A SLAVE OF THE LAMP
The success of _Our Village_ was really astonishing—it had entirely
caught the public fancy. As proof of this we find in a letter to
Sir William Elford, dated February 19, 1825, the statement that
“Columbines and children have been named after Mayflower [one of
her favourite dogs]; stage coachmen and postboys point out the
localities; schoolboys deny the possibility of any woman’s having
written the cricket-match without schoolboy help; and such men as
Lord Stowell send to me for a key.” In addition to all this proof of
popularity it is fairly evident that Campbell, who had originally
thought the sketches not dignified enough for the pages of his _New
Monthly_, must have relented somewhat, for in the same year she
sent him two articles to the care of Mr. Colburn. This was probably
due to the representations of William Harness, to whom, it will be
remembered, Miss Mitford addressed herself on the matter.
Then, not to be outdone in loyal devotion to his friend, the woman
of the hour, Haydon painted her portrait and exhibited it among
portraits of other celebrities of the year. It was not a flattering
likeness—a reproduction of it is given in these pages—and its
reception, although not particularly hostile, was not altogether
friendly. Haydon’s enemies—and he had many—sniggered and passed
on; Miss Mitford’s friends nearly all commiserated her. “Now to the
portrait,” says she in a letter to her friend, Mrs. S. C. Hall. “One
friend of mine used to compare it to a cook-maid of sixty, who had
washed her dishes and sat down to mend her stockings; another to Sir
John Falstaff in the disguise of the old woman of Brentford; and a
third to Old Bannister, in _Moll Flagon_. I have not myself seen
it since it was finished, but there must have been something very
formidable about it to put such comparisons into people’s heads.”
With her usual good-nature she would not suffer Haydon or his work to
be maligned, and so was kept well occupied in defending him.
[Illustration: _M. R. Mitford_
Mary Russell Mitford—The “Cook-Maid” portrait.
(From a painting by B. R. Haydon, 1825.)]
“As for the picture,” she wrote to Mrs. Hofland, “I shall always
value it most exceedingly as a high honour, and a great kindness,
from such a man.” To Sir William Elford, who, above most other
people, might hear the truth, she wrote:—“It seemed a strong,
unflattered likeness—one that certainly would not be very calculated
to feed a woman’s vanity, or to cure the public of the general belief
that authoresses are and must be frights. But really I don’t think
it much uglier than what I see every day in the looking-glass; and I
especially forbid you from answering this observation by any flattery
or anything whatsoever.
“I am sorry that the portrait is not more complimentary, because it
vexes my father to hear it so much abused, as I must confess it is,
by everybody but Miss J——, and the artist, who maintain that it
is a capital likeness—quite a woman of genius, and so forth. Now,
my dear friend, I entreat and implore you not to mention to any one
what I say. I would not have Mr. Haydon know it for worlds. It was a
present, in the first place, and certainly a very kind and flattering
attention; and, in the second, my personal feelings for him would
always make the picture gratifying to me for his sake were it as ugly
as Medusa.”
Throughout the correspondence of this (1825) and succeeding years
there is a constant reference to a projected novel—in a letter to
William Harness, dated April, 1825, Miss Mitford actually gave a
complete outline of the plot—but, sandwiched between the information
that the story was progressing, there were frequent hints that the
writer was finding the task a little beyond her powers and—were
the truth told—her inclinations. It was to the Drama she turned,
believing that there only could she win laurels and—what was more
to the point, just then—a freedom from want and care for those she
loved.
