Painting of Mary Russell Mitford 1825.M. R. MitfordMary Russell Mitford—The “Cook-Maid” portrait.(From a painting by B. R. Haydon, 1825.)
M. R. MitfordMary 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 mustbe 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 ofCharles Iwas 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 acharity—‘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 ofCharles Iwas 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 ofCharles 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 throughthe 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 ofCharles, 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 inCharles; 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 succeedagainst 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 theCharles Iplay, 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.”
“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 preciousmorceau? 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 hertwenty 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.Thisis, 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 motherwhose 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 inBlackwood’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 toBlackwood’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 ofCupid 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 ofOur Villagepublished—Whittaker having survived his business troubles; a small play,Gaston de Blondevilleawaiting Kemble’s reading; a volume ofDramatic Scenespreparing for the press, and the author anticipating an immediate visit to town to witness the long-delayed production ofFoscari. For this event the Doctor and his daughter took apartments at 45, Frith Street, and these, Miss Mitford wrote, were delightful. TheFoscariwas 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 ofBlackwoodcontained a delightful review ofOur Villageand 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 toprevent 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 ofDramatic Sketchesto sell, if I can. I quite long to hear how you, myown 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 forFoscariwas excellent, and the copyright of the play, together with the volume ofDramatic 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 onFoscari’ssuccess, 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 periodicalpublications, 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 myDramatic 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.
[22]Mrs. Frances Trollope, a noted author, died 1863.
[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.
[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.