Painting of Mary Russell Mitford 1829Mary Russell Mitford.(From a painting by John Lucas, 1829.)
Mary Russell Mitford.(From a painting by John Lucas, 1829.)
During the sitting Miss Mitford composed some graceful lines to the painter, which are worthy of quotation here, because apart from their intrinsic value as a poetical tribute, they also contain a piece of self-portraiture most deftly interwoven:—
“To Mr. Lucas
(Written whilst sitting to him for my Portrait, December, 1828).
“Oh, young and richly gifted! born to claimNo vulgar place amidst the sons of fame;With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams,And skill to realize Art’s loftiest themes:How wearisome to thee the task must beTo copy these coarse features painfully;Faded by time and paled by care, to traceThe dim complexion of this homely face;And lend to a bent brow and anxious eyeThy patient toil, thine Art’s high mastery.Yet by that Art, almost methinks Divine,By touch and colour, and the skilful lineWhich at a stroke can strengthen and refine,And mostly by the invisible influenceOf thine own spirit, gleams of thought and senseShoot o’er the careworn forehead, and illumeThe heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom:Even as the sunbeams on the rudest groundFling their illusive glories wide around,And make the dullest scene of Nature brightBy the reflexion of their own pure light.”
“Oh, young and richly gifted! born to claimNo vulgar place amidst the sons of fame;With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams,And skill to realize Art’s loftiest themes:How wearisome to thee the task must beTo copy these coarse features painfully;Faded by time and paled by care, to traceThe dim complexion of this homely face;And lend to a bent brow and anxious eyeThy patient toil, thine Art’s high mastery.Yet by that Art, almost methinks Divine,By touch and colour, and the skilful lineWhich at a stroke can strengthen and refine,And mostly by the invisible influenceOf thine own spirit, gleams of thought and senseShoot o’er the careworn forehead, and illumeThe heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom:Even as the sunbeams on the rudest groundFling their illusive glories wide around,And make the dullest scene of Nature brightBy the reflexion of their own pure light.”
“Oh, young and richly gifted! born to claimNo vulgar place amidst the sons of fame;With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams,And skill to realize Art’s loftiest themes:How wearisome to thee the task must beTo copy these coarse features painfully;Faded by time and paled by care, to traceThe dim complexion of this homely face;And lend to a bent brow and anxious eyeThy patient toil, thine Art’s high mastery.Yet by that Art, almost methinks Divine,By touch and colour, and the skilful lineWhich at a stroke can strengthen and refine,And mostly by the invisible influenceOf thine own spirit, gleams of thought and senseShoot o’er the careworn forehead, and illumeThe heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom:Even as the sunbeams on the rudest groundFling their illusive glories wide around,And make the dullest scene of Nature brightBy the reflexion of their own pure light.”
“Oh, young and richly gifted! born to claim
No vulgar place amidst the sons of fame;
With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams,
And skill to realize Art’s loftiest themes:
How wearisome to thee the task must be
To copy these coarse features painfully;
Faded by time and paled by care, to trace
The dim complexion of this homely face;
And lend to a bent brow and anxious eye
Thy patient toil, thine Art’s high mastery.
Yet by that Art, almost methinks Divine,
By touch and colour, and the skilful line
Which at a stroke can strengthen and refine,
And mostly by the invisible influence
Of thine own spirit, gleams of thought and sense
Shoot o’er the careworn forehead, and illume
The heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom:
Even as the sunbeams on the rudest ground
Fling their illusive glories wide around,
And make the dullest scene of Nature bright
By the reflexion of their own pure light.”
