Chapter XVI: “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.

(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.”