“I hardly dare hope that you will remember me. I know I don’t deserve that you should; but I know, also, that you are too steadfast and too good to cast me off for a seeming negligence to which my heart and soul are averse, and the appearance of which I have incessantly regretted. What can I say in my defence? I have been very unhappy; now ’tis over I will venture to tell you so, that you may not ‘lose the dues of rejoicing.’ ‘Envy, malice, detraction, all the fiends of hell have compassed me round about to destroy me’; ‘but blessed be God who hath given me the victory,’ &c. I have been charged with almost everything bad, except incontinence, and it is attributed to me as thinking a woman may be guilty of every crime in the catalogue of crimes, provided she retain her chastity.
“God help them and forgive them, they know but little of me. I daresay you will wonder that a favourite should stand her ground so long; and in truth so do I. I have been degraded; I am now again the favourite servant of the public, and I have kept the noiseless tenor of my temper in these extremes. My spirit has been grieved, but my victorious faith upholds me. I look forward to a better world for happiness, and am placed in this in mercy to be a candidate for that. But what makes the wound rankle deeper is that ingratitude, hypocrisy, and perfidy have barbed the darts. But it is over, and I am happy. Good God! what would I give to see you both, but for an hour! How many thousand, thousand times do I wish myself with you, and long to unburthen my heart to you. I can’t bear the idea of your being so long absent. I know you will expect to hear what I have been doing; and I wish I could do this to your satisfaction. Suffice it to say that I have acted Lady Macbeth, Desdemona, and several other things this season with the most unbounded approbation; and you have no idea how the innocence and playful simplicity of the latter have laid hold on the hearts of the people. I am very much flattered by this, as nobody ever has done anything with that character before. My brother is charming in Othello; indeed, I must do the public the justice to say that they have been extremely indulgent, if not partial, to every character I have performed.
“I have never seen Mr. Pratt since I heard from you, but he discovers his unworthiness to my own family; he abuses me, it seems, to one of my sisters in the most complete manner. How distressing is it to be so deceived! Our old Mary, too, whom you must remember, has proved a very viper. She has lately taken to drinking, has defrauded us of a great deal of money given her to pay the tradespeople, and in her cups has abused Mr. Siddons and me beyond all bounds; and I believe in my soul that all the scandalous reports of Mr. Siddons’s ill-treatment of me originated entirely in her. One may pay for one’s experience, and the consciousness of acting rightly is a comfort that hell-born malice cannot rob us of. Lady Langham has done me the honour to call with her daughter. Her drawings are very wonderful things for such a girl. In the compositions she has drawn me in Macbeth asleep and awake; but I think she has been unsuccessful in this effort. Next week I shall see your daughter and the rest. Sarah is an elegant creature, and Maria is as beautiful as a seraph. Harry grows very awkward, sensible, and well-disposed; and, thank God, we are all well. I can stay no longer than to hope that you are both so, and happy (see how disinterested I am!); that Reeves and the dear Paphy are so too; and that you will love me, and believe me, with the warmest and truest affection, unalterably and gratefully yours,
“S. Siddons.”
“My whole family desire the kindest remembrances. We have bought a house in Gower Street, Bedford Square; the back of it is most effectually in the country and delightfully pleasant.
“God bless you, my dear Mrs. Whalley! How perfectly do I see you at this moment; and you, too, my dear friend, for it is impossible to separate your images in my mind. Pray write to me soon, and give me another instance of your unwearied kindness. Adieu!”
We can see how bruised and sore her heart is. For the moment she thinks all are conspiring to betray her.
The Mr. Pratt she alludes to was a Bath bookseller and dramatist, much admired by his townsmen. This admiration was not shared by the managers of Drury Lane, who would not allow Mrs. Siddons to act in his drama the first year she appeared. She had already sacrificed herself to a failure, The Fatal Interview, which had really injured her professional reputation. Pratt maintained, however, she might have done him this service had she been so minded. She herself writes kindly of the aspirant to fame, but we can see his cause of irritation.
“Your letter,” she writes in 1783 to Dr. Whalley, “to poor Pratty is lying on the table by me, and I am selfish enough to grudge it him from the bottom of my heart, and yet I will not; for just now, poor soul, he wants much comfort; therefore, let him take it, and God bless him with it!”
And again:—