Chapter XXI (7)

Thank you, my dearest H----, for your last delightful letter, which
I should have answered before, but for the production of a new
piece at Covent Garden, which has taken up all my time for the last
week in rehearsals, and trying on dresses and the innumerable and
invariable etceteras of a new play and part. It has been highly
successful, and I think is likely to bring money to our treasury,
which is _the_ consummation most devoutly to be wished. It is
nothing more than an interesting melodrama, with the advantage of
being written in gentlemanly (noblemanly?) blank verse instead of
turgid prose, and being acted by the principal instead of the
secondary members of the company. This will suffice to make you
appreciate my satisfaction, when I am complimented upon my acting
in it, and you will sympathize with the shout of laughter my father
and myself indulged in in the park the other day, when Lord John
Russell, who was riding with us, told us that a young lady of his
acquaintance had assured him that "Katharine of Cleves" (the name
of the piece) was vastly more interesting than any thing
Shakespeare had ever written.

The report is that there is to be no new creation of peers, and
that the Bill will not pass. Certainly poor Lord John looks worried
to death. He and Lord Grey have almost the whole weight and
responsibility of this most momentous question upon their
shoulders, and it must be no trifle to carry. As for the judicious
young lady's judgment about "Katharine of Cleves," it is just this
sort of thing that makes me _rub the hands of my mind_ with
satisfaction that I have never cared for my profession as my family
has done. I think if I had, such folly, or rather stupidity, would
have exasperated me too much. Besides, I should have been much less
useful to the theater, for I should have lived in an everlasting
wrangle with authors, actors, and managers on behalf of the
mythological bodies supposed to preside over tragedy and comedy,
and I should have killed myself (or perhaps been killed), and that
quickly, with ineffectual protests against half the performances
before the lamps, which are enough to make the angels weep and
laugh--in short, go into hysterics, if they ever come to the
play....

Do you know you have almost increased my very sufficient tendency
to superstition by your presentiment when you last left us that you
should never return to this house. There is some talk now of our
leaving it. My mother yearns for her favorite suburban haunts, the
scene of her courtship, and the spot where most of her happy
youthful associations abide, and has half persuaded my father to
let this house and take one in a particular row of "cottages of
gentility" called Craven Hill. It only consists of twelve houses,
in _five_ of which my mother has, at different periods of her life,
resided. This is all vague at present; I will let you know if it
assumes a more definite shape. Some time will elapse before it is
decided on, and more before it is done; and in any case, somehow or
other, you must be once more under this roof with us before we
leave it....

I quite agree with you that such books as Mr. Hope's (on the nature
and immortality of the soul, the precise title of which I have
forgotten) "may be useless," and sometimes, indeed, worse. If a
person has nothing better to do than count the sea sands or fill
the old bottomless tub of the Danaides, they may be excused for
devoting their time and wits to such riddles, perhaps. But when the
mind has positive, practical work to perform, and time keeps
bringing _all the time_ specific duties, or when, as in your case,
a predisposition to vague speculation is the intellectual besetting
sin, I think _addition_ to such subjects to be avoided. I suppose
all human beings have, in some shape or degree, the desire for that
knowledge which is still the growth of the forbidden tree of
Paradise, and the lust for which inevitably thrusts us against the
bars of the material life in which we are consigned; but to give up
one's time to writing and reading elaborate theories of a past and
future which we may conceive to exist, but of the existence of
which it is impossible we should achieve _any_ proof, much less any
detailed knowledge, appears to me an unprofitable and
unsatisfactory misuse of time and talent....

You are mistaken in supposing me familiar with the early history of
Poland. I am ashamed to say I know nothing about it, and my zeal
for the cause of its people is an ignorant sentiment_alism_--partly,
perhaps, mere innate combativeness that longs to strike on the
weaker side, and partly, too, resentful indignation at the
cold-blooded neutrality observed by all the powers of Europe while
that handful of men were making so brave a stand against the
Russian giant.

That reminds me that Prince Zartoryski, who is in this country just
now, came to the play the other night, and was so struck with my
father that he sent round to him to say that he desired the honor
of his acquaintance, and begged he would do him the favor of dining
with him on some appointed day, which seemed to me a very pretty
piece of impulsive enthusiasm. I believe Prince Zartoryski is a
royal personage, and so above conventionalities....

My father is pretty well, though very far from having entirely
regained his strength, but he is making gradual progress in that
direction....

Always affectionately yours,
FANNY.

_Tuesday, 24th._-- ... Read over "The Star of Seville," as Mr.
Bartley (our worthy stage manager) has cut it, with a view to its
possible performance. He has cut it with a vengeance--what one may
call to the quick. However, I suppose they know their own business
(though, by the by, I am not always so sure of that). At any rate,
I shall make no resistance, but be silent while I am sheared....

