Continuing her letter Miss Mitford detailed how she proposed to treat the subject and concluded with another appeal for interest in securing her father employment:—“Pray, my dear friend, if you should hear of any situation that would suit my dear father, do not fail to let me know, for that would be the real comfort, to be rid of the theatre and all its troubles. Anything in the medical line, provided the income, however small, were certain, he would be well qualified to undertake. I hope there is no want of duty in my wishing him to contribute his efforts with mine to our support. God knows, if I could, if there were any certainty, how willingly, how joyfully, I would do all.... If I were better, more industrious, more patient, more consistent, I do think I should succeed; and I will try to be so. I promise you I will, and to make the best use of my poor talents. Pray forgive this egotism; it is a relief and a comfort to me to pour forth my feelings to so dear and so respected a friend; and they are not now so desolate, not quite so desolate, as they have been. God grant me to deserve success!”
Again how pathetic! And how tragic is this spectacle of a worn-out woman of thirty-six, pleading for help and comfort, and promising, like a little child, to be good and work hard; and that notwithstanding her twelve hours a day at the self-imposed task—which she now finds to be drudgery—or the terror with which she views this great opportunity now offered her by Macready and which she dare not refuse lest she be blamed for letting slip any chance of earning money. And all that a worthless father may be shielded and the real cause of the trouble be obscured.
To add to her burdens—her mother was taken suddenly and seriously ill shortly after the above letter was written, necessitating the most careful and vigilant nursing. Her complaint—spasmodic asthma—was so bad that, as the daughter recorded, “I have feared, night after night, that she would die in my arms.” Eventually she recovered, but meanwhile, of course, all literary work had to be abandoned, not only because of the constant attention which the patient’s condition demanded but by reason of the “working of the perpetual fear on my mind which was really debilitating, almost paralyzing, in its effect.”
CHAPTER XVII
OUR VILLAGE IS PUBLISHED
With her mother now convalescent, the year 1824 opened to find Miss Mitford more composed in mind. She was still turning over in her mind her friend Macready’s great commission, but as he had bade her take plenty of time, she occupied herself with gathering together and polishing the Lady’s Magazine articles on country life with a view to their publication in volume form. Mr. George B. Whittaker, of Ave Maria Lane—“papa’s godson, by-the-by”—was the chosen publisher and we may be certain that there was much fussing and discussion between the parties concerned before the details were finally arranged. Mr. Whittaker was, according to his godfather’s daughter, “a young and dashing friend of mine, this year sheriff of London, and is, I hear, so immersed in his official dignities as to have his head pretty much turned topsy-turvy, or rather, in French phraseology, to have lost that useful appendage; so I should not wonder now, if it did not come out, till I am able to get to town and act for myself in the business, and I have not yet courage to leave mamma.”
Had Mr. Whittaker known what was in store for him he would probably have lost his head; but neither author nor publisher had the faintest notion that the modest volume, then projecting, was to be the forerunner of a series destined to take the world by storm and to be the one effort—apart from dramatic and sonneteering successes, which were to fade into obscurity—by which alone the name of Mary Russell Mitford was to be remembered.
Its modest title— Our Village—was the author’s own choice, and it was to consist of essays and characters and stories, chiefly of country life, in the manner of the Sketch Book, but without sentimentality or pathos—two things abhorred by the author—and to be published with or without its author’s name, as it might please the publisher. “At all events,” wrote Miss Mitford to Sir William, “the author has no wish to be incognita; so I tell you as a secret to be told.”
“When you see Our Village,” she continued, “(which if my sheriff be not bestraught, I hope may happen soon), you will see that my notions of prose style are nicer than these galloping letters would give you to understand.”
The excitement of preparing for the press revived her old interest in life and stirred her once again to indulge in that free and blithesome correspondence which had been so unceremoniously dropped when her domestic troubles seemed so overpowering. Her introduction to Macready had been followed by an introduction to his sister whom, as usual, Miss Mitford found to be all that was charming. In her impulsive fashion she quickly divined the characters of both and wrote of her impressions to her confidant, Sir William. “They are very fascinating people, of the most polished and delightful manners, and with no fault but the jealousy and unreasonableness which seem to me the natural growth of the green-room. I can tell you just exactly what Mr. Macready would have said of me and Julian. He would have spoken of me as a meritorious and amiable person, of the play as a first-rate performance, and of the treatment as ‘infamous!’ ‘scandalous!’ ‘unheard-of!’—would have heaped every phrase of polite abuse which the language contains on the Covent Garden manager; and then would have concluded as follows:—‘But it is Miss Mitford’s own fault—entirely her own fault. She is, with all her talent, the weakest and most feeble-minded woman that ever lived. If she had put matters into my hands—if she had withdrawn The Foscari—if she had threatened the managers with a lawsuit—if she had published her case—if she had suffered me to manage for her; she would have been the queen of the theatre. Now, you will see her the slave of Charles Kemble. She is the weakest woman that ever trode the earth.’ This is exactly what he would have said; the way in which he talks of me to every one, and most of all to myself. ‘Is Mr. Macready a great actor?’ you ask. I think that I should answer, ‘He might have been a very GREAT one.’ Whether he be now I doubt. A very clever actor he certainly is; but he has vitiated his taste by his love of strong effects, and been spoilt in town and country; and I don’t know that I do call him a very great actor ... I have a physical pleasure in the sound of Mr. Macready’s voice, whether talking, or reading, or acting (except when he rants). It seems to me very exquisite music, with something instrumental and vibrating in the sound, like certain notes of the violoncello. He is grace itself; and he has a great deal of real sensibility, mixed with some trickery.”