Her Tragedy of _Charles I_ was constantly being worked upon, for
she was hoping that Kemble would be able to produce it at Covent
Garden early in the next year, but in this, as in all other
literary work—it was the penalty exacted by popularity—she was
much hindered by callers—“deuce take ’em,” she wrote, “for I am
fairly worn off my feet and off my tongue.” Furthermore she could
never resist the fascination of letter-writing and, as she could
never bring herself to the inditing of a short note—the heavy
postal-charges of those days would have made such a thing appear
as the height of extravagance—her epistles were generally very
lengthy and must have taken up much valuable time. One of her
letters to Haydon, during this year, contains a most amusing defence
of her own spinster condition. “I have a theory, very proper and
convenient for an old maid, that the world is over-peopled, and
always hear with some regret of every fresh birth. I hold old maids
and bachelors—especially old maids, for an obvious reason—to be
the most meritorious and patriotic class of his Majesty’s subjects;
and I think the opinion seems gaining ground. Three persons in this
neighbourhood especially, all friends of mine, are staunch in the
creed; only, unluckily, their practice does not quite accord with
their principles. The first, an old maid herself, I caught last
week in the act of presiding over a dozen of country-town ladies,
cutting out baby-linen for a charity—‘The Maternal Society,’ save
the mark! Bounties upon babies! The second, an admiral of the last
edition, called on me on Saturday with a very rueful face to announce
the birth of a daughter (he has a pretty young wife and six children
under eight years old).—‘Well,’ said I, ‘it must be endured.’ ‘Yes,’
said he, ‘but who would have thought of its being a girl!’ The third,
a young married woman, was brought to bed this very morning of
twins—a catastrophe which I have been predicting to her this month
past.”
In the autumn, the play of _Charles I_ was at last finished and
despatched to Kemble for his consideration. Having read it, he
wrote informing the author that it was “admirable, though somewhat
dangerous,” and that he had sent it for perusal to the licenser,
George Colman, junior. This official took three weeks to consider
the MS. and at length wrote to say “that, in consequence of the
exceedingly delicate nature of the subject and incidents of _Charles
the First_, he had received instructions to send the manuscript to
the Lord Chamberlain” (The Duke of Montrose), “that he might himself
judge, on perusal, of the safety of granting a licence.” The author
had already suffered so much from the jealousies of rival actors
that she viewed this new obstacle—the possibility of trouble with
the Licenser of Plays—with the utmost apprehension. It was one
thing to have her production delayed through the incompatibilities
of actors—those could be overcome, in time—but to feel that her
work bore within it matter for prohibition altogether was a totally
different thing. It meant that she, to whom labour and time meant so
much, just now, might labour for months, valuable months, only to
find her offspring condemned and killed at birth. And, as she rightly
argued, if she had offended in the case of _Charles_, she might
offend with other plays. The problem was: how she was to avoid such
a contingency in future? and so she wrote off to William Harness,
asking whether he would advise her to write the Licenser on the
point. “I have a good mind to write to Mr. Colman and ask. I would,
if I knew any way of getting at him. Certainly I mean no harm—nor
did I in _Charles_; and the not licensing that play will do great
harm to my next, by making me timid and over careful.... You cannot
imagine how perplexed I am. There are points in my domestic situation
too long and too painful to write about. The terrible improvidence
of one dear parent—the failure of memory and decay of faculty in
that other who is still dearer, cast on me a weight of care and of
fear that I can hardly bear up against. Give me your advice. Heaven
knows, I would write a novel, as every one tells me to do, and as, I
suppose, I must do at last, if I had not the feeling of inability and
of failure so strong within me that it would be scarcely possible to
succeed against such a presentiment. And to fail there would be so
irremediable! But it will be my lot at last.”
Harness’s advice was that Colman should be written to, and as by
that time the Lord Chamberlain had definitely refused to license
the _Charles I_ play, Miss Mitford also embodied in her letter a
request to be informed whether it was possible to alter that play in
such a manner as would make it licensable. This letter was conveyed
to Colman through the medium of a mutual friend, a Mr. Rowland
Stephenson, to whom a reply was immediately forthcoming. It will be
apparent from a perusal of this reply that Miss Mitford must have
based her plea for information on the fact that her domestic affairs
rendered the success of her work a more than pressing necessity.
Dated November 28, 1825, and written from Brompton Square, Mr.
Colman’s letter was as follows:—
“MY DEAR SIR,—
“It is much to be regretted that Miss Mitford has employed her time
unprofitably when so amiable a motive as that of assisting her
family has induced her to exercise her literary talents; but it
would be idle and ungenerous to flatter her with hopes which there
is no prospect of fulfilling.
“My official opinion of her tragedy is certainly unfavourable to
the author’s interests. I was, however, so far from wishing it to
prejudice the Lord Chamberlain, that the play was submitted to his
perusal at my suggestion. He therefore formed his own judgment upon
it and decidedly refused to license its performance.