I rode in the park with John. My mare was ill, and Mew (the
stable-keeper) had sent me one of his horses, a great awkward
brute, who, after jolting me well up Oxford Street, no sooner
entered the park than he bolted down the drive as fast as legs
could carry him, John following afar off. In Rotten Row we were
joined by young T----.... When I thought the devil was a little
worked out of my horse, I raised him to a canter again, whereupon
scamper the second--I like a flash of lightning, they after me as
well as they could. John would not force my father's horse, but Mr.
T----, whose horse was a thoroughbred hunter, managed to keep up
with me, but lamed his horse in so doing. We then walked soberly
round the park and saw our friends and acquaintances, and, turning
down the drive, I determined once more to try my horse's
disposition, whereupon off he went again, like a shot, leaving John
far behind. I flitted down Rotten Row like Faust on the demon
horse, and as I drew up and turned about I heard, "Well, that woman
does ride well," which was all, whoever said it, knew of the
matter; whereas, in my mad career, I had passed Fozzard, who shook
his head lamentably at John, exclaiming, "Oh, Miss Fanny! Miss
Fanny!" After this last satisfactory experiment I made no more, and
we cut short our ride on account of my unmanageable steed....

We had a dinner party at home, and in the evening additional
guests, among them Thackeray, who is very clever and delightful. We
had music and singing and pleasant, bright talk, and they departed
and left us in great good humor.

_Wednesday, 25th._--Read the "Prometheus Unbound." How gorgeous it
is! I do not think Shelley is read or appreciated now as
enthusiastically as he was, even in my recollection, some few years
ago. I went over my part, and at half-past five to the theater. The
play was "Katharine of Cleves," the house very good; and, to please
Henry Greville, I resumed the gold wreath I had discarded and
restored the lines I had omitted. After the play came home and
supped, and at eleven went to Lady F----'s.... A very fine party;
"everybody"--that is in town--was there, and Mrs. Norton looking
more magnificent than "everybody." Old Lady S---- like nothing in
the world but the mummy carried round at the Egyptian feasts, with
her parchment neck and shoulders bare, and her throat all drawn
into strings and cords, hung with a dozen rows of perfect precious
stones glittering in the glare of the lights with the constant
shaking of her palsied head. [This lady continued to frequent the
gayest assemblies in London when she had become so old and infirm
that, though still persisting daily in her favorite exercise on
horseback, she used to be tied into her saddle in such a manner as
to prevent her falling out of it. She had been one of the finest
riders in England, but used often, at the time when I knew her, to
go to sleep while walking the horse round the park, her groom who
rode near her being obliged to call to her "My lady! My lady!" to
make the poor old woman open her eyes and see where she was going.
At upward of eighty she died an unnatural death. Writing by
candle-light on a winter's evening, it is supposed that her cap
must have taken fire, for she was burnt to death, and had for her
funeral pile part of the noble historical house of Hatfield, which
was destroyed by the same accident.]

Lord Lansdowne desired to be introduced to me, and talked to me a
long time. I thought him very good-natured and a charming talker.
Mrs. Bradshaw (Maria Tree) was there, looking beautiful. Our
hostess's daughter, Miss F----, is very pretty, but just misses
being a beauty; in that case a miss is a great deal worse than a
mile. Just as the rooms were beginning to thin, and we were going
away, Lord O---- sat down to the piano. I had heard a great deal
about his singing, and was rather disappointed; he has a sweet
voice and a sweet face, but Henry Greville's bright, sparkling
countenance and expressive singing are worth a hundred such mere
musical sentimentalities. [Mr. Henry Greville was one of the best
amateur singers of the London society of his day. He was the
intimate personal friend of Mario, whom I remember he brought to
our house, when first he arrived in London, as M. de Candia, before
the beginning of his public career, and when, in the very first
bloom of youth, his exquisite voice and beautiful face produced in
society an effect which only briefly forestalled the admiration of
all Europe when he determined to adopt the profession which made
him famous as the incomparable tenor of the Italian stage for so
many years.] Then, too, those lads sing songs, the words of which
give one the throat-ache with strangled crying, and when they have
done you hear the women all round mincing, "Charming!--how
nice!--sweet!--what a dear!--darling creature!"

_Thursday, 26th._--Murray was most kind and good-natured and
liberal about all the arrangements for publishing "Francis I." and
"The Star of Seville." He will take them both, and defer the
publication of the first as long as the managers of Covent Garden
wish him to do so. [As there was some talk just then of bringing
out "The Star of Seville" at the theater, it was thought better not
to forestall its effect by the publication of "Francis I."]

At the theater the play was "The School for Scandal." A---- F----
was there, with young Sheridan; I hope the latter approved of my
method of speaking the speeches of his witty great-grandfather. I
played well, though the audience was dull and didn't help me. Mary
and William Harness supped with us....

_Friday, 27th._--A long discussion after breakfast about the
necessity of one's husband being clever. Ma foi je n'en vois pas la
nécessité. People don't want to be entertaining each other all day
long; _very_ clever men don't grow on every bush, and _middling_
clever men don't amount to anything. I think I should like to have
married Sir Humphry Davy. A well-assorted marriage, as the French
say, seems to me like a well-arranged duet for four hands; the
treble, the woman, has all the brilliant and melodious part, but
the whole government of the piece, the harmony, is with the base,
which really leads and sustains the whole composition and keeps it
steady, and without which the treble for the most part _runs to
tune_ merely, and wants depth, dignity, and real musical
importance.

In the afternoon went to Lady Dacre's.... She read me the first act
of a little piece she has been writing; while listening to her I
was struck as I never had been before with the great beauty of her
countenance, and its very varied and striking expression.... At
home spent my time in reading Shelley. How wonderful and beautiful
the "Prometheus" is! The unguessed heavens and earth and sea are so
many storehouses from which Shelley brings gorgeous heaps of
treasure and piles them up in words like jewels. I read "The
Sensitive Plant" and "Rosalind and Helen." As for the
latter--powerful enough, certainly--it gives me bodily aches to
read such poetry.

