“GOD GRANT ME TO DESERVE SUCCESS”
Still working at high pressure with her magazine articles, Miss
Mitford was able to give the promised attention to _Foscari_, and in
June, 1822, dispatched it with its new fifth act—it was the seventh
revision of this particular act—to London and, this time, to Charles
Kemble for she now held the opinion that the play was not exactly
suited to Macready’s style. In the meantime, it was her intention
to write something more ambitious “a higher tragedy, with some
fine and splendid character, the real hero for Macready, and some
gallant-spirited youth, who may seem the hero, for Mr. Kemble.”
Having sent off the manuscript she tried hard to forget it and to
possess her soul in patience, but now and again in her letters—very
few, now that she was so busy—there are indications of her anxiety.
“If my _Foscari_ were to succeed I should be tempted to have a
pony-chaise myself”—this because a friend had called and given her
the pleasure of a short ride—“I do so love a drive in a pony-chaise!
You know, everything that I want or wish I always say ‘if _Foscari_
succeeds.’ I said so the other day about a new straw bonnet, and then
about a white geranium, and then about a pink sash, and then about a
straw work-basket, and then about a pocket-book, all in the course of
one street.”
In August and September she paid flying visits to town to see Kemble
about the play and found him so charming that she confessed—hoping no
one would tell Mrs. Kemble!—she was the least in the world in love
with him and that he ranked second to Napoleon in her imagination. He
made her a promise that, subject to the approval of Macready—then on
an Italian tour—he would produce the play the first of the season.
“Nothing I believe, is certain in a theatre till the curtain is
fairly drawn up and let down again; but, as far as I can see, I
have, from the warm zeal and admirable character of the new manager
and his very clever and kind-hearted lady, every reason to expect
a successful _début_. Wish for me and _Foscari_. You have all my
kindest and gratefulest thoughts, though a tremendous pressure of
occupation will not allow me to express them so often as I used to
do.”
Unfortunately Kemble was unable to fulfil his promise, Macready
having arranged first for the production of another play, “but,” said
she, “Charles Kemble, my dear Charles Kemble says—almost swears—it
shall be acted this season, and with new dresses and new scenery.
There has been a terrible commotion in consequence of C. Kemble’s
reluctance to delay. If it were not for my absolute faith in _him_ I
should despair.”
Kemble kept his promise, as well as he was able, by producing the
play during the year 1826, but only at the expense of a quarrel
with Macready—a quarrel fanned by Mrs. Kemble who, although Miss
Mitford had written of her as “the clever, kind-hearted lady” was
subsequently described in a letter to Talfourd, as making statements
“so artificial, so made up, so untrue, _so circular_—if she had said
a great deal less without the fine words and the ‘Dear Madams’ I
should have believed her much more.”
At this juncture, and before there was any idea of the possibility
of friction between himself and Kemble, Macready had suggested to
Miss Mitford that she should write him a historical play and went so
far as to outline the plot. To have such a suggestion from the great
tragedian was in itself sufficient to send her into an ecstasy—here
was proof positive of his belief in her—and so, submitting the
project for Talfourd’s approval, and being urged by him to proceed,
she set to work at fever heat, towards the close of 1822, on the play
of _Julian_. It was strenuous work and all the while the author was
torn with the fear that she would not be able to produce anything
worthy of Macready. Dr. Valpy was being continually referred to for
his judgment on the various characters—whether they were too weak or
too strong—too prudish or too improper—and Talfourd was besought to
“speak the truth, fearlessly, and say whether I shall give it up.” At
last it was finished and was sent to Macready and Talfourd for their
judgment and criticism.
“My execution falls very short of your design,” she wrote; “but
indeed it is not for want of pains—I think one reason why it is so
ill done, is the strong anxiety I had to do well—to justify your
and Mr. Macready’s kind encouragement—the stimulus was too great.”
Both Macready and Talfourd made corrections and suggestions, which
the author duly acted upon and thereby won unstinted praise from
her two friendly critics. “I hope you and he are as right in your
praise, as in your censure—but I confess that I am not yet recovered
from my astonishment at the extent of your approbation—I am afraid
you overrate it—sadly afraid. And yet it is very delightful to be
so overrated. It would be a shame if I did not improve with the
unspeakable advantage of your advice and your kindness and all the
pains you have taken with me.”
On _Julian_, which she characterized as worth a thousand of
_Foscari_, she was ready to stake all her dramatic hopes and when, at
length, in February, 1823, Macready read the play in the green-room
and promised its production in ten days or a fortnight, her delight
was unbounded. It was produced in the second week of March, with
Macready as the principal character, and met with instant success.
