MACREADY’S RESERVATION, AND LORD LYTTON’S PRAISE
Notwithstanding the success of _Foscari_ and the apparently
overwhelming literary output of its author during the year 1826, it
is fairly certain that the financial position of the household at
Three Mile Cross remained as before. There had been, of course, the
acquisition of the pony and chaise—originally purchased so that Dr.
and Mrs. Mitford might take exercise in a form they both enjoyed and,
in the case of the latter, certainly required—but this, so far as
can be ascertained, was the only extravagance in expenditure that
had been indulged in. The production of _Foscari_—if the run lasted
for twenty performances—was to bring in £400, and the copyright of
the play and the sale of the _Dramatic Scenes_ was fixed at £150, a
total of £550 as estimated income at the end of 1826. Then there were
the regular payments from _Blackwood’s_, and these, together with
the odd items gathered from the “Annuals”—the editors of which were
actually dunning Miss Mitford for contributions—must have brought
the receipts up to considerably over £600, even if we estimate most
modestly. Such an income for a family of three persons, plus the
housekeeper, maid and odd-man for stable and garden, living in a
glorified cottage in a tiny village, seems to us to represent a very
comfortable sum upon which to exist for, let us say, twelve months.
And yet in June, 1827, we find Miss Mitford writing to a friend: “We
are as poor as poor can be and are ourselves living on credit.” It is
true that she added, “we have only received one hundred pounds from
the theatre,” but, even so, that would leave an estimated balance
of £300—a sum which would scarcely justify such a family in living
on credit. Where did the money go? We confess to being nonplussed,
and can only suggest that the extravagance and improvidence of Dr.
Mitford were still to the fore and still being acquiesced in and
glossed over by his daughter, for Mrs. Mitford could hardly be held
to blame now that she was unfitted to exercise any control whatever
over domestic matters.
These are problems which will never be solved, but of this we can
be certain: that Miss Mitford was still working as hard as ever to
keep the family ship afloat. A letter to William Harness, written in
March, 1827, gives an outline of a new play, _Inez de Castro_, upon
which, after consulting her friends, she worked diligently, and was
able to send it up to Kemble during the year 1828.
In addition to this there was in active preparation a third volume
of _Our Village_, the publication of which was arranged for by Dr.
Mitford in person. To him, then lodging at “Old Betty’s Coffee House,
behind the new church, Strand,” his daughter wrote in February,
1828:—
“Nothing, my own dearest, was ever more comfortable and satisfactory
than the manner in which you have managed this affair. Pray write
to George Whittaker directly. Of course we must not take a farthing
less than one hundred and fifty pounds, when we are sure of it from
such a respectable quarter as Longman’s. I never had the slightest
hesitation in my liking for that house, except their name for
_closeness_; but certainly this offer is very liberal. You have done
the business most excellently—just as I thought you would.” (The
Doctor was evidently playing off Longman’s against his godson.) “God
grant you an equal success with the dramatic affair! I am not the
least afraid of your management there. I’ll never write a play again,
for I daresay Longman’s people would give a good price for a novel.
If you can, without inconvenience, will you bring me a bottle of
eau-de-Cologne?—this is a piece of extravagance upon the strength of
the fifty pounds; but don’t buy anything else. And pray, my darling,
get quit of the dogs.”
The dramatic affair mentioned in this letter evidently concerned the
long-postponed production in London of _Rienzi_, and as Dr. Mitford’s
prolonged absence in town seemed futile, his daughter wrote, still
to the care of “Old Betty’s,” informing him that she could no longer
bear the suspense, and that she had written to Kemble to say that she
was coming to town immediately, and would drive at once to his house,
where, “if he cannot see me then, I have requested him to leave word
when and where he will see me.”
The matter was evidently settled and the play arranged to be
produced at Drury Lane Theatre on Saturday, October 11. Writing this
information to Sir William Elford a week or so before the production,
Miss Mitford said: “Mr. Young plays the hero, and has been studying
the part during the whole vacation; and a new actress[24] makes her
first appearance in the part of the heroine. This is a very bold
and hazardous experiment, no new actress having come out in a new
play within the memory of man; but she is young, pretty, unaffected,
pleasant-voiced, with great sensibility, and a singularly pure
intonation—a qualification which no actress has possessed since
Mrs. Siddons. Stanfield[25] is painting the new scenes, one of which
is an accurate representation of Rienzi’s house. This building
still exists in Rome, and is shown there as a curious relique of the
domestic architecture of the Middle Ages. They have got a sketch
which they sent for on purpose, and they are hunting up costumes
with equal care; so that it will be very splendidly brought out, and
I shall have little to fear, except from the emptiness of London
so early in the season. If you know any one likely to be in that
great desert so early in the year, I know that you will be so good
as to mention me and my tragedy. I do not yet know where I shall
be. I think of going to town in about a fortnight, and, if the play
succeeds, shall remain there about the same time.”