What extraordinary proceedings have been going on in the House of
Commons! Mr. Percival getting up and quoting the Bible, and Mr.
Hunt getting up and answering him by quoting the Bible too. It
seems we are to have a general fast--on account of the general
national misconduct, I suppose; serve us right.

_Sunday, 29th._--Went into my mother's room before going to church.
Henry Greville has sent her Victor Hugo's new book, "Notre Dame de
Paris," but she appears half undetermined whether she will go on
reading it or not, it is so painfully exciting. I took Mrs.
Montague up in the carriage on my way to church, and after service
drove her home, and went up to see Mrs. Procter, and found baby
(Adelaide Procter) at dinner. That child looks like a poet's child,
and a poet. It has something "doomed" (what the Germans call
"fatal") in its appearance--such a preternaturally thoughtful,
mournful expression for a little child, such a marked brow over the
heavy blue eyes, such a transparent skin, such pale-golden hair.
John says the little creature is an elf-child. I think it is the
prophecy of a poet. [And so, indeed, it was, as all who know
Adelaide Procter's writings will agree--a poet who died too early
for the world, though not before she had achieved a poet's fame,
and proved herself her father's worthy daughter.] ... In the
afternoon, I found my mother deep in her French novel, from which
she read me two very striking passages--the description of
Esmeralda, which was like a fine painting, and extremely beautiful,
and the sketch of Quasimodo's life, ending with his riding on the
great bell of the cathedral. Very powerful and very insane--a sort
of mental nightmare, giving one as much the idea of disorder of
intellect as such an image occurring to one in a dream would of a
disordered stomach. Harmony, order, the beauty of goodness and the
justice of God, are alike ignored in such works. How sad it is for
the future as well as for the present!

_Monday, 30th._--King Charles' martyrdom gives me a holiday
to-night. Excellent martyr! Victor Hugo has set my mother raving.
She didn't sleep all night, and says the book is bad in its
tendency and shocking in its details; nevertheless, she goes on
reading it....

_Tuesday, January 31st._-- ... Went to Turnerelli's. He is making a
bust of me, that will perhaps be like--the man in the moon. Dall
was kind enough to read to me Mrs. Jameson's "Christina" while I
sat. I like it extremely. After I came home, read Shirley's play of
"The Two Sisters." I didn't like it much. It is neither very
interesting, very witty, nor very poetical, and might almost be a
modern work for its general want of power and character. The women
appear to me a little exaggerated--the one is mad and the other
silly. At the theater in the evening the house was very good
indeed--the play, "Katharine of Cleves;" but poor Mr. Warde was so
ill he could hardly stand.

_Wednesday, February 1st._-- ... Drove out with Henry in the new
carriage. It is very handsome, but by no means as convenient or
capacious as our old rumble. Oh, these vanities! How we sacrifice
everything to them!

_Thursday, 2d._ ... Rode out with my father. The whole world was
abroad in the sunshine, like so many flies. My mother was walking
with John and Henry, and Henry Greville. I should like to tell him
two words of my mind on the subject of lending "Notre Dame de
Paris" about to women. At any rate, we vulgar females are not as
much accustomed to mental dram-drinking as his fine-lady friends,
and don't stand that sort of thing so well.... In the evening we
went to the theater to see "The Haunted Tower." Youth and first
impressions are wonderful magicians. (I forget whether the music of
this piece was by Storace or Michael Kelly.) This was an opera
which I had heard my father and mother talk of forever. I went full
of expectation accordingly, and was entirely disappointed. The
meagerness and triteness of the music and piece astonished me.
After the full orchestral accompaniments, the richly harmonized
concerted pieces and exquisite melodies lavished on us in our
modern operas, these simple airs and their choruses and mean
finales produce an effect from their poverty of absolute musical
starvation.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 31, 1832.
MY DEAREST H---- G----,

You are coming to England, and you will certainly not do so again
without coming to us. My father and mother, you know, speak by me
when I assure you that a visit from you would give us all the
greatest pleasure.... Do not come late in the season to us, because
at present we do not know whether June or July may take us out of
town.... With my scheme of going to America, I think I can look the
future courageously in the face. It is something to hold one's
fortune in one's own hands; if the worst comes to the worst it is
but another year's drudgery, and the whereabouts really matters
little.... We hear that the cholera is in Edinburgh. I cannot help
thinking with the deepest anxiety of those I love there, and I
imagine with sorrow that beautiful, noble city, those breezy hills,
those fresh, sea-weedy shores and coasts breathed upon by that dire
pestilence. The city of the winds, where the purifying currents of
keen air sweep through every thoroughfare and eddy round every
corner--perched up so high upon her rocky throne, she seems to sit
in a freer, finer atmosphere than all the world beside! (I appear,
in my enthusiastic love for Edinburgh, to have forgotten those
Immonderraze, the wynds and closes of the old town.) I hope the
report may not prove true, though from a letter I have received
from my cousin Sally (Siddons) the plague is certainly within six
miles of them. She writes very rationally about it, and I can
scarce forbear superstitiously believing that God's mercy will
especially protect those who are among His most devoted and dutiful
children....

