A BUSY WOMAN
This first year in the cottage at Three Mile Cross was spent in a
variety of ways by Miss Mitford. In addition to her reading, she
was devoting herself to getting the garden into trim and by taking
extended walks in the neighbourhood, particularly in exploring that
beautiful “Woodcock Lane”—happily still preserved and, possibly,
more beautiful than in Miss Mitford’s day—so called, “not after the
migratory bird so dear to sportsman and to epicure, but from the name
of a family, who, three centuries ago, owned the old manor-house, a
part of which still adjoins it.” A delightful picture of this lane,
full of the happiest and tenderest memories, is to be found in Miss
Mitford’s _Recollections of a Literary Life_. It is too long for
quotation here, but for its truth to Nature we can testify, for we
have ourselves wandered down its shady length, book in hand, marking
and noting the passages as this and that point of view was described,
and looking away over the fields as she must have looked—somewhat
wistfully, we may believe—to where the smoke from the chimneys at
Grazeley Court curled upwards from the trees which so effectually
hide the building itself from view. While on these walks, accompanied
by Fanchon, the greyhound and Flush, the spaniel, she would take her
unspillable ink-bottle and writing materials and, resting awhile
beneath the great trees, write of Nature as she saw it, spread there
before her. Here, undoubtedly, she wrote many of those pictures of
rural life and scenery which, at present, form the most lasting
memorial of her life and work.
[Illustration: Woodcock Lane, Three Mile Cross.]
The monotony—if there could be monotony in such labour—was broken
by a short, three-day’s holiday at Richmond and London which gave
her a fund of incident wherewith to amuse her friend Sir William in
lengthy letters. Of the sights she missed, two were the pictures of
Queen Caroline and Mrs. Opie, “that excellent and ridiculous person,
who is now placed in Bond Street (where she can’t even hear herself
talk) with a blue hat and feathers on her head, a low gown without a
tucker, and ringlets hanging down each shoulder. The first I don’t
care if I never see at all; for be it known to you, my dear friend,
that I am no Queen’s woman, whatever my party may be. I have no
toleration for an indecorous woman, and am exceedingly scandalized at
the quantity of nonsense which has been talked in her defence. It is
no small part of her guilt, or her folly, that her arrival has turned
conversation into a channel of scandal and detraction on either side,
which, if it continue, threatens to injure the taste, the purity,
the moral character of the nation. Don’t you agree with me?
“I heard very little literary news. Everybody is talking of ‘Marcian
Colonna,’ Barry Cornwall’s new poem. Now ‘Barry Cornwall’ is an
_alias_. The poet’s real name is Procter, a young attorney, who
feared it might hurt his practice if he were known to follow this
‘idle trade.’ It has, however, become very generally known, and poor
Mr. Procter is terribly embarrassed with his false name. He neither
knows how to keep it on or throw it up. By whatever appellation he
chooses to be called, he is a great poet. Poor John Keats is dying of
the _Quarterly Review_. This is a sad, silly thing; but it is true. A
young, delicate, imaginative boy—that withering article fell upon him
like an east wind. Mr. Gifford’s behaviour is very bad. He sent word
that if he wrote again his poem should be properly reviewed, which
was admitting the falsity of his first critique, and yet says that he
has been Keats’ best friend, because somebody sent him twenty-five
pounds to console him for the injustice of the _Quarterly_.”
Interspersed with these letters to Sir William were many kindly,
womanly epistles to Mrs. Hofland and particularly to the painter,
Haydon, who, poor man, was always having a quarrel with somebody;
sometimes with the Academy and sometimes with his patrons. True to
her sex, Miss Mitford was ever on the side of what she considered
were the weak and down-trodden, and in this class she placed her
friend Haydon. “Never apologize to me for talking of yourself,” she
wrote to him; “it is a compliment of the highest kind. It tells me
that you confide in my sympathy.”
In November public festivities to celebrate Queen Caroline’s
acquittal were held, and Three Mile Cross, not to be outdone in
demonstrative sympathy, decided to illuminate. “Think of that! an
illumination at Three Mile Cross! We were forced to illuminate.
Forced to put up two dozen of candles upon pain of pelting and
rioting and all manner of bad things. So we did. We were very shabby
though, compared with our neighbours. One, a retired publican, just
below, had a fine transparency, composed of a pocket handkerchief
with the Queen’s head upon it—a very fine head in a hat and feathers
cocked very knowingly on one side. I did not go to Reading; the
_squibbery_ there was too much to encounter; and they had only one
good hit throughout the whole of that illustrious town. A poor man
had a whole-length transparency of the Duke of Wellington saved from
the Peace illumination, and, not knowing what to get now, he, as a
matter of economy, hung up the noble Duke again topsy-turvy, heel
upwards—a mixture of drollery and savingness which took my fancy
much. And, certainly, bad as she is, the Queen has contrived to trip
the heels of the Ministers.”
