Her very high qualities as a wife and mother, her decorum of conduct, so different to others of her profession, seemed to add a zest to the acrimony with which they assaulted her. The first part in which she appeared on the London boards after her return from Dublin was Mrs. Beverley in the Gamester to her brother’s Stukeley. Hardly had the curtain been raised, before a storm of hooting and hissing broke forth, and she whom they had late proclaimed a queen, who had seen the town enslaved at her feet, now stood “the object of public scorn.” She did the best thing she could by remaining with perfect composure facing them, but in those few dreadful moments she discounted all the adulation and success she had enjoyed. How intense the suffering was we can see by the account written years after.
“I had left London,” she tells us, “the object of universal approbation, but, on my return, only a few weeks afterwards, I was received, on my first night’s appearance, with universal opprobrium, accused of hardness of heart, and total insensibility to everything and everybody except my own interest. Unhappily, contrary winds had for some days precluded the possibility of receiving from Dublin such letters as would have refuted those atrocious calumnies, and saved me from the horrors of this dreadful night, when I was received with hissing and hooting. Amidst this afflicting clamour I made several attempts to be heard, when at length a gentleman stood forth in the middle of the front of the pit, impelled by benevolent and gentlemanly feeling, who, as I advanced to make my last attempt at being heard, accosted me with these words: ‘For Heaven’s sake, Madam, do not degrade yourself by an apology, for there is nothing necessary to be said!’ I shall always look back with gratitude to this gallant man’s solitary advocacy of my cause; like Abdiel, ‘faithful found; among the faithless, faithful only he.’ His admonition was followed by reiterated clamour, when my dear brother appeared, and carried me away from this scene of insult.
“The instant I quitted it I fainted in his arms; and, on my recovery, I was thankful that my persecutors had not had the gratification of beholding this weakness. After I was tolerably restored to myself, I was induced, by the persuasions of my husband, my brother, and Mr. Sheridan, to present myself again before that audience by whom I had been so savagely treated, and before whom, but in consideration of my children, I would have never appeared again. The play was The Gamester, which commences with a scene between Beverley and Charlotte.
“Great and pleasant was my astonishment to find myself, on the second rising of the curtain, received with a silence so profound that I was absolutely awe-struck, and never yet have I been able to account for this surprising contrast; for I really think that the falling of a pin might have been then heard upon the stage.”
On her entrance the second time, Mrs. Siddons summoned enough courage to address the audience:—
“Ladies and gentlemen, the kind and flattering partiality which I have uniformly experienced in this place would make the present interruption distressing to me indeed, were I in the slightest degree conscious of having deserved your censure. I feel no such consciousness.
“The stories which have been circulated against me are calumnies. When they shall be proved to be true, my aspersors will be justified; but, till then, my respect for the public leads me to be confident that I shall be protected from unmerited insult.”
These words, spoken by the Muse of Tragedy, with her stately dignity and flaming eyes, had an instantaneous effect. She withdrew; the curtain fell.
King, the actor, came forward to beg the indulgence of the audience for a few moments; and when she appeared again, pale but calm, not an attempt at interruption was heard. On several occasions after, an attempt was made to renew the interruption; but the orderly portion of the audience was strong enough to quell it. She acknowledged the applause when she came on, and endeavoured to appear perfectly indifferent to the hissing; but all the triumphant confidence of the first days of success seemed to have deserted her for the time, and she was again the uncertain, tottering débutante. Her splendid genius was, however, but dimmed, and all her suffering but lent to serve as a stepping-stone to a higher level than she had yet attained. We must give here some letters she wrote to her friends, the Whalleys, as giving an insight into that brave heart of this wonderful woman, whose “victorious faith upheld her” in this and many subsequent trials. What wonder, however, that in later years she grew hard and proud—the first bloom of trust and belief was rubbed off in these her first encounters with the rough judgment of the mob. From henceforth the confiding girlish Ophelia and Juliet vanish from the scene, and Lady Macbeth, with her fierce reliance on intellectual power alone, and indignant scorn of all human judgment, appears. She wrote to the Whalleys:—
“My dearest Friends,