“My official opinion of her tragedy is certainly unfavourable to the author’s interests. I was, however, so far from wishing it to prejudice the Lord Chamberlain, that the play was submitted to his perusal at my suggestion. He therefore formed his own judgment upon it and decidedly refused to license its performance.
“As to alterations—the fact is, that the subject of this play and the incidents it embraces are fatal in themselves—they are an inherent and incurable disease—the morbid matter lies in the very bones and marrow of the historical facts, and defies eradication. Indeed it would be a kind of practical bull to permit a detailed representation of Charles’s unhappy story on a public stage, when his martyrdom is still observed in such solemn silence that the London theatres are actually closed and all dramatic exhibitions whatever suspended on its anniversary.
“I give Miss Mitford full credit for the harmlessness of her intentions, but mischief may be unconsciously done, as a house may be set on fire by a little innocent in the nursery.”
Miss Mitford’s only comment on this to William Harness was, “Is not this a precious morceau? But there is no use in contending.” Then continuing her letter, in which she congratulated him on the publication of his edition of Shakespeare’s works, she reverted to the troubles at home and furnishes the first indication we have of the senility of Mrs. Mitford. “Poor mamma’s failure of faculty is very peculiar. You might see her twenty times for twenty minutes, and yet not perceive it; or, on the other hand, she might in one twenty minutes show it a hundred times. She mistakes one person for another—one thing for another—misjoins facts—misreports conversations—hunts for six hours together after a pin-cushion which she has in her pocket, or a thimble on her finger, and is totally absorbed in the smallest passing objects. This is, in one respect, fortunate, since it prevents her from foreseeing greater evils. But then again, it deters her from supporting me in any effort to mitigate them. So that from her incapacity, and the absolute inertness of my father in such matters—an obstinacy of going on in the same way which I cannot describe—I find myself compelled to acquiesce in a way of living which, however inexpensive, is still more so than we can afford, for fear of disturbing and, perhaps, killing her. If she were herself she would rather live on dry bread in a garret than run in debt; and so would I, merely as a question of personal comfort.”
This letter, as will be seen, bore no evasive terms regarding Dr. Mitford; indeed, Miss Mitford knew quite well that any attempt to hoodwink William Harness concerning her father’s habits of life was only so much wasted ink and energy. In any case it is no edifying spectacle here presented—an improvident father obstinately persisting in a manner of living which present income did not justify; an invalid mother whose intellect was so weak that she had not the power to notice that things were reverting to the old bad ways; a daughter, struggling to make ends meet, to keep the improvident one satisfied and to withhold from the invalid the truth which to know might mean her death; and, to crown all, the fruit of her labours rejected at the eleventh hour. Was ever woman so stricken?
But her cup of bitterness was not yet full, for in December her publisher, George Whittaker, stopped payment, though, fortunately, the embarrassment was only temporary. Nevertheless it presented to the distracted woman a new and hitherto unthought-of possibility whereby her endeavours to gain a livelihood might be frustrated.
So pressing were the needs of the household that early in the year 1826 she paid a hurried visit to town in the hope of collecting some of the money due to her, but the result was very meagre. Fortunately William Harness was able to come to the rescue by acceding to her suggestion that she should collaborate with him in the production of some rather elaborate charades for which she had a market in Blackwood’s Magazine. The idea of the charades was first suggested to Mr. Harness by some of his young lady friends at Hampstead, where he was then living. They, tired of the rather stereotyped form of charades, asked him to furnish them with something requiring a certain amount of care in the production, with the result that he introduced a trifling dramatic scene and dialogue to represent each word. The fame of these Hampstead charades soon spread and as a result came Miss Mitford’s suggestion that she might place her dramatic skill at his command and that their united efforts should then go to Blackwood’s. At first Mr. Harness demurred to the idea of magazine publication and counselled his friend to keep her charades until she could embody them in the novel about which she was continually writing. Her wish prevailed, however, and Harness undertook to forward the “copy” on to Blackwood’s, the proprietor of which was willing to pay ten guineas a sheet for these contributions. Following these, Miss Mitford entertained the project of writing an opera—there was no end to her schemes, though not all of them came to anything.
“I want to write a grand opera on the story of Cupid and Psyche, with Weber’s music. Just look at the story, and see how dramatic it is—how full of situation and variety, both for dialogue and poetry, for music and scenery; ... I wish with all my heart you would ask Mr. Kemble whether, if I were to put all my strength into such an opera, he could get Weber to compose the music, and whether Weber would like the subject. It has seized my imagination most strongly, and there would be no fear of the licenser in this case.”
The October of 1826 saw the second volume of Our Village published—Whittaker having survived his business troubles; a small play, Gaston de Blondeville awaiting Kemble’s reading; a volume of Dramatic Scenes preparing for the press, and the author anticipating an immediate visit to town to witness the long-delayed production of Foscari. For this event the Doctor and his daughter took apartments at 45, Frith Street, and these, Miss Mitford wrote, were delightful. The Foscari was to be produced on Saturday, November 5, and as the visitors arrived in town on November 1, they employed the interval in witnessing various plays and in working themselves into a fever of excitement lest Kemble should not recover from an attack of hoarseness and lest the Duke of York—then seriously ill—should succumb, in which latter case, of course, the theatre would be closed. But the Duke did not die and, as luck would have it, the November number of Blackwood contained a delightful review of Our Village and a laudatory notice of the author. This was all to the good. It stimulated the public interest, and the consequence was a very full house on that auspicious Saturday. How delightful it is to read of well deserved success. Miss Mitford’s letter home to her mother is infectiously exhilarating. It was written after the play, late on the Saturday night, so that no time might be lost in the conveyance of the news and in order to prevent the Doctor from rushing off then and there to Reading and home to carry the news in person.
“I cannot suffer this parcel to go to you, my dearest mother, without writing a few lines to tell you of the complete success of my play. It was received, not merely with rapturous applause, but without the slightest symptom of disapprobation, from beginning to end. We had not a single ‘order’ in the house, so that from first to last the approbation was sincere and general. William Harness and Mr. Talfourd are both quite satisfied with the whole affair, and my other friends are half crazy. Mrs. Trollope,[22] between joy for my triumph and sympathy with the play, has cried herself half blind. I am, and have been, perfectly calm, and am merely tired with the great number of friends whom I have seen to-day ... Mrs. Morgan, Hannah Rowe, and my own darling Marianne,[23] who stayed with me during the whole of the time that the play was acting, which I passed at George Robins’s. Marianne is going with me on Monday to the tragedy. Of course I shall now stay rather longer than I intended, having the copyright of the play and the volume of Dramatic Sketches to sell, if I can. I quite long to hear how you, my own dearest darling, have borne the suspense and anxiety consequent on this affair, which, triumphantly as it has turned out, was certainly a very nervous business. They expect the play to run three times a week till Christmas.”