Mary Boyle, her book

by Mary Louisa Boyle

“Herts, 16th September 1850.”

A FLATTERING PROPOSAL

It was not till after the death of my beloved friend Charles Dickens that I became aware, through the publication of his letters, that it was at his suggestion Sir Edward had made this flattering proposal. In a letter from Broadstairs to Knebworth, he speaks of me in these terms:

“Do you know Mary Boyle, daughter of the old Admiral?—because she is the very best actress I ever saw off the stage, and immeasurably better than a great many I have seen on it. I have acted with her in a country house in Northamptonshire, and am going to do so again next November. If you know her, I think she would be more than pleased to play, and by giving her something good in a farce, we could get her to do “Mrs Kitely.” In that case, my little sister-in-law would ‘go on’ for the second lady, and you could do without actresses, besides giving the thing a particular grace and interest. If we could get Mary Boyle, we would do Used Up, which is a delightful piece, as the farce. But maybe you know nothing about the said Mary, and in that case, I should like to know what you would think of doing.”

These negotiations resulted in the engagement, which I gladly accepted, to go down to Knebworth and tread the same stage with such distinguished writers as “Boz” himself, John Forster, Mark Lemon (the editor of Punch), Douglas Jerrold, and such well-known artists as Frank Stone, John Leech, and Augustus Egg; while for my confidante and companion I was promised the society of dear Georgina Hogarth. I was in the seventh heaven, for, as I have always said, theatrical business was the only business I liked, theatrical properties the only property I possessed. Then the interesting correspondence with the manager, the only despot I ever tolerated, the meetings for rehearsal, the conferences on the costume. I found myself indeed in my real element, but—when are there no buts to any bright prospects?—all of a sudden the conviction forced itself upon me that so great a delight was not in store, that some sorrow or mishap, or unforeseen obstacle, was hanging over my head, to prevent the consummation of this cherished scheme.

I have often had presentiments, and they have usually been realised; but this was more than a presentiment: it was a certainty that interfered with all my preparations, surrounding them with a feeling of apprehension. I gave orders for the making of the costume, which I was convinced I should never wear; I set myself drearily to learn the part of “Dame Kitely,” which I knew I was never destined to recite. My foreboding was but too sadly fulfilled. My sister-in-law came into the room one day and broke to me as tenderly as possible the death, in circumstances of a most distressing nature, of that dear and beautiful friend to whom I have alluded by the name of Fanny. If any words could have afforded me consolation at so terrible a moment, they would have been such tender and sympathetic lines as those which I received from the kind manager of our company, when he said:

LETTER FROM CHARLES DICKENS

“We are all extremely concerned and distressed to lose you, but we feel that it cannot be otherwise, and we do not in our own expectation of amusement, forget the sad cause of your absence. Bulwer was here yesterday, and if I were to tell you how earnestly he and all the other friends whom you don’t know have looked forward to the projected association with you, and in what a friendly spirit they all express their disappointment, you would be quite moved by it, I think.”

In November, 1851, Charles Dickens and his family went to live in Tavistock House, Tavistock Square, where they remained until the year 1857. The very sound of the name is replete to me with memories of innumerable evenings passed in the most congenial and delightful intercourse; dinners, where the guests vied with each other in brilliant conversation, whether intellectual, witty, or sparkling—evenings devoted to music or theatricals. First and foremost of that magic circle was the host himself, always “one of us,” who invariably drew out what was best and most characteristic in others, who used the monosyllable “we” much more frequently than that of “I,” and who made use of his superiority to charm and quicken the society around him, but never to crush or overpower it with a sense of their inferiority. The most diffident girl was encouraged to express her modest opinion to the great man, and in him the youngest child ever found a ready play-fellow.

I can never forget one evening, shortly after the arrival at Tavistock House, when we danced in the New Year. It seemed like a page cut out of the “Christmas Carol,” as far, at least, as fun and frolic went: authors, actors, friends from near and far, formed the avenues of two long English country dances, in one of which I had the honour of going up and down the middle, almost “interminably” as it seemed, with Charles Dickens for my partner.