You speak of my love of nature almost as if it were a quality for
which I deserve commendation. It is a blessing for which I am most
grateful. You who live uninclosed by paved streets and brick walls,
who have earth, sea, and sky _à discrétion_ spread round you in all
their majestic beauty, cannot imagine how vividly my memory recalls
and my mind dwells upon mere strips of greensward, with the shadows
of trees lying upon them. The colors of a patch of purple heather,
broken banks by roadsides through which sunshine streamed--often
mere effects of light and shade--return to me again and again like
tunes, and _to shut my eyes and look at them_ is a perfect delight
to me. I suppose one is in some way the better as well as the
happier for one's sympathy with the fair things of this fair world,
which are types of things yet fairer, and emanations from the great
Source of all goodness, loveliness, and sublimity. Whether in the
moral or material universe, images and ideas of beauty must always
be in themselves good. Beauty is one manifestation and form of
truth, and the transition seems to me almost inevitable from the
contemplation of things that are lovely to one's _senses_ to those
which are _lovable_ by one's spirits' higher and finer powers of
apprehension. The mind is kept sunny and calm, and free from ill
vapors, by the influence of beautiful things; and surely God loves
beauty, for from the greatest to the smallest it pervades all His
works; and poetry, painting, and sculpture are not as beautiful as
the things they reproduce, because of the imperfect nature-of their
creator--man; though _his_ works are only good in proportion as he
puts his soul--_i.e._, the Spirit of God--inspiration into them.

Your affectionate

F. A. K.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, February 17, 1832.
MY DEAREST H----,

"Francis I." will come out on the 1st of March, so your starting on
the 25th will do quite well for that; but it is right I should tell
you what may possibly deter you from coming. A report prevails that
the cholera is approaching London, and though I cannot say that I
feel nervous upon the subject, perhaps, under these circumstances,
you had rather or better not come.

There have been many assertions and contradictions about it, of
course, and I know nothing but that such a rumor is prevalent, and
if this should cause you or (what is more likely) yours an
instant's hesitation, you must give up your visit. I know our
disappointment will be mutual and equal, and I am sure you will not
inflict it either upon yourself or me without adequate reason, so I
will say no more about it.

The reason for bringing out "Francis I." now is that Milman has
undertaken to review it in the next _Quarterly_, and Murray wishes
the production of the play at the theater to be simultaneous with
the publication of the _Review_.

My wrath and annoyance upon the subject have subsided, and I have
now taken refuge with restored equanimity in my "cannot help it."
Certainly I said and did all I could to hinder it.

I do not feel at all nervous about the fate of the play--no English
public will damn an attempt of that description, however much it
may deserve it; and paradoxical as it may sound, a London audience,
composed as it for the most part is of pretty rough, coarse, and
hard particles, makes up a most soft-hearted and good-natured
whole, and invariably in the instance of a new actor or a new
piece--whatever partial private ill will may wish to do--the
majority of the spectators is inclined to patience and indulgence.
I do not mean that I shall not turn exceedingly sick when I come to
set my foot upon the stage that night; but it will only be with a
slight increase of the alarm which I undergo with every new part.
My poor mother will be the person to be pitied; I wish she would
take an opiate and go to bed, instead of to the theater that
night....

I was at a party last night where I met Lord Hill (then commander
of the forces), who had himself presented to me, and who renewed in
person the promise he had sent me through Sir John Macdonald (who
was adjutant-general), to exert and interest himself to the utmost
of his power about Henry's commission.

John has finished his Anglo-Saxon book, and Murray has undertaken
to publish it for him, offering at the same time to share with him
whatever profits may accrue from it. The work is of a nature which
cannot give either a quick or considerable return; but the offer,
like all Mr. Murray's dealings with me, is very kind and liberal,
for a publisher is not easily found any more than readers for such
matter. (The book was the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf.) He asked me
to let him publish "Francis I.," as it is to be acted, without the
fifth act, but this I would not consent to. I have rather an
affection for my last scene in the Certoso at Pavia, with the monks
singing the "De Profundis" while the battle was going on, and the
king being brought in a prisoner and making the response to the
psalm--which is all historically true....

I must bid you good-by, dear, as I am going to the Angerstein
Gallery with the Fitzhughs....

Yours ever affectionately,
F. A. K.

_Saturday, 4th._--I was obliged to send an excuse to Turnerelli. I
could not sit to him this morning, as it is now determined that
"Francis I." is to be brought out, and received official notice
that it was to be read in the greenroom to-day. We went to the
theater at eleven, and all the actors were there. I felt very
uncomfortable and awkward; but, after all, writing a play is not a
sin, so I plucked up my courage and sat down with the rest. My
father read it beautifully, but even cut as it is, it is of an
_unendurable_ length. They were all very kind and civil, and
applauded it very much; but I do not love the sound of clapping of
hands, and did not feel on this occasion as if I had done the sort
of thing that deserves it....

