Читать книгу Mrs. Siddons - Nina H. Kennard - