spoilt Child_ began,
amidst loud acclamation from one side and disappointment from the other.
This continued during the whole of the first act, with constant cries of
“The fifth act! the fifth act!” It was found impossible to allay popular
excitement; the house was all noise and confusion, and the voices on the
stage were totally inaudible. The curtain was, therefore, again dropped;
and the audience, shortly after, quietly dispersed.
So vanished from her sight that world over which, for the space of
thirty-five years, she had reigned supreme, that world that made her joy
and sorrow; before which, in spite of the many temptations that had beset
her, she could feel with pride she had never degraded the supreme gift
of genius. Amidst her poignant regrets, at least she had nothing tragic,
nothing irremediable, to mourn, like so many of her sisters in the same
profession. Differences of opinion had come between her and them, but all
that was forgotten now in the anguish of “Farewell.” She only remembered
that first night of triumph, its terrors, and its delicious ecstasy; the
weeks, months, and years of appreciated happy work, dreams fulfilled;
parts she had studied and conned as a young girl, unconscious of the
future in store for her, acted with overwhelming success. No Arabian
Night’s Dream of good fortune could have been more brilliant or more
complete; but, as in all things human, the reaction had set in. She had
touched such heights, that there must necessarily be a reflux.
She had loved her profession, not only for the measure of applause,
but for the daily bustle and work, which, to a woman of her energetic
temperament, was enjoyable in itself.
Rogers tells us that, sitting with her of an afternoon, years after the
curtain had dropped on her farewell performance, she would vividly recall
every moment of her stage life. “This is the time I used to be thinking
of going to the theatre: first came the pleasure of dressing for my part;
and then, the pleasure of acting it; but that is all over now.” In her
early days even, she always confessed that her spirits were not equal,
and her internal resources were too few for a life of solitude.
After long years spent amidst the intoxication of applause, to withdraw
into the twilight of private life must always be a great trial. The
nightly stimulus, the mental habit of studying for a certain object,
the production of evanescent emotions and transitory effects, must have
a deteriorating effect on the noblest disposition. Shrewd Miss Berry,
in her Journal, dated February 24th, 1811, mentions a visit she paid at
Westbourne. “Mrs. Siddons received me, as she always does, in a manner
that flattered my internal vanity, for she has the germ of a superior
nature in her, though burnt up by the long-continued brand of popular
applause”; and Fanny Kemble writes: “What a price my Aunt Siddons has
paid for her great celebrity! Weariness, vacuity, and utter deadness of
spirit. The cup has been so highly flavoured, that life is absolutely
without sorrow or sweetness to her now, nothing but tasteless insipidity.
She has stood on a pinnacle till all things have come to look flat and
dreary; mere shapeless, colourless, level monotony to her. Poor woman!
What a fate to be condemned to! and yet how she has been envied as well
as admired!”
We doubt if the weariness and vacuity was as great as her niece was
inclined to think. Advanced age and impaired powers always bring a
certain deadness and indifference; but she had mental resources the young
girl did not take into consideration. She kept a large circle of firm and
attached friends. She was not without intellectual pursuits. Although
showing no particular genius in any other department of life but the
stage, she had a fine cultivated taste for artistic and beautiful things.
She employed much of her time in modelling, and executed many respectable
pieces of work. Her childish love of Milton revived again now, and after
her retirement she published a small volume of extracts from his poems.
Above all, she had the support and consolation of a pure unswerving
religious faith; through her chequered life of triumph and bereavement,
joy and sorrow, Sarah Siddons had ever kept that alive in her heart. It
saved her in many a crisis, and illumined the darkened road that lay
before her.
The following verses, written by her at this time, are a truer indication
of her frame of mind than any conclusions drawn from external observation
by outsiders:—
Say, what’s the brightest wreath of fame,
But canker’d buds, that opening close;
Ah! what’s the world’s most pleasing dream,
But broken fragments of repose?
Lead me where peace with steady hand
The mingled cup of life shall hold;
Where Time shall smoothly pour his sand,
And Wisdom turn that sand to gold.
Then haply at Religion’s shrine
This weary heart its load shall lay,
Each _wish_ my fatal love resign,
And passion melt in tears away.
She had now leisure for journeys abroad and the enjoyment of intellectual
pleasure outside her profession which she had never had before. In the
autumn of 1814 she made an excursion to Paris in company with her
brother John, her youngest daughter, Cecilia, and Miss Wilkinson. A
short interval of peace then reigned, and all interested in art flocked
from England to see the treasures that Napoleon had plundered from every
European capital. The Apollo Belvidere, amongst others, had been set up
in the statuary hall of the Louvre; and Campbell tells us how, giving
his arm to Mrs. Siddons, they walked down the hall towards it, and stood
gazing rapt in its divine beauty. “I could not forget the honour,”
Campbell tells us, quaintly, “of being before him in the company of _so
august a worshipper_; and it certainly increased my enjoyment to see the
first interview between the paragon of Art and that of Nature.”
The “paragon of Nature” was evidently much struck, and remained standing
silently gazing for some time; then she said, solemnly, “What a great
idea it gives us of God, to think that He has made a human being capable
of fashioning so divine a form!”