At half-past five went to the theater; it was the first night of
the opera, and rained besides, both which circumstances thinned our
house; but I suspect "Katharine of Cleves" has nearly lived her
life. Driving to the theater, my father told me that they had
entirely altered the cast of "Francis I." from what I had
appointed, and determined to finish the play with the fourth act. I
felt myself get very red, but I didn't speak, though I cannot but
think an author has a right to say whether he or she will have
certain alterations made in their work. My position is a difficult
one, for did I not feel bound to comply with my father's wishes I
would have no hand in this experiment. I would forfeit fifty--nay,
a hundred--pounds willingly rather than act in this play, which I
am convinced ought not to be acted at all. Any other person might
do this, but with me it is a question of home duty, instead of a
mere matter of business between author, actress, and manager. They
couldn't act the play without me, and but for my father I should
from the first have refused to act in it at all. I do not think
that they manage wisely; it is a mere snatch at a bit of profit by
a way of catchpenny venture, to secure which they are running the
risk of injuring me more ways than one, and through me their own
interests. It seems to me shortsighted policy, but I cannot help
myself. After the play came home to supper, and at eleven went to
Lady Dacre's. Sidney Smith, Rogers. Conversation sharp. Lots of
people that I knew, in spite of which, in consequence, I suppose,
of my own state of spirits, I did not enjoy myself. Mrs. Norton was
there; she sang "My Arab Steed," and "Yes, Aunt," and "Joe Hardy;"
the latter I do not think very good. They made me sing; I was
horribly frightened. Julian Young was there; his manner and
appearance are not very good, but his voice is beautiful and he
sang very well.

_Sunday, 5th._-- ... When I came back from church I found Campbell
with my mother, scraping up information about Mrs. Siddons for his
and her "life." I left him with her, and when I came back he was
gone, and in his place, as if he had turned into her, sat Mrs.
Fitzgerald in a green velvet gown trimmed with sables, which
excited my admiration and envy. I should like to have been living
in the days and countries where persons, as a mark of favor, took
off their dress and threw it on your shoulders. How pleasant it
would have been!...

Just before going to bed I spoke of writing a preface to "Francis
I.," which brought on a discussion with my mother on the subject of
that ill-fated piece, in the middle of which my father came in, and
I summoned up courage to say something of what I felt about it, and
how disagreeable it was to me to act in it, feeling as I did. I do
not think I can make them understand that I do not care a straw
whether the piece dies and is damned the first night, or is cut up
alive the next morning, but that I do care that, in spite of my
protestations, it should be acted at all, and should be cut and
cast in a manner that I totally disapprove of.

_Monday, 6th._-- ... On our way to the theater my father told me
that the whole cast of "Francis I." is again turned topsy-turvy.
Patience of me! I felt very cross, so I held my tongue. Mr. and
Miss Harness came home to supper with us, and had a long talk about
"Francis I.," my annoyance about which culminated, I am ashamed to
say, in a fit of crying.

_Tuesday, 7th._--So "Francis I." is in the bills, I see....

_Wednesday, 8th._-- ... At eleven "The Provoked Husband" was
rehearsed in the saloon, and Mr. Meadows brought Carlo to see me.
[Carlo was a splendid Newfoundland dog, which my friend, Mr.
Drinkwater Meadows, used to bring to the theater to see me. His
solemnity, when he was desired to keep still while the rehearsal
was going on, was magnificent, considering the stuff he must have
thought it.] ... After dinner went to the theater. The house was
bad; the play, "The Provoked Husband." I played ill in spite of my
pink gauze gown, which is inestimable and as fresh as ever. After
supper dressed and off to Mrs. G----'s, and had a very nice
ball....

_Friday, 10th._-- ... I wrote to H---- to beg her to come to me
directly; I wish her so much to be here when my play comes out.
Went to the theater at a quarter to six. The house was bad; the
play, "Katharine of Cleves." I acted pretty well, _though_ my
dresses are getting shockingly dirty, and in one of the scenes my
wreath fell backward, and I was obliged to take it off in the
middle of all my epistolary agony; and what was still worse, after
my husband had locked me in one room and my wreath in another, it
somehow found its way back upon my head for the last scene. At the
end of the play, which has now been acted ten nights, some people
began hissing the pinching incident. It was always considered the
dangerous passage of the piece, but a reasonable public should know
that a play must be damned on its first night, or not at all.

_Saturday, 11th._-- ... A long walk with my mother, and a long talk
about Shakespeare, especially about the beauty of his songs....

_Tuesday, 14th._-- ... Read the family my prologue. My mother did
not like it at all; my father said it would do very well. John
asked why there need be any prologue to the play, which is
precisely what I do not understand. However, I was told to write
one and I did, and they may use it or not just as they please. I am
determined to say not another word about the whole vexatious
business, and so peace be with them.... In the evening a charming
little dinner-party at Mr. Harness's. The G----s, Arthur K----,
Procter (Barry Cornwall), who is delightful, Sir William Millman,
and ourselves.... Dear Mr. Harness has spoken to Murray about
John's book, and has settled it all for him. On my return home, I
told John of the book being accepted, at which he was greatly
pleased. [The book in question was my brother's history of the
Anglo-Saxons, of which Lord Macaulay once spoke to me in terms of
the highest enthusiasm, deploring that John had not followed up
that line of literature to a much greater extent.]

_Wednesday, 15th._-- ... My father went to the opening dinner of
the Garrick Club.... After tea I read Daru, and copied fair a
speech I had been writing for an imaginary member of the House of
Peers, on the Reform Bill. John Mason called, and they sat down to
a rubber, and I came to my own room and read "King Lear." ...