Mrs. S. C. Hall, in her _Memories_, gives us a delightful picture
of the flurry and bustle which preceded the _Rienzi_ production, a
bustle which was accentuated by an alteration of the date to one week
earlier. Miss Mitford was up in town superintending the arrangements,
lodging meanwhile at the house of her friend, Mrs. Hofland, in Newman
Street. “Mrs. Hofland invited us to meet her there one morning. All
the world was talking about the expected play, and all the world was
paying court to its author.
“‘Mary,’ said Mrs. Hofland to her visitors, ‘is a little grand and
stilted just now. There is no doubt the tragedy will be a great
success; they all say so in the green-room; and Macready told me it
was a wonderful tragedy—an extraordinary tragedy “_for a woman to
have written_.” The men always make that reservation, my dear; they
cramp us, my dear, and then reproach us with our lameness; but Mary
did not hear it, and I did not tell her. She is supremely happy just
now, and so is her father, the doctor. Yes, it is no wonder that she
should be a little stilted—such grand people coming to call and
invite them to dinner, and all the folk at the theatre down-upon-knee
to her—it is such a contrast to her life at Three Mile Cross.’
“‘But,’ I said, ‘she deserves all the homage that can be rendered
her—her talents are so varied. Those stories of _Our Village_
have been fanned by the pure breezes of “sunny Berkshire,” and are
inimitable as pictures of English rural life; and she has also
achieved the highest walk in tragedy——’
“‘For a woman,’ put in dear Mrs. Hofland. She had not forgiven our
great tragedian—then in the zenith of his popularity—for his
ungallant reserve.”
It is pleasant to read that Macready could praise this tragedy,
although we cannot forget that spiteful entry in his Diary, under
date November 24, 1836—“I have no faith in her power of writing a
play.”
Stilted or not, Miss Mitford was contented to appear in a garb which
spoke, all too plainly, of the country cottage and country fashion.
“I certainly was disappointed,” continues Mrs. Hall, “when a stout
little lady, tightened up in a shawl, rolled into the parlour in
Newman Street, and Mrs. Hofland announced her as Miss Mitford; her
short petticoats showing wonderfully stout leather boots, her shawl
_bundled_ on, and a little black coal-scuttle bonnet—when bonnets
were expanding—added to the effect of her natural shortness and
rotundity; but her manner was that of a cordial country gentlewoman;
the pressure of her fat little hands (for she extended both) was
warm; her eyes, both soft and bright, looked kindly and frankly into
mine; and her pretty, rosy mouth, dimpled with smiles that were
always sweet and friendly. At first I did not think her at all ‘grand
or stilted,’ though she declared she had been quite spoilt—quite
ruined since she came to London, with all the fine compliments she
had received; but the trial was yet to come. ‘Suppose—suppose
_Rienzi_ should be——,’ and she shook her head. Of course, in
full chorus, we declared that could not be. ‘No! she would not
spend an evening with us until after the first night; if the play
went ill, or even coldly, she would run away, and never be again
seen or heard of; if it succeeded——’ She drew her rotund person
to its full height, and endeavoured to stretch her neck, and the
expression of her face assumed an air of unmistakable triumph. She
was always pleasant to look at, and had her face not been cast in
so broad—so ‘outspread’—a mould, she would have been handsome;
even with that disadvantage, if her figure had been tall enough to
carry her head with dignity, she would have been so, but she was most
vexatiously ‘dumpy’; but when Miss Mitford spoke, the awkward effect
vanished—her pleasant voice, her beaming eyes and smiles, made you
forget the wide expanse of face; and the roly-poly figure, when
seated, did not appear really short.”
On October 4 _Rienzi_ was played—played to crowded houses, with
audiences so rapt that a pin might have been heard had one dropped in
the house. The author, fearful of failure, dare not witness the first
production, but remained near at hand, praying for success from her
inmost soul, “for on it hangs the comfort of those far dearer to me
than myself.” It was Haydon who was the first to bring her the news
of success, and it was a message the bearer of which she never forgot.
On October 20 she wrote informing Sir William Elford that “the
triumph has been most complete and decisive—the houses crowded—and
the attention such as has not been since Mrs. Siddons. How long
the run may continue I cannot say, for London is absolutely empty;
but even if the play were to stop to-night, I should be extremely
thankful—more thankful than I have words to tell; the impression
has been so deep and so general. You should have been in London, or
seen the newspapers as a whole, to judge of the exceedingly strong
sensation that has been produced.”
“The reception of this tragedy,” wrote George Daniel, the famous
critic and Editor of _Cumberland’s British Theatre_, “is a proof
that, though the public have been wont to feed on garbage, they
have no disinclination to wholesome food.... If in the character of
Rienzi, Miss Mitford has shown that she can write with masculine
energy, let Claudia bear witness that her wonted dominion over the
heart is still in full force; that, with the power of agitating
the soul by the fierce conflict of contending passions, a fine
sensibility, a true pathos, a bewitching tenderness, are still
her own, to relieve and illumine the dark shadows that veil the
mysterious grandeur of the tragic muse.
