CHAPTER IX.
FRIENDS.
Needless to say that in those days, when genius was worshipped and the entrance to the most exclusive circles of society accorded to talent of every description, the social homage paid to Mrs. Siddons was of the most enthusiastic description, passing sometimes the bounds of good taste. The door of the lodgings she occupied in the Strand the first year she acted was soon beset by various persons quite unknown to her, some of whom actually forced their way into her drawing-room, in spite of remonstrance or opposition.
This was as inconvenient as it was offensive; for as she usually acted three times a week, and had, besides, to attend the rehearsals, she had but little time to spend unnecessarily. None were more capable, however, than she of keeping vulgar curiosity at a respectful distance. She gives us a comic account of an interview that took place between her and some of these intrusive individuals:—
“One morning, though I had previously given orders not to be interrupted, my servant entered the room in a great hurry, saying, ‘Ma’am, I am very sorry to tell you there are some ladies below who say they must see you, and it is impossible for me to prevent it. I have told them over and over again that you are particularly engaged, but all in vain, and now, Ma’am, you may actually hear them on the stairs.’ I felt extremely indignant at such unparalleled impertinence, and, before the servant had done speaking to me, a tall, elegant, invalid-looking person presented herself (whom, I am afraid, I did not receive very graciously), and after her four more, in slow succession. A very awkward silence took place. Presently the first lady spoke. ‘You must think it strange,’ she said, ‘to see a person entirely unknown to you intrude in this manner upon your privacy; but, you must know, I am in a very delicate state of health, and my physician won’t let me go to the theatre to see you, so I am come to look at you here.’ She accordingly sat down to look, and I to be looked at, for a few painful moments, when she arose and apologised.” There is something awful that sends a cold shiver through us as the Tragic Muse tells us, “I was in no humour to overlook such insolence, and so let her depart in silence.” We can picture her contemptuous scorn under the circumstances. But it was not only in her own home she had to pay the penalty of fame; the theatre was mobbed outside every evening by a crowd anxious to see her walk across the pavement to her carriage; her dresses were copied, and the dressmakers to whom she went were importuned to make for all the fashionable ladies. Not only in these early days, but all her life, Mrs. Siddons kept a position unexampled for one of her profession. The house she occupied in Gore Street during her second season was, when she entertained, filled with all that was brilliant in literature and fashion; and later at Westbourne Cottage, and when she was in Pall Mall, Campbell tells us of rows of “coaches and chairs” standing outside her door. Invitations to most of the great houses in London poured in upon her, and she herself gives a comic account of the manner in which she was mobbed by her fashionable devotees at an assembly at the erratic Miss Monkton’s (afterwards Lady Cork), one of the “Blues” who made oddity of dress, appearance, and manner a study, and the running after “notorious folk” a science.
The young actress had steadily declined many invitations, feeling that the moments snatched from her profession ought to be devoted to the care of her children. Miss Monkton, however, insisted on her coming one Sunday evening, assuring her that there would only be some half-a-dozen friends to meet her.
“The appointed Sunday evening came. I went to her very nearly in undress, at the early hour of eight, on account of my little boy, whom she desired me to bring with me, more for effect, I suspect, than for his beaux yeux. I found with her, as I had been taught to expect, three or four ladies of my acquaintance; and the time passed in agreeable conversation, till I had remained much longer than I had apprehended.
“I was, of course, preparing speedily to return home, when incessantly repeated thunderings at the door, and the sudden influx of such a throng of people as I had never before seen collected in any private house, counteracted every attempt that I could make for escape. I was therefore obliged, in a state of indescribable mortification, to sit quietly down till I know not what hour in the morning; but for hours before my departure the room I sat in was so painfully crowded that the people absolutely stood on the chairs, round the walls, that they might look over their neighbours’ heads to stare at me; and if it had not been for the benevolent politeness of Mr. Erskine, who had been acquainted with my arrangement, I know not what weakness I might have been surprised into, especially being tormented, as I was, by the ridiculous interrogations of some learned ladies who were called ‘Blues,’ the meaning of which title I did not at that time appreciate; much less did I comprehend the meaning of the greater part of their learned talk. These profound ladies, however, furnished much amusement to the town for many weeks after—nay, I believe I might say for the whole winter. Glad enough was I at length to find myself at peace in my own bed-chamber.”
Dr. Doran makes this scene take place at Mrs. Montagu’s; but besides the victim’s own account of this remarkable evening, that gives such a picture of the times, we have those of Cumberland and of Miss Burney. Cumberland, in the Observer, disguising the people under feigned names, tells us:—
I now joined a cluster of people who had crowded round an actress who sat upon a sofa leaning on her elbow in a pensive attitude, and seemed to be counting the sticks of her fan, whilst they were vieing with each other in the most extravagant encomiums.
“You were adorable last night in Belvidera,” says a pert young parson with a high toupée. “I sat in Lady Blubber’s box, and I can assure you she, and her daughters, too, wept most bitterly. But then that charming mad scene—but, by my soul, it was a chef d’œuvre! Pray, Madam, give me leave to ask you, was you really in your senses?”