As the year progressed, Miss Mitford made another attempt at dramatic
work, devoting her energies to a tragedy on the subject of _Fiesco_,
the Genoese nobleman who conspired against Doria. The idea of a play
written on this theme had originated during her recent short visit to
London, where she had witnessed an “indifferent tragedy, of which the
indifferent success brought the author three or four hundred pounds.”
Schiller had, it will be remembered, already used the subject, but
this did not deter our author from trying her ‘prentice hand on it.
When it was finished—she had worked very assiduously—it was sent off
to her friend Talfourd for his advice and criticism, and in the hope
that should he approve it, he would be able to negotiate for its
production at one of the theatres. To Haydon she wrote confiding her
fears and hopes. “It is terribly feeble and womanish, of course—wants
breadth—wants passion—and has nothing to redeem its faults but a
little poetry and some merit, they say, in the dialogue. My anxiety
is not of vanity. It is not fame or praise that I want, but the power
of assisting my dearest and kindest father.” Talfourd, most anxious
to be of service to his little friend—most anxious because he knew
much of the sad tragedy of the last few years—managed to secure
the interest of Macready, the actor, who promised to consider the
manuscript.
Macready’s letter to Talfourd, transcribed for the edification of
Sir William Elford, is important inasmuch as it affords some idea of
that actor’s readiness, at all times, to help any struggling author
who might appeal to him. He never forgot his own early struggles
and his fellow-feeling towards others in desperate plight made him
wondrous kind. “Mr. Macready wrote the other day to my friend and
his friend [Talfourd] who gave him my play, and this mutual friend
copied his letter for my edification. It was, in the first place,
the prettiest letter I ever read in my life—thoroughly careless,
simple, unpresuming—showing great diffidence of his own judgment,
the readiest good-nature, the kindest and most candid desire to
be pleased—quite the letter of a scholar and a gentleman, and not
the least like that of an actor. As far as regarded my tragedy,
it contained much good criticism. Mr. Macready thinks—and he is
right—that there is too little of striking incident, and too little
fluctuation. Indeed, I have made my _Fiesco_ as virtuous and as
fortunate as _Sir Charles Grandison_, and he goes about _prôné_ by
everybody and setting everybody to rights much in the same style
with that worthy gentleman, only that he has one wife instead of two
mistresses. Nevertheless, the dialogue, which is my strong part, has
somehow ‘put salt upon Mr. Macready’s tail,’ so that he is in a very
unhappy state of doubt about it, and cannot make up his mind one way
or the other. The only thing upon which he was decided was that the
handwriting was illegible, and that it must be copied for presentment
to the managers. This has been done accordingly, and Mr. Macready and
they will now do exactly what they like.”
The consideration of the manuscript was prolonged, and it was not
until the midsummer of the following year (1821), that it was finally
returned on its author’s hands as unsuitable. Meanwhile, her friends
in London had been busy in her interest and she was now working
“as hard as a lawyer’s clerk” in writing for the magazines—poetry,
criticism, and dramatic sketches. Confessing to a “natural loathing
of pen and ink which that sort of drudgery cannot fail to inspire,”
she mentions that she now has no leisure, “scarcely a moment to
spare, even for the violets and primroses.” The necessity for polish
was impressed upon her. “You would laugh if you saw me puzzling over
my prose. You have no notion how much difficulty I find in writing
anything at all readable. One cause of this is, my having been so
egregious a letter-writer. I have accustomed myself to a certain
careless sauciness, a fluent incorrectness, which passed very well
with indulgent friends, such as yourself, my dear Sir William, but
will not do at all for that tremendous correspondent, the Public.
So I ponder over every phrase, disjoint every sentence, and finally
produce such lumps of awkwardness, that I really expect, instead of
paying me for them, Mr. Colburn and Mr. Baldwin will send me back
the trash. But I will improve.... I am now occupied in dramatic
sketches for _Baldwin’s Magazine_—slight stories of about one act,
developed in fanciful dialogue of loose blank verse. If Mr. Baldwin
will accept a series of such articles they will be not merely
extremely advantageous to me in a pecuniary point of view (for the
pay is well up—they give fifteen guineas a sheet), but excellent
exercises for my tragedies. At the same time I confess to you that
nothing seems to me so tiresome and unsatisfactory as writing poetry.
Ah! how much better I like working flounces! There, when one had done
a pattern, one was sure that one had got on, and had the comfort of
admiring one’s work and exulting in one’s industry all the time that
one was, in fact, indulging in the most comfortable indolence. Well!
courage, Missy Mitford! (as _Blackwood’s Magazine_ has the impudence
to call me!) _Courage, mon amie!_”
Nothing daunted by the failure of _Fiesco_, and notwithstanding the
pressure of work for the magazines, Miss Mitford was devoting all the
time she could spare to a fresh tragedy, the subject this time being
the Venetian Doge Foscari. The project was submitted to Talfourd’s
judgment and approved, and by October the finished play was in his
hands for presentation to the managers. As ill luck would have it,
Byron had been working quietly at a play on the identical subject,
and his was announced on the very day that Miss Mitford’s _Foscari_
was to be handed to a manager for his perusal. “I am so distressed
at the idea of a competition,” she wrote; “not merely with his
lordship’s talents, but with his great name; and the strange awe in
which he holds people; and the terrible scoffs and sneers in which he
indulges himself; that I have written to Mr. Talfourd requesting him
to consult another friend on the propriety of entirely suppressing my
play—and I heartily wish he may. If it be sent back to me unoffered,
I shall immediately begin another play on some German story.”