“The sentiments are just and noble; the language is vigorous,
picturesque and poetical.
“It was to be expected that the actor who plays Macbeth and Hamlet
with such skill and effect as Mr. Young should be highly successful
in Rienzi. His performance was a fine specimen of the Kemble
school—chaste, vigorous and grand. Miss Phillips proved herself
fully equal to sustain the character of the gentle Claudia. Her
excellence lies in the expression of tenderness.”
Congratulations poured in upon the author from all quarters, and
these, with countless invitations to festivities in her honour,
nearly turned her head. Fulfilling a promise made at the Hofland’s
house to Mrs. Hall, she went to dinner one evening during the run
of _Rienzi_, and was, unconsciously, the cause of much merriment,
fortunately suppressed. Mrs. Hall describes her as not appearing
to advantage that evening; “her manner was constrained, and even
haughty. She got up tragedy looks, which did not harmonize with her
naturally playful expression. She seated herself in a high chair, and
was indignant at the offer of a footstool, though her feet barely
touched the ground; she received those who wished to be introduced
to her _en reine_; but such was her popularity just then, that all
were gratified. She was most unbecomingly dressed in a striped
satin something, neither high nor low, with very short sleeves,
for her arms were white and finely formed; she wore a large yellow
turban, which added considerably to the size of her head. She had
evidently bought the hideous thing _en route_, and put it on, in the
carriage, as she drove to our house, for pinned at the back was a
somewhat large card, on which were written in large letters, ‘VERY
CHASTE—ONLY 5_s._ 3_d._’ I had observed several of our party passing
behind the chair, whispering and tittering, and soon ascertained the
cause. Under pretence of settling her turban, I removed the obnoxious
notice; and, of course, she never knew that so many wags had been
merry at her cost.”
All very amusing; and yet, a picture which cannot fail to evoke our
sympathy for the little woman so anxious to enjoy to the full her
wonderful hour of success.
The play ran for fifty nights and enjoyed a truly remarkable sale
in book form. In view of the popularity of _Rienzi_ and, possibly,
because she feared it might affect the run in some way, Miss Mitford
now begged Kemble to postpone the production of _Inez de Castro_
until some future date, to which he, of course, agreed.
Meanwhile, and in the November of the same year—that is, while
_Rienzi_ was still running—she made preparations towards the writing
of a new play, founded on a German story, and to be called _Otto of
Wittelsbach_.
Upon her return to Three Mile Cross she was again inundated with
congratulations, both personal and written, and this, of course,
proved a serious delay to her work, and, incidentally, led to a
temporary break in her correspondence with her old friend, Sir
William Elford. Conscience-stricken, she sent him a pretty letter—an
amusing blend of contrition and excuse—on her birthday.
“Thinking over those whom I love and those who have been kind to me,
as one does on these annual occasions, it occurred to me, my dear
friend, that I had most unkindly checked your warmhearted interest
in my doings. I was very busy—not quite well—and overwhelmed,
beyond anything that can be conceived, by letters and visits of
congratulation. I am now quite well again; and though still with much
to do—much that I ought to have done to make up—yet, having fairly
stemmed the tide of formal compliments, I steal a moment to tell
you and your dear circle that _Rienzi_ continues prosperous. It has
passed the twentieth night, which, you know, insures the payment of
four hundred pounds from the theatre (the largest price that any play
can gain); and the sale of the tragedy has been so extraordinary,
that I am told the fourth edition is nearly exhausted—which, as
the publisher told me each edition would consist of at least two
thousand, makes a circulation of eight thousand copies in two
months.... Heaven grant I may ever do as well again! I shall have
hard work to write up to my own reputation, for certainly I am at
present greatly overrated.”
Among the many tributes of praise received by _Rienzi’s_ author none
gave greater delight than the one embodied in Lord Lytton’s Preface
to his novel, _Rienzi_, which first appeared in 1835. “I cannot
conclude,” it runs, “without rendering the tribute of my praise and
homage to the versatile and gifted Author of the beautiful Tragedy of
_Rienzi_. Considering that our hero be the same—considering that we
had the same materials from which to choose our several stories—I
trust I shall be found to have little, if at all, trespassed
upon ground previously occupied. With the single exception of a
love-intrigue between a relative of Rienzi and one of the antagonist
party, which makes the plot of Miss Mitford’s Tragedy, and is little
more than an episode in my Romance, having slight effect on the
conduct and none on the fate of the hero, I am not aware of any
resemblance between the two works; and even _this_ coincidence I
could easily have removed, had I deemed it the least advisable; but
it would be almost discreditable if I had _nothing_ that resembled a
performance so much it were an honour to imitate.”
FOOTNOTES:
[24] Louisa Anne Phillips; she was only sixteen when she made her
début.
[25] W. Clarkson Stanfield—the famous marine-painter.