As they walked round the hall, Campbell tells us, he saw every eye fixed
upon her. Her stately bearing, her noble expression, made a sensation,
though the crowd evidently did not know who she was, as he heard whispers
of “Who is she? Is she not an Englishwoman?”
Crabb Robinson, in his _Memoirs_, also tells us that he heard someone say
in the Louvre, “Mrs. Siddons is below.” He instantly left the Raphaels
and Titians and went in search of her. She was walking with her sister,
Mrs. Twiss. He noticed her grand air and fascinating smile, but he was
disturbed that so glorious a head should have been covered with a small
chip hat. She knit her brows, also, to look at the pictures, as if her
sight were not good; and he remarked a line or two about her mouth, and
a little coarseness of expression. She remained two months in Paris, and
we hear of her going to a review held by the King. She was seen toiling
along towards the Champs de Mars, heated and flushed, and in clouds of
dust; and a joke is made on the subject of her “saving.”
Further suffering was in store for her in the death of her son Henry. He
died of consumption, like his sisters. Manager of the Edinburgh Theatre,
and in the prime of life, his loss was a great one both to his family and
the Edinburgh public. His poor mother wrote:—
“Westbourne, 1815.
“This third shock has, indeed, sadly shaken me, and, although
in the very depths of affliction, I agree with you that
consolation may be found, yet the voice of nature will for a
time overpower that of reason; and I cannot but remember ‘that
such things were, and were most dear to me.’
“I am tolerably well, but have no voice. This is entirely
nervousness, and fine weather will bring it back to me. Write
to me, and let me receive consolation in a better account of
your precious health. My brother and Mrs. Kemble have been very
kind and attentive, as indeed they always were in all events
of sickness or of sorrow. The little that was left of my poor
sight is almost washed away by tears, so that I fear I write
scarce legibly. God’s will be done!”
Later, she complained:—
“I don’t know why, unless that I am older and feebler, or that I am
now without a profession, which forced me out of myself in my former
afflictions, but the loss of my poor dear Henry seems to have laid a
heavier hand upon my mind than any I have sustained. I drive out to
recover my voice and my spirits, and am better while abroad; but I come
home and lose them both in an hour. I cannot read or do anything else
but puddle with my clay. I have begun a full-length figure of Cecilia;
and this is a resource which fortunately never fails me. Mr. Fitzhugh
approves of it, and that is good encouragement. I have little to complain
of, except a low voice and lower spirits.”
All these letters do not look like the proud, hard, self-sufficient woman
so often described. We see her sorrowing sincerely, but not giving way to
unreasoning, despairing grief; recognising that all the brightness and
elasticity of life had gone, but doing, nobly and practically, what she
could to help those that were left.
Before the end of the year she had arranged with Mr. James Ballantyne to
act ten nights for the benefit of her son’s family:—
“A thousand thousand thanks to you my kind and good friend for your
most delightful and gratifying letter. You do me justice in believing
that whatever conduces to your happiness, or that operates against it,
must ever be interesting to me; and as the happiness and health of your
excellent and most respectable mother is, I know, the first object of
Satisfaction which this world contains for your duteous mind, I am,
indeed, most truly happy, for both your sakes, to receive so comfortable
an account of her. I can conceive no blessing comparable to that of
having such a Son, and such a one was my own dear and lamented Henry.
This last blow lay, indeed, for some time most heavily upon me; but
when I recollect that his pure Spirit has exchang’d a Sphere of painful
and anxious existence, with which he was ill-calculated to Struggle,
for the regions of everlasting peace and joy, I feel the Selfishness of
my Sorrow, and repeat those words, which as often as repeated seem to
tranquilize my mind, ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be
the name of the Lord.’ I hope my visit to Edinborough will be beneficial
to my dear Son’s family; at least, it will evince the greatest proof of
respect for that Public on whom they depend, which it is in my power to
give. I have some doubts whether the motives which induce me to return
to the Public after So long an absence, will Shield me from the darts
of malignity; and when I think of what I have undertaken, altho’ I feel
courageous as to my intentions, I own myself doubtful and weak with
respect to the performance of the Task which I have undertaken. It is
a great disadvantage to have been so long disused to the exertions I
am call’d on to make, but I will not Suffer myself to think of it any
longer. As to the arrangement of the Plays, it must be left entirely to
Mrs. H. Siddons, whose judgment I have always found to be as Strong as
her disposition is amiable, and I can give her no higher praise. She is
indeed ‘wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best, &c.,’ but I fear I shall
never be able to present myself in Mrs. Beverley, who Should be not only
handsome, but _young_ also. Believe me, my truly estimable friend, I look
forward with the greatest satisfaction to the moment of Seeing you again;
in the meantime do not exalt me too much! You Seem to be in an error,
on the Subject of my engagement, which I must rectify. The necessary
expenses of Clothes, Ornaments, Travelling, &c., are more than my limited
Income wou’d afford, without a chance, _at least_, of being able to
_cover_ these expenses, which is all I desire! and therefore I am to
fulfil my Engagement on my brother’s Terms.”
In November, therefore, we find her making her way by slow stages to
Edinburgh. She stopped for several days at Kirby Moorside, with Sir Ralph
and Lady Noel, and Lady Byron. In spite of nervousness and fatigue, she
delighted her Edinburgh audiences. She had no reason to make a charge
against her northern friends of unfaithfulness.