Talfourd decided that the play should take its chance, and in
December had the satisfaction of hearing that Macready, who had read
it, had passed it on to the manager with a strong recommendation that
it be accepted. In the construction of the play and the development
of the characters, Miss Mitford had been guided by the assumption
that, in the event of its being accepted the actors Kemble, Young
and Macready would take the leading parts. Unfortunately, however, a
little dissension between these actors just at the critical moment,
led to the secession of Charles Kemble and to hesitancy in the case
of Young, with the result that Macready was the only one left to
fulfil the author’s original purpose. The tragedy represented much
hard work, for Macready was, very properly, an extremely critical man
and before he would agree to submit the play, had asked its author
to revise one of the acts at least three times—which she did, without
demur.
Late in December of that same year she received an intimation that
the play was rejected. It was a heavy blow, for, although she had
half expected it from the outset, the prolonged negotiations had
led her to hope that her fears would not be realized; and, she was
counting much on the pecuniary advantages of its production. Talfourd
softened the blow in his own kindly way. He wrote:—“I have with great
difficulty screwed myself up to the point of informing you that all
our hopes are, for the present, cruelly blighted. _Foscari_ has been
returned by Mr. Harris to Mr. Macready, with a note, of which the
following is an exact copy:—
‘MY DEAR SIR,—I return you the tragedy of _Foscari_, and it is with
regret that I am obliged to express an opinion that it would not
succeed in representation. The style is admirably pure and chaste,
and some of the scenes would be highly effective; yet as a whole it
would be found wanting in that scale by which the public weigh our
performances of the first class. Should the ingenious author at any
time bestow the labour of revision and alteration on the tragedy,
I should be most happy to have a reperusal of it—Ever yours, H.
Harris.’ I am quite sickened at this result of all your labours and
anxieties. The only consolation I can offer is, that Mr. Macready
assures me he never knew a refusal which came so near an acceptance;
for Harris has spoken to him in even higher terms of eulogy than he
has written; and I have seen another letter of Harris’s, about other
plays, in which he puts _Foscari_ far above all others that he has
rejected, and in point of style and writing, above one of Shiel’s
[Richard Lalor Sheil] that is to be acted. You see, he holds open
a prospect of its being reconsidered, if altered. Whether you will
adopt this suggestion is for your own decision; but certainly this
play has quite prepared the way for most respectful attention to any
piece you may send in hereafter.”
Before proceeding to alter her play, Miss Mitford took the precaution
to secure and read Byron’s _Two Foscari_, and was delighted to find
that he had dealt with the subject at a point subsequent to her own,
so that the plays were not likely to clash. Furthermore, she found
little in Byron’s work to commend, and thought it could scarcely
meet with any success from representation. “Altogether, it seems to
me that Lord Byron must be by this time pretty well convinced that
the drama is not his forte. He has no spirit of dialogue—no beauty
in his groupings—none of that fine mixture of the probable with the
unexpected which constitutes stage effect in the best sense of the
word. And a long series of laboured speeches and set antitheses will
very ill compensate for the want of that excellence which we find in
Sophocles and in Shakespeare, and which some will call Nature, and
I shall call Art.” And as proof that her judgment was not warped by
petty jealousy—jealousy of Byron, on her part, would indeed have been
stupid—it is interesting to recall the criticism which Macready made
in his “Diaries” some years after, when seriously reading Byron’s
_Foscari_ with a view to its adoption. Under date April 24, 1834, he
wrote:—“Looked into the _Foscari_ of Byron. I am of opinion that it
is not dramatic—the slow, almost imperceptible progress of the
action... will prevent, I think, its success in representation.”
In June, 1835, he wrote:—“Read over Lord Byron’s _Foscari_, which
does not seem to me to contain the power, or rather the variety and
intensity of passion which many of his other plays do.”
Having satisfied herself that she had nothing to fear from Byron’s
work she once more applied herself to her own in the endeavour to
supply it with those elements in which she and her kindly critics
knew it to be deficient—but it was a labour. “I am so thoroughly
out of heart about the _Foscari_ that I cannot bear even to think
or speak on the subject. Nevertheless, the drama is my talent—my
only talent—and I mean to go on and improve. I _will_ improve—that
is my fixed determination. To be of some little use to those who
are dearest to me was the only motive of my attempt, and I shall
persevere.”