“As to alterations—the fact is, that the subject of this play and
the incidents it embraces are fatal in themselves—they are an
inherent and incurable disease—the morbid matter lies in the very
bones and marrow of the historical facts, and defies eradication.
Indeed it would be a kind of practical bull to permit a detailed
representation of Charles’s unhappy story on a public stage, when
his martyrdom is still observed in such solemn silence that the
London theatres are actually closed and all dramatic exhibitions
whatever suspended on its anniversary.
“I give Miss Mitford full credit for the harmlessness of her
intentions, but mischief may be unconsciously done, as a house may
be set on fire by a little innocent in the nursery.”
Miss Mitford’s only comment on this to William Harness was, “Is
not this a precious _morceau_? But there is no use in contending.”
Then continuing her letter, in which she congratulated him on the
publication of his edition of Shakespeare’s works, she reverted to
the troubles at home and furnishes the first indication we have of
the senility of Mrs. Mitford. “Poor mamma’s failure of faculty is
very peculiar. You might see her twenty times for twenty minutes,
and yet not perceive it; or, on the other hand, she might in one
twenty minutes show it a hundred times. She mistakes one person
for another—one thing for another—misjoins facts—misreports
conversations—hunts for six hours together after a pin-cushion
which she has in her pocket, or a thimble on her finger, and is
totally absorbed in the smallest passing objects. _This_ is, in one
respect, fortunate, since it prevents her from foreseeing greater
evils. But then again, it deters her from supporting me in any effort
to mitigate them. So that from her incapacity, and the absolute
inertness of my father in such matters—an obstinacy of going on in
the same way which I cannot describe—I find myself compelled to
acquiesce in a way of living which, however inexpensive, is still
more so than we can afford, for fear of disturbing and, perhaps,
killing her. If she were herself she would rather live on dry bread
in a garret than run in debt; and so would I, merely as a question of
personal comfort.”
This letter, as will be seen, bore no evasive terms regarding Dr.
Mitford; indeed, Miss Mitford knew quite well that any attempt
to hoodwink William Harness concerning her father’s habits of
life was only so much wasted ink and energy. In any case it is no
edifying spectacle here presented—an improvident father obstinately
persisting in a manner of living which present income did not
justify; an invalid mother whose intellect was so weak that she
had not the power to notice that things were reverting to the old
bad ways; a daughter, struggling to make ends meet, to keep the
improvident one satisfied and to withhold from the invalid the truth
which to know might mean her death; and, to crown all, the fruit of
her labours rejected at the eleventh hour. Was ever woman so stricken?
But her cup of bitterness was not yet full, for in December her
publisher, George Whittaker, stopped payment, though, fortunately,
the embarrassment was only temporary. Nevertheless it presented to
the distracted woman a new and hitherto unthought-of possibility
whereby her endeavours to gain a livelihood might be frustrated.
So pressing were the needs of the household that early in the year
1826 she paid a hurried visit to town in the hope of collecting some
of the money due to her, but the result was very meagre. Fortunately
William Harness was able to come to the rescue by acceding to her
suggestion that she should collaborate with him in the production
of some rather elaborate charades for which she had a market in
_Blackwood’s Magazine_. The idea of the charades was first suggested
to Mr. Harness by some of his young lady friends at Hampstead, where
he was then living. They, tired of the rather stereotyped form of
charades, asked him to furnish them with something requiring a
certain amount of care in the production, with the result that
he introduced a trifling dramatic scene and dialogue to represent
each word. The fame of these Hampstead charades soon spread and as
a result came Miss Mitford’s suggestion that she might place her
dramatic skill at his command and that their united efforts should
then go to _Blackwood’s_. At first Mr. Harness demurred to the
idea of magazine publication and counselled his friend to keep her
charades until she could embody them in the novel about which she
was continually writing. Her wish prevailed, however, and Harness
undertook to forward the “copy” on to Blackwood’s, the proprietor of
which was willing to pay ten guineas a sheet for these contributions.
Following these, Miss Mitford entertained the project of writing an
opera—there was no end to her schemes, though not all of them came
to anything.
“I want to write a grand opera on the story of _Cupid and Psyche_,
with Weber’s music. Just look at the story, and see how dramatic it
is—how full of situation and variety, both for dialogue and poetry,
for music and scenery; ... I wish with all my heart you would ask Mr.