During the year Dr. Mitford developed a most curious and inexplicable dislike to his daughter’s friends and acquaintances. Possibly he was growing tired of the congratulatory callers, but even so, he must surely have recognized that this sort of thing was the penalty exacted of popularity. “My father,” she wrote to William Harness, “very kind to me in many respects, very attentive if I’m ill, very solicitous that my garden should be nicely kept, that I should go out with him, and be amused—is yet, so far as art, literature, and the drama are concerned, of a temper infinitely difficult to deal with. He hates and despises them, and all their professors—looks on them with hatred and with scorn; and is constantly taunting me with my ‘friends’ and my ‘people’ (as he calls them), reproaching me if I hold the slightest intercourse with author, editor, artist, or actor, and treating with frank contempt every one not of a station in the county. I am entirely convinced that he would consider Sir Thomas Lawrence, Sir Walter Scott, and Mrs.Siddons as his inferiors. Always this is very painful—strangely painful.
“Since I have known Mr. Cathcart I can say with truth that he has never spoken to me or looked at me without ill-humour; sometimes taunting and scornful—sometimes more harsh than you could fancy. Now, he ought to remember that it is not for my own pleasure, but from a sense of duty, that I have been thrown in the way of these persons; and he should allow for the natural sympathy of similar pursuits and the natural wish to do the little that one so powerless and poor can do to bring merit (and that of a very high order) into notice. It is one of the few alleviations of a destiny that is wearing down my health and mind and spirits and strength—a life spent in efforts above my powers, and which will end in the workhouse, or in a Bedlam, as the body or the mind shall sink first. He ought to feel this; but he does not. I beg your pardon for vexing you with this detail. I do not often indulge in such repining.”
It is difficult to read such a letter without experiencing a feeling of intensest indignation against the almost inhuman selfishness of Dr. Mitford, who, content to batten on the fruits of his daughter’s industry, would yet make her path more difficult by his unreasonable and capricious jealousy. The incident can only be likened to that of a brute creature biting the hand that feeds him. And what, after all, wasthe cause of this cruel conduct? Nothing other than that his daughter was interesting herself in a young actor whose welfare she hoped to promote.
Contrast this episode with one of a few months later, which Miss Mitford was delighted to relate—it showed such admirable traits in the “dear papa’s” character, and could not go unrecorded. “Dash has nearly been killed to-day, poor fellow! He got into a rabbit burrow so far that he could neither move backward nor forward; and my father, two men and a boy, were all busy digging for upwards of two hours, in a heavy rain, to get him out. They had to penetrate through a high bank, with nothing to guide them but the poor dog’s moans. You never saw any one so full of gratitude, or so sensible of what his master has done for him, as he is.... My father was wet to the skin; but I am sure he would have dug till this time rather than any living creature, much less his own favourite dog, should have perished so miserably.”
In the tragedy ofRienzithere are some fine lines embodied in Rienzi’s injunction to his daughter, which we cannot refrain from quoting at this point:—
“Claudia, in these bad days,When men must tread perforce the flinty pathOf duty, hard and rugged; fail not thouDuly at night and morning to give thanksTo the all-gracious Power, that smoothed the wayFor woman’s tenderer feet. She but looks on,And waits and prays for the good cause, whilst manFights, struggles, triumphs, dies!”
“Claudia, in these bad days,When men must tread perforce the flinty pathOf duty, hard and rugged; fail not thouDuly at night and morning to give thanksTo the all-gracious Power, that smoothed the wayFor woman’s tenderer feet. She but looks on,And waits and prays for the good cause, whilst manFights, struggles, triumphs, dies!”
“Claudia, in these bad days,When men must tread perforce the flinty pathOf duty, hard and rugged; fail not thouDuly at night and morning to give thanksTo the all-gracious Power, that smoothed the wayFor woman’s tenderer feet. She but looks on,And waits and prays for the good cause, whilst manFights, struggles, triumphs, dies!”
“Claudia, in these bad days,
When men must tread perforce the flinty path
Of duty, hard and rugged; fail not thou
Duly at night and morning to give thanks
To the all-gracious Power, that smoothed the way
For woman’s tenderer feet. She but looks on,
And waits and prays for the good cause, whilst man
Fights, struggles, triumphs, dies!”
