“Pardon me, Sir.”
“Oh, then it was forty years ago. I recollect it.”
“You will excuse me, Sir, I never played Millamant.”
“Oh, but I recollect it.”’
“I think,” she said, stiffly turning to Rogers, “it is time for me to change my place,” and rising with much haughtiness she moved away.
Many amusing stories were current of the dramatic manner which she imported into daily life. Her question, in the tragic tones of Lady Macbeth, to the over-awed draper as she bought a piece of coloured print, “Will it wash?” The solemn reply to the Scotch provost, “Beef cannot be too salt for me, my Lord”; and “I asked for water, Boy; you’ve brought me beer.” Lord Beaconsfield told a story of his father, Isaac Disraeli, returning home after a visit to London, and declaring that the event that had made most impression on him was hearing Mrs. Siddons say, “The Ripstone Pippin is the finest apple in the world.” Moore says he remembered how proud he was of going to Lady Mount Edgcumbe’s suppers after the opera. It was at one of these, sitting between Mrs. Siddons and Lady Castlereagh, he heard for the first time the voice of the former (never having met her before) transferred to the ordinary things of the world, and the solemn words in her most tragic tone, “I do love ale dearly.” Sidney Smith also describes her as “stabbing the potatoes”; and it is said that on hearing of the sudden death of an acquaintance, who had been “found dead in his bureau,” she understood the latter word to mean a piece of furniture, and exclaimed, “Poor man! How gat he there?”
She was, as a rule, perfectly impervious to external influences, ignoring them in her self-abstraction. She lived through the most marvellous period of English and European history, yet no incident seems to have made an impression on her mode of thought or life. She never entered into political interests, though the friend of Fox, Burke, and Sheridan. Her dramatic world of romance was all-sufficient for her. Hers was not a ready intelligence; she required time for everything, time to comprehend, time to speak; there was nothing superficial about her, no vivacity of manner. To petty gossip she could not condescend, and evil-speaking she abhorred. She cared not to shine in general conversation. Ask her her opinion, she could not give it until she had studied every side of the subject; then you might trust to it without appeal. This slowness of mental action led to a regal, stately, and majestic bearing, that gradually overlaid her genius to its detriment. As early as 1817, Fanny Burney describes her as—
The heroine of a tragedy, sublime, elevated and solemn, in face and person truly noble and commanding, in manners quiet and stiff, in voice deep and dragging, and in conversation formal, sententious, calm, and dry. I expected her to have been all that is interesting; the delicacy and sweetness with which she seizes every opportunity to strike and to captivate upon the stage had persuaded me that her mind was formed with that peculiar susceptibility which, in different modes, must give equal powers to attract and delight in common life. But I was very much mistaken. As a stranger I must have admired her noble appearance and beautiful countenance, and have regretted that nothing in her conversation kept pace with their promise.
We read in 1801 of Campbell meeting her walking on the banks of Paddington Canal when she was living at Westbourne, and in a perfect agony of fear “whipping on his great-coat,” and preparing himself for an interview with the “great woman.”
Washington Irving gives a characteristic sketch of her:—