_Thursday, 16th._-- ... While I was at the Fitzhughs' Miss Sturges
Bourne came in, and she and Emily had a very interesting
conversation about books for the poor. Among other things Emily
said that Lady Macdonald had written up to her from the country, to
say that she wanted some more books of sentiment, for that by the
way in which these were thumbed it was evident that they alone
would "go down." Upon inquiry, I found that these "sentimental"
books were religious tracts, highly flavored with terror or pathos,
and in one way or another calculated to convey the strongest
excitement upon the last subject with which excitement ought to
have anything to do. Pious stimulants, devout drams, this is trying
to do good, but I think mistaking the way....

In the evening we went to Lady Farquhar's; this was a finer party,
as it is called, than the last, but not so pleasant. All the world
was there. Mrs. Norton the magnificent, and that lovely sister of
hers, Mrs. Blackwood (afterwards Lady Dufferin), crowned like
Bacchantes with grapes, and looking as beautiful as dreams. Heaps
of acquaintance and some friends....

_Sunday, 10th._-- ... In the evening I read Daru. What fun that
riotous old Pope Julius is! Poor Gaston de Foix! It was young to
leave life and such well-begun fame. The extracts from Bayard's
life enchant me. I am glad to get among my old acquaintance again.
Mr. Harness came in rather late and said all manner of kind things
about "The Star of Seville," but I was thinking about his play all
the while; it does not seem to me that the management is treating
him well. If it does not suit the interests of the theater to bring
it out now, he surely should be told so, and not kept in a state of
suspense, which cannot be delightful to any author, however little
of an egotist he may be.

_Monday, 20th._--Went to Kensington Gravel Pits to see Lady
Calcott, and sat with her a long time. That dying woman, sitting in
the warm spring sunlight, surrounded with early-blowing hyacinths,
the youngest born of the year, was a touching object. She is a
charming person, so full of talent and of goodness. She talked with
her usual cheerfulness and vivacity. Presently Sir Augustus came
down from the painting-room to see me.... I could hardly prevent
myself from crying, and I am afraid I looked very sad. As I was
going away and stooped to kiss her, she sweetly and solemnly bade
"God bless me," and I thought her prayer was nearer to heaven than
that of most people....

_Tuesday, 21st._-- ... After tea dropped John at Mr. Murray's in
Albemarle Street, and went on to the theater to see the new opera;
our version of "Robert the Devil." The house was very full. Henry
Greville was there, with the Mitfords and Mrs. Bradshaw. What an
extraordinary piece, to be sure! I could not help looking at the
full house and wondering how so many decent Englishmen and women
could sit through such a spectacle.... The impression made upon me
by the subject of Meyerbeer's celebrated opera appears to have
entirely superseded that of the undoubtedly fine music; but I never
was able to enjoy the latter because of the former, and the only
shape in which I ever enjoyed "Robert the Devil" was in M.
Levassor's irresistibly ludicrous account of it in the character of
a young Paris _badaud_, who had just come from seeing it at the
theater. His version of its horrors was laughable in the extreme,
especially when, coming to the episode of the resurrection of the
nuns, he contrived to give the most comical effect of a whole
crowd--gibbering, glissading women greeting one another with the
rapid music of the original scene, to which he adapted the words--

"Quoi c'est moi c'est toi,
Oui c'est toi c'est moi;
Comme nous voila bien dégommés."

Mendelssohn's opinion of the subjects chosen for operas in his day
(even such a story as that of the Sonnambula) was scornful in the
extreme.

_Friday, 24th._-- ... Dined with the Fitzhughs, and after dinner
proceeded to the Adelphi, where we went to see "Victorine," which I
liked very much. Mrs. Yates acted admirably the whole of it, but
more particularly that part where she is old and in distress and
degradation. There was a dreary look of uncomplaining misery about
her, an appearance as of habitual want and sorrow and suffering, a
heavy, slow, subdued, broken deportment, and a way of speaking that
was excellent and was what struck me most in her performance, for
the end is sure to be so effective that she shares half her merit
there with the situation. Reeve is funny beyond anything; his face
is the most humorous mask I ever saw in my life. I think him much
more comical than Liston. The carriage was not come at the end of
the first piece, so we had to wait through part of "Robert the
Devil" (given at last, such was its popularity, at every theater in
London). Of course, after our own grand _diablerie_, it did not
strike me except as being wonderfully well done, considering the
size and means of their little stage. [Yates made a most capital
fiend: I should not like a bit to be Mrs Yates after seeing him
look that part so perfectly.]

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, February 24, 1832.
DEAREST H----,

I have this moment received your letter, and though rather
disappointed myself, I am glad you are to see Dorothy as well as
we, so that your visit southward is to be two pleasures instead of
one. The representation of "Francis I." is delayed until next
Wednesday, 7th March; not on account of cholera, but of scenery and
other like theatrical causes of postponement....

I am greatly worried and annoyed about my play. The more I see and
hear of it the stronger my perception grows of its defects, which,
I think, are rendered even more glaring by the curtailments and
alterations necessary for its representation; and the whole thing
distresses me as much as such a thing can. I send you the cast of
the principal characters for the instruction of my Ardgillan
friends, by whose interest about it I am much gratified. My father
is to be De Bourbon; John Mason, the king; Mr. Warde, the monk; Mr.
Bennett, Laval. These are the principal men's parts. I act the
queen-mother; Miss Taylor, Margaret de Valois; and Miss Tree,
Françoise de Foix.