Did we not know that Miss Mitford was incapable of a harsh thought towards her father, we should be inclined to read a satire into these lines. Who smoothed the way for her? What time had she wherein to wait and pray? Her days she spent in treading the flinty path of duty, made more rugged and hard by that one who, had he done his duty, would have exerted himself rather in smoothing the way.
Writing to Haydon late in the year to congratulate him on a success, she said:—“Be quite assured that my sympathy with you and with art is as strong as ever, albeit the demonstration have lost its youthfulness and its enthusiasm, just as I myself have done. The fact is that I am much changed, much saddened—am older in mind than in years—have entirely lost that greatest gift of nature, animal spirits, and am become as nervous and good-for-nothing a person as you can imagine. Conversation excites me sometimes, but only, I think, to fall back with a deader weight. Whether there be any physical cause for this, I cannot tell. I hope so, for then perhaps it may pass away; but I rather fear that it is the overburthen, the sense that more is expected of me than I can perform, which weighs me down and prevents me doing anything. I am ashamed to say that a play bespoken last year at Drury Lane, and wanted by them beyondmeasure, is not yet nearly finished. I do not even know whether it will be completed in time to be produced this season. I try to write it and cry over my lamentable inability, but I do not get on. Women were not meant to earn the bread of a family—I am sure of that—there is a want of strength.... God bless you and yours! Do not judge of the sincerity of an old friendship, or the warmth of an old friend, by the unfrequency or dulness of her letters.”
Added to all this weight of work and the forbearance exacted of her by her father, there was the worry consequent upon Mrs. Mitford’s failing health. Judging by the letters of the period it is evident that the mother’s condition was growing serious. Her mind was often a blank and, as the winter drew on, there was a recurrence of the asthma which sapped the little strength remaining to her. “My mother,whom few things touch now, is particularly pleased,” wrote Miss Mitford to William Harnessà proposof a visit he had promised to pay them, and concerning which she added:—“You don’t know how often I have longed to press you to come to us, but have always been afraid; you are used to things so much better, and I thought you would find it dull.”
On Boxing-Day, 1829, Mrs. Mitford’s condition was very grave, for she was seized with apoplexy, and had to be put to bed. There she lingered hovering between life and death until the morningof January 2, 1830, when she passed away, in the eightieth year of her age. The account of her last illness and death is amongst the most touching things ever penned by her daughter—to whom sentimentality was abhorrent. It is too long for extensive quotation, but we cannot forbear making a brief extract describing the last sad moments.
“She was gone. I had kissed her dear hand and her dear face just before. She looked sweet, and calm, and peaceful: there was even a smile on her dear face. I thought my heart would have broken, and my dear father’s too.
“On Saturday I did not see her; I tried, but on opening the door I found her covered by a sheet, and had not courage to take it down.... On Thursday I saw her for the last time, in the coffin, with the dear face covered, and gathered for her all the flowers I could get—chrysanthemums (now a hallowed flower), white, yellow and purple—laurustinus, one early common primrose, a white Chinese primrose, bay and myrtle from a tree she liked, verbena, and lemon-grass also. I put some of these in the coffin, with rosemary, and my dear father put some.
“We kissed her cold hand, and then we followed her to her grave in Shinfield Church, near the door, very deep and in a fine soil, with room above it for her own dear husband and her own dear child. God grant we may tread in her steps!... No human being was ever sodevoted to her duties—so just, so pious, so charitable, so true, so feminine, so industrious, so generous, so disinterested, so lady-like—never thinking of herself, always of others—the best mother, the most devoted wife, the most faithful friend.... Oh, that I could but again feel the touch of that dear hand! God forgive me my many faults to her, blessed angel, and grant that I may humbly follow in her track!... She told Harriet Palmer (of whom she was fond) that she meant to get a guinea, and have her father’s old Bible—the little black Bible which she read every day—beautifully bound, with her initials on it, and give it to me. She told me, whenOttoshould be performed, she wanted a guinea—but not why—and would not take it before. It shall be done, blessed saint!”