“S. Siddons.”
From this time until Mrs. Siddons’s death, Patty Wilkinson never left her house, and remained ever the intimate and beloved friend of her and her daughters.
Maria was taken to Clifton at the doctor’s suggestion, while Mrs. Siddons went a provincial tour to make money enough to meet the heavy demands upon her purse. At last even the poor mother saw all efforts were unavailing, and when, on the 6th October 1798, the blow at last came, she met it with resignation and courage. To Mrs. Fitzhugh she wrote:—
“Although my mind is not yet sufficiently tranquillised to talk much, yet the conviction of your undeviating affection impels me to quiet your anxiety so far as to tell you that I am tolerably well. This sad event I have been long prepared for, and bow with humble resignation to the decree of that merciful God who has taken to Himself the dear angel I must ever tenderly lament. I dare not trust myself further. Oh! that you were here, that I might talk to you of her death-bed—in dignity of mind and pious resignation far surpassing the imagination of Rousseau and Richardson in their Heloïse and Clarissa Harlowe; for hers was, I believe, from the immediate inspiration of the Divinity.”
Troubles now began to fall thick and heavy. Mr. Siddons, actuated by a morbid jealousy of his wife’s energy and success, entered into a connection with Sadler’s Wells Theatre without consulting her, or even taking her into his confidence. A considerable amount of her savings were sacrificed to save him from his ill-advised venture. In spite of ill-health and lassitude, however, we find her unmurmuringly taking up her burden to make good the loss. On the 14th of July 1801 she writes again to Mrs. Fitzhugh:—
“In about a fortnight I expect to commence my journey to Bath. Mr. Siddons is there, for he finds no relief from his rheumatism elsewhere. His accounts of himself are less favourable than those of anyone who writes to me about him; but I hope and trust that we shall find him better than he himself thinks; for I know by sad experience with what difficulty a mind, weakened by long and uninterrupted suffering, admits hope, much less assurance. I shall be here till next Saturday, and after that time at Lancaster till Tuesday, the 28th; thence I shall go immediately to Bath, where I shall have about a month’s quiet, and then begin to play at Bristol for a few nights. ‘Such resting finds the sole of unblest feet!’ When we shall come to London is uncertain, for nothing is settled by Mr. Sheridan, and I think it not impossible that my winter may be spent in Dublin; for I must go on making to secure the few comforts that I have been able to attain for myself and my family. It is providential for us all that I can do so much; but I hope it is not wrong to say that I am tired, and should be glad to be at rest indeed. I hope yet to see the day when I can be quiet. My mouth is not yet well [she had had an attack of erysipelas, the disease that was ultimately to kill her], though somewhat less exquisitely painful. I have become a frightful object with it for some time, and, I believe, this complaint has robbed me of those poor remains of beauty once admired—at least, which, in your partial eyes, I once possessed.”
She did not go to Dublin, but returned early in the following year to Drury Lane, where she performed above forty times.
On the 25th March 1802 she performed for the first time Hermione in the Winter’s Tale. The enacting of this part is to be counted amongst her great successes. It was more suitable to her age and appearance than others that she undertook in later life. On the second or third night she had a narrow escape of being burned to death. We can give the incident as related in a letter to Mrs. Fitzhugh:—
“London, April 1802.
“... Except for a day or two, the weather has been very favourable to me hitherto. I trust it may continue so, for the Winter’s Tale promises to be very attractive; and, whilst it continues so, I am bound in honour and conscience to put my shoulder to the wheel, for it has been attended with great expense to the managers, and, if I can keep warm, I trust I shall continue tolerably well. As to my plans, they are, as usual, all uncertain, and I am precisely in the situation of poor Lady Percy, to whom Hotspur comically says: ‘I trust thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.’ This must continue to be the case, in a great measure, whilst I continue to be the servant of the public, for whom (and let it not be thought vain) I can never sufficiently exert myself. I really think they receive me every night with greater and greater testimonies of approbation. I know it will give you pleasure to hear this, my dear Friend, and you will not suspect me of deceiving myself in this particular. The other night had very nearly terminated all my exertion, for whilst I was standing for the statue in the Winter’s Tale, my drapery flew over the lamps that were placed behind the pedestal. It caught fire, and had it not been for one of the scene-men, who most humanely crept on his knees and extinguished it without my knowing anything of the matter, I might have been burnt to death, or, at all events, I should have been frightened out of my senses. Surrounded as I was with muslin, the flame would have run like wildfire. The bottom of the train was entirely burned. But for the man’s promptitude, it would seem as if my fate would have been inevitable. I have well rewarded the good man, and I regard my deliverance as a most gracious interposition of Providence. There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. Here I am safe and well, God be praised! and may His goodness make me profit, as I ought, by the time that is vouchsafed me.”