I am reading Cooper's novel of "The Borderers." It is striking and
powerful, and some of it I think very beautiful, especially all
that regards poor Ruth, which, I remember, is what struck you so
much. I like the book extremely. There is a soft sobriety of color
over it all that pleases me, and reminds me of your constant
association of religion and the simple labors of an agricultural
life. It is wonderful how striking the description of this
neutral-tinted existence is, in which life, love, death, and even
this wild warfare with the savage tribes, by which these people
were surrounded, appear divested of all their natural and usual
excitements. Religion alone (and this, of course, was inevitable)
is the one imaginative and enthusiastic element in their existence,
and that alone becomes the source of vehement feeling and
passionate excitement which ought least to admit of fanciful
interpretations and exaggerated and morbid sentiment. But the
picture is admirably well drawn, and I cannot help sometimes
wishing I had lived in those days, and been one of that little
colony of sternly simple and fervently devout Christian souls. But
I should have been a furious fanatic; I should have "seen visions
and dreamed dreams," and fancied myself a prophetess to a
certainty.

That luckless concern, in which you are a luckless shareholder
(Covent Garden), is going to the dogs faster and faster every day;
and, in spite of the Garrick Club and all its noble regenerators of
the drama, I think the end of it, and that no distant one, will be
utter ruin. They have been bringing out a new grand opera, called
"Robert the Devil," which they hope to derive much profit from, as
it is beyond all precedent absurd and horrible (and, as I think,
disgusting); but I am almost afraid that it has none of these good
qualities in a sufficient degree to make it pay its own enormous
cost. I have seen it once, and came home with such a pain in my
side and confused chaos in my head that I do not think I shall ever
wish to see it again. Write me a line to say when I may look for
you.

Ever affectionately yours,
F. A. K.

_Saturday, 25th._-- ... Finished Fenimore Cooper's interesting and
pathetic novel, "The Borderers." ... I came down into the
drawing-room with a headache, a sideache, a heartache, and swollen
red eyes, and my mother greeted me with the news that the theater
was finally ruined, that at Easter it must close, that we must all
go different ways, and I probably to America. I was sobered from my
imaginary sorrow directly; for it is astonishing what a different
effect real and fictitious distress has upon one. I could not
answer my mother, but I went to the window and looked up and down
the streets that were getting empty and dark and silent, and my
heart sank as I thought of leaving my home, my England.... After
dinner Madame le Beau came to try on my Louisa of Savoy's dress; it
is as ugly and unbecoming, but as correct, as possible....

_Wednesday, 23d._--At eleven went to the theater to rehearse
"Francis I." The actors had most of them been civil enough to learn
their parts, and were tolerably perfect. Mr. Bennett will play his
very well indeed, if he does not increase in energy when he comes
to act. Miss Tree, too, I think, will do her part very nicely. John
Mason is rather vulgar and 'prentice-like for Francis, that mirror
of chivalry. After rehearsal I went to Dévy, to consult about my
dress. I have got a picture of the very woman, Louisa of Savoy,
queen-mother of France, and, short of absolute hideousness, I will
make myself as like her as I can....

Arthur Hallam dined with us. I am not sure that I do not like him
the best of all John's friends. Besides being so clever, he is so
gentle, charming, and winning. At half-past ten went to Mrs.
Norton's. My father, who had received a summons from the Court of
Chancery, did not come.... It was a very fine, and rather dull,
party.... Mrs. Norton looks as if she were made of precious stones,
diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires; she is radiant with beauty.
And so, in a different way, is that vision of a sister of hers
(Georgiana Sheridan, Lady St. Maur, Duchess of Somerset, and Queen
of Beauty), with her waxen, round, white arms, and eyes streaming
with soft brilliancy, like fountains by moonlight. To look at two
such creatures for an hour is enough to make the world brighter for
several hours.

_Thursday, 24th._--At eleven went to rehearsal. While we were
rehearsing Mr. Bartley came and told me that the play, "Francis
I.," would not be done for a fortnight, and afterward my father
told me he did not think it was right, or fitting, or doing me
justice to bring out my play without some little attention to
scenery, decorations, etc. I entreated him to go to no expense for
it, for I am sure it will not repay them. Moreover, they have given
their scenery, and finery, and dressing, and decoration, and
spectacle in such profusion to "Robert the Devil" that I am sure
they cannot afford a heavy outlay upon anything else just now.
However, I could not prevail, and probably the real reason for
putting off "Francis I." is the expediency of running the new opera
as long as it will draw before bringing out anything else, which,
of course, is good policy....

_Wednesday, 29th._--H---- has gone to York. What a disappointment!
After all, it's only one more added to the budget. Yet why do I say
that? One scores one's losses, and takes no reckoning of one's
gains, which is neither right nor fair to one's life....