Kemble whether, if I were to put all my strength into such an opera,
he could get Weber to compose the music, and whether Weber would like
the subject. It has seized my imagination most strongly, and there
would be no fear of the licenser in this case.”
The October of 1826 saw the second volume of _Our Village_
published—Whittaker having survived his business troubles; a
small play, _Gaston de Blondeville_ awaiting Kemble’s reading; a
volume of _Dramatic Scenes_ preparing for the press, and the author
anticipating an immediate visit to town to witness the long-delayed
production of _Foscari_. For this event the Doctor and his daughter
took apartments at 45, Frith Street, and these, Miss Mitford wrote,
were delightful. The _Foscari_ was to be produced on Saturday,
November 5, and as the visitors arrived in town on November 1, they
employed the interval in witnessing various plays and in working
themselves into a fever of excitement lest Kemble should not recover
from an attack of hoarseness and lest the Duke of York—then
seriously ill—should succumb, in which latter case, of course, the
theatre would be closed. But the Duke did not die and, as luck would
have it, the November number of _Blackwood_ contained a delightful
review of _Our Village_ and a laudatory notice of the author. This
was all to the good. It stimulated the public interest, and the
consequence was a very full house on that auspicious Saturday. How
delightful it is to read of well deserved success. Miss Mitford’s
letter home to her mother is infectiously exhilarating. It was
written after the play, late on the Saturday night, so that no time
might be lost in the conveyance of the news and in order to prevent
the Doctor from rushing off then and there to Reading and home to
carry the news in person.
“I cannot suffer this parcel to go to you, my dearest mother, without
writing a few lines to tell you of the complete success of my play.
It was received, not merely with rapturous applause, but without the
slightest symptom of disapprobation, from beginning to end. We had
not a single ‘order’ in the house, so that from first to last the
approbation was sincere and general. William Harness and Mr. Talfourd
are both quite satisfied with the whole affair, and my other friends
are half crazy. Mrs. Trollope,[22] between joy for my triumph and
sympathy with the play, has cried herself half blind. I am, and have
been, perfectly calm, and am merely tired with the great number of
friends whom I have seen to-day ... Mrs. Morgan, Hannah Rowe, and my
own darling Marianne,[23] who stayed with me during the whole of the
time that the play was acting, which I passed at George Robins’s.
Marianne is going with me on Monday to the tragedy. Of course I shall
now stay rather longer than I intended, having the copyright of the
play and the volume of _Dramatic Sketches_ to sell, if I can. I
quite long to hear how you, my own dearest darling, have borne the
suspense and anxiety consequent on this affair, which, triumphantly
as it has turned out, was certainly a very nervous business. They
expect the play to run three times a week till Christmas.”
It is an interesting circumstance to note that the Epilogue—then
considered indispensable—arrived so late that the play proceeded
without it, and the manager proposed its omission altogether. “It was
simply an added danger,” he said; “could do no good in the case of a
failure, and stopped the applause when the play was a success.” It
was the first occasion on which such a decision had been given and
acted upon.
The proposed remuneration for _Foscari_ was excellent, and the
copyright of the play, together with the volume of _Dramatic
Scenes_, were sold for a good figure to Whittaker. The latter work
Miss Mitford had to complete, and in writing to Sir William Elford,
thanking him for congratulations on _Foscari’s_ success, she told
him: “I am just returned from passing a brilliant fortnight in
London... and heard a great deal more literary news than I have head
to remember or time to tell. For, alas! my dear Sir William, the
holiday time of our correspondence is past. I am now a poor slave of
the lamp, chained to the desk as a galley slave to his oar, and am
at present triply engaged; for the monthly periodical publications,
which I have been too much engaged to supply; to the Annuals, which,
to my sorrow, are just on, and have begun dunning me again; and to my
own bookseller, who has bought my _Dramatic Scenes_.”
FOOTNOTES:
[22] Mrs. Frances Trollope, a noted author, died 1863.
[23] Marianne Skerrett—a connection of Macready’s. She subsequently
held a position in Queen Victoria’s household, as superintendent of
the Queen’s dressers.