The author went to town on a visit to her friend, Mrs. Hofland, in
Newman Street, that she might the better enjoy the exquisite pain and
pleasure of seeing her play presented for the first time. Although
she had sent and received many messages to and from Macready, through
their mutual friend Talfourd, she had not met him until this occasion
and it is no figure of speech to say that they were each considerably
struck with the other. Miss Mitford’s verdict on the interview,
conveyed in a letter to Sir William Elford, was “He is just such
another soul of fire as Haydon—highly educated, and a man of great
literary acquirements—consorting entirely with poets and young men of
talent. Indeed it is to his knowledge of my friend Mr. Talfourd that
I owe the first introduction of my plays to his notice.”
The result to Miss Mitford in cash on the production of _Julian_
was £200, not a vast sum in the light of present-day successes, but
still very fair considering that it only ran for eight days, having
to be withdrawn in favour of another play. In any case the money was
very acceptable to the inmates of the little cottage at Three Mile
Cross. The endeavour to clear up outstanding debts weighed heavily
on Miss Mitford and, short of a reserve for the barest necessities,
the whole of her income was being devoted to that end. A few
things of value had been saved from the wreck of the Bertram House
establishment, notably some choice engravings, and those were sent
to Mrs. Hofland in London who had promised to warehouse them until
such time as the owners, having acquired a larger house, might send
for them. Any hope of this contingency, which Miss Mitford may have
entertained, had been dispersed by the year 1823, and so we find her
writing in June of that year begging Mrs. Hofland to try and dispose
of some of the pictures to Messrs. Hurst and Robinson and to arrange
for the sale of the rest either at Sotheby’s or Robins’s.
It was indeed a most anxious year, notwithstanding the triumph of
_Julian_ and the fact that its author was one of the most talked-of
women of the day.
[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.
(From a painting by Miss Drummond, 1823.)]
During her stay in London to witness the production of _Julian_ and
at one of her interviews with Macready the two had discussed another
play project, various subjects for treatment being suggested—among
them that of _Procida_ (subsequently abandoned because Mrs. Hemans
was found to be at work on it), and _Rienzi_ which Miss Mitford very
much favoured but Macready did not as he thought her outline of the
plot would entail on her a greater strain than she could stand.
For a time the matter was left in abeyance, as she had much, just
then, wherewith to occupy her mind. Kemble was threatening her
with a lawsuit if, as she much desired, she withdrew _Foscari_—she
rather feared that its production after _Julian_ would do her no
good—and she was so tossed about, as she said, between him and
Macready, “affronting both parties and suspected by both, because I
will not come to a deadly rupture with either,” that she got quite
ill with worry. To add to her miseries the editor of the _Lady’s
Magazine_ absconded, owing her £40. “Oh! who would be an authoress!”
she wofully wrote to her old friend Sir William. “The only comfort
is that the magazine can’t go on without me [its circulation had
gone up from two hundred and fifty copies to two thousand since she
had written for it]; and that the very fuss they make in quarrelling
over me at the theatre proves my importance there; so that, if I
survive these vexations, I may in time make something of my poor,
poor brains. But I would rather serve in a shop—rather scour
floors—rather nurse children, than undergo these tremendous and
interminable disputes and this unwomanly publicity. Pray forgive this
sad no-letter. Alas! the free and happy hours, when I could read and
think and prattle for you, are past away. Oh! will they ever return?
I am now chained to a desk, eight, ten, twelve hours a day, at mere
drudgery. All my thoughts of writing are for hard money. All my
correspondence is on hard business. Oh! pity me, pity me! My very
mind is sinking under the fatigue and anxiety. God bless you, my dear
friend! Forgive this sad letter.”
It was truly a sad letter, so unlike the usually bright, optimistic
woman, that he would be dense indeed who failed to read in it other
than evidence of a strain almost too great for this gentle woman to
bear. And what of Dr. Mitford at this time? What was he doing in
the matter of sharing the burden which he alone, through negligence
and wicked self-indulgence, had thrust upon his daughter? Truly he
was now less often in town and the famous kennel was in process of
being dispersed—there was neither room nor food for greyhounds at
Three Mile Cross—but short of his magisterial duties, which were, of
course, unremunerated, his time was scarcely occupied. At last the
fact of his daughter’s worn-out condition seems to have been borne in
upon him and in her next letter to Sir William, dated in May, 1823,
she has the pleasure to record:
“My father has at last resolved—partly, I believe, instigated by
the effect which the terrible feeling of responsibility and want
of power has had on my health and spirits—to try if he can himself
obtain any employment that may lighten the burthen. He is, as you
know, active, healthy, and intelligent, and with a strong sense of
duty and of right. I am sure that he would fulfil to the utmost any
charge that might be confided to him; and if it were one in which
my mother or I could assist, you may be assured that he would have
zealous and faithful coadjutors. For the management of estates or any
country affairs he is particularly well qualified; or any work of
superintendence which requires integrity and attention. If you should
hear of any such, would you mention him, or at least let me know? The
addition of two, or even one hundred a year to our little income,
joined to what I am, in a manner, sure of gaining by mere industry,
would take a load from my heart of which I can scarcely give you an
idea. It would be everything to me; for it would give me what, for
many months, I have not had—the full command of my own powers. Even
_Julian_ was written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a
moment’s rest. I am, however, at present, quite recovered from the
physical effects of this tormenting affair, and have regained my
flesh and colour, and almost my power of writing prose articles; and
if I could but recover my old hopefulness and elasticity, should be
again such as I used to be in happier days. Could I but see my dear
father settled in any employment, I know I should. Believe me ever,
with the truest affection,
“Very gratefully yours, M. R. M.”
A pathetic and tragic letter! At last the scales had dropped from
her eyes. And yet, though the letter is, as it stands, an implicit
condemnation of her father’s laziness, it is overburdened with
affectionate praise of him and a catalogue of virtues in all of which
his life had proved him notably and sadly deficient. Dr. Mitford,
regenerated, as presented by his daughter, cuts a sorry figure; for
him the art of “turning over a new leaf” was lost, if indeed he
ever practised it. Proof of this was forthcoming in the next letter
addressed to the same correspondent and written three months later!
“I hasten my dear and kind friend, to reply to your very welcome
letter. I am quite well now, and if not as hopeful as I used to be,
yet less anxious, and far less depressed than I ever expected to feel
again. This is merely the influence of the scenery, the flowers, the
cool yet pleasant season, and the absence of all literary society;
for our prospects are not otherwise changed. _My dear father,
relying with a blessed sanguineness on my poor endeavours, has not,
I believe, even inquired for a situation_; and I do not press the
matter, though I anxiously wish it, being willing to give one more
trial to the theatre. If I could but get the assurance of earning
for my dear father and mother a humble competence I should be the
happiest creature in the world. But for these dear ties, I should
never write another line, but go out in some situation as other
destitute women do. It seems to me, however, my duty to try a little
longer; the more especially as I am sure separation would be felt by
all of us to be the greatest of all evils.
“My present occupation is a great secret; I will tell it to you _in
strict confidence_. It is the boldest attempt ever made by a woman,
which I have undertaken at the vehement desire of Mr. Macready, who
confesses that he has proposed the subject to every dramatic poet of
his acquaintance—that it has been the wish of his life—and that he
never met with any one courageous enough to attempt it before. In
short, I am engaged in a grand historical tragedy on the greatest
subject in English story—Charles and Cromwell. Should you ever have
suspected your poor little friend of so adventurous a spirit? Mr.
Macready does not mean the author to be known, and I do not think it
will be found out, which is the reason of my so earnestly requesting
your silence on the subject. Macready thinks that my sex was, in
great part, the occasion of the intolerable malignity with which
_Julian_ was attacked.” [A scathing article on _Julian_ appeared in
one of the magazines and was considered, by both Macready and Miss
Mitford, to have been inspired, if not written, by Kemble.]
Continuing her letter Miss Mitford detailed how she proposed to
treat the subject and concluded with another appeal for interest in
securing her father employment:—“Pray, my dear friend, if you should
hear of any situation that would suit my dear father, do not fail to
let me know, for that would be the real comfort, to be rid of the
theatre and all its troubles. Anything in the medical line, provided
the income, however small, were certain, he would be well qualified
to undertake. _I hope there is no want of duty in my wishing him to
contribute his efforts with mine to our support._ God knows, if I
could, if there were any certainty, how willingly, how joyfully, I
would do all.... If I were better, more industrious, more patient,
more consistent, I do think I should succeed; and I will try to
be so. I promise you I will, and to make the best use of my poor
talents. Pray forgive this egotism; it is a relief and a comfort to
me to pour forth my feelings to so dear and so respected a friend;
and they are not now so desolate, not quite so desolate, as they have
been. God grant me to deserve success!”
Again how pathetic! And how tragic is this spectacle of a
worn-out woman of thirty-six, pleading for help and comfort, and
promising, like a little child, to be good and work hard; and that
notwithstanding her twelve hours a day at the self-imposed task—which
she now finds to be drudgery—or the terror with which she views this
great opportunity now offered her by Macready and which she dare not
refuse lest she be blamed for letting slip any chance of earning
money. And all that a worthless father may be shielded and the real
cause of the trouble be obscured.
To add to her burdens—her mother was taken suddenly and seriously
ill shortly after the above letter was written, necessitating the
most careful and vigilant nursing. Her complaint—spasmodic asthma—was
so bad that, as the daughter recorded, “I have feared, night after
night, that she would die in my arms.” Eventually she recovered, but
meanwhile, of course, all literary work had to be abandoned, not
only because of the constant attention which the patient’s condition
demanded but by reason of the “working of the perpetual fear on
my mind which was really debilitating, almost paralyzing, in its
effect.”