I rode with Henry, and after I got home told my father that his
horse was quite well, and would be fit for his use on Saturday. He
replied sadly that his horse must be sold, for that from the first,
though he had not liked to vex me by saying so, it was an expense
he could not conscientiously afford. I had expected this, and
certainly, when from day to day a man may be obliged to declare
himself insolvent, keeping a horse does seem rather absurd. He then
went on to speak about the ruin that is falling upon us; and dismal
enough it is to stand under the crumbling fabric we have spent
having and living, body, substance, and all but soul, to prop, and
see that it must inevitably fall and crush us presently. Yet from
my earliest childhood I remember this has been hanging over us. I
have heard it foretold, I have known it expected, and there is no
reason why it should now take any of us by surprise, or strike us
with sudden dismay. Thank God, our means of existence lie within
ourselves; while health and strength are vouchsafed to us there is
no need to despond. It is very hard and sad to be come so far on in
life, or rather so far into age, as my father is, without any hope
of support for himself and my mother but toil, and that of the
severest kind; but God is merciful. He has hitherto cared for us,
as He cares for all His creatures, and He will not forsake us if we
do not forsake Him or ourselves.... My father and I need scarcely
remain without engagements, either in London or the provinces....
If our salaries are smaller, so must our expenses be. The house
must go, the carriage must go, the horses must go, and yet we may
be sufficiently comfortable and very happy--unless, indeed, we have
to go to America, and that will be dreadful.... We are yet all
stout and strong, and we are yet altogether. It is pitiful to see
how my father still clings to that theater. Is it because? the art
he loves, once had its noblest dwelling there? Is it because his
own name and the names of his brother and sister are graven, as it
were, on its very stones? Does he think he could not act in a
smaller theater? What can, in spite of his interest, make him so
loth to leave that ponderous ruin? Even to-day, after summing up
all the sorrow and care and toil, and waste of life and fortune
which that concern has cost his brother, himself, and all of us, he
exclaimed, "Oh, if I had but £10,000, I could set it all right
again, even now!" My mother and I actually stared at this
infatuation. If I had twenty, or a hundred thousand pounds, not one
farthing would I give to the redeeming of that fatal millstone,
which cannot be raised, but will infallibly drag everything tied to
it down to the level of its own destruction. The past is past, and
for the future we must think and act as speedily as we may. If our
salaries are half what they are now we need not starve; and, as
long as God keeps us in health of body and mind, nothing need
signify, provided we are not obliged to separate and go off to that
dreadful America.

_Thursday, March 1st._-- ... After dinner I read over again
Knowles's play, "The Hunchback," and like it better than ever. What
would I not give to have written that play! He cannot agree with
Drury Lane about it, and has brought it back to us, and means to
act Master Walter himself. I am so very glad. It will be the most
striking dramatic exhibition that has been seen since Kean's
_début_. I wish "Francis I." was done, and done with, and that we
were rehearsing "The Hunchback."

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 1, 1832.

... As for any disappointment of mine about anything, dear H----,
though some things are by no means light to me, I soon make up my
mind to whatever must be, and I think those who do not endure well
what cannot be avoided are only less foolish than those who endure
what they can avoid. "Francis I." will not, I think, interfere with
your visit to us. Murray wishes it to be postponed till after the
publication of the _Quarterly_, which will come out about the 11th
or 12th. Lockhart, and not Milman, has reviewed it very favorably,
I hear, and Murray expects to sell one edition immediately upon the
publication of the article in the _Quarterly_. So that you can stay
at Fulford some time yet; and should the play be given before you
wish to leave it, I shall not expect you in person, but feel sure
that you are with me in spirit; and the next day I will write you
word of the result.

Dearest H----, I am just now much burdened with anxiety. I will
tell you more of this when we meet. Thank God, though not of a
sanguine, I am not of a desponding nature; and though I never look
forward with any great satisfaction to the future, I seldom find it
difficult to accept the present with tolerable equanimity.... I
spent the evening on Wednesday with Mrs. Jameson. She is just
returned to town, and came immediately, thinking you were here, to
engage us for the next evening; and as you did not come I went, and
spent three hours very pleasantly with her. She knows so much, and
I am so very ignorant, that her conversation is delightfully
instructive as well as amusing, full of interest and information.
Poor woman! she left Tedsley and a very agreeable party to come up
to town upon a false alarm of "Francis I.'s" coming out. I think I
have told you of the work upon Shakespeare she is engaged with; she
has been teaching herself to etch, and has executed some charming
designs, with which she means to illustrate it. I have not an idea
what our plans for this summer are to be; whether America, or the
provinces, or the King's Bench; but I suppose we shall see a little
more clearly into the future by the time you come to us; and if we
do not, abundantly "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof"
with us just now.... I have been reading nothing but Daru's
"History of Venice" lately. How could you tell me to read that sad
story, "The Borderers"! I half killed myself with crying over it,
and did not recover from the effect it had upon me for several
days.

Dearest H----, I am writing nonsense, and with an effort, for I am
very low; and so I will leave off.

Your affectionate
F. A. K.

_Friday, March 2d._--I read Shirley's "Gentleman of Venice," and
did not like it much.... While I was riding in the park with John,
Mr. Willett came up to us, and told me, as great good news, that
they were out of Chancery, and had obtained an order to have their
money out of court. I thought this indeed good news, and we
cantered up the drive in hopes of meeting my mother in the
carriage; but she had gone home. On reaching home, I ran to look
for her, but thought she would like better to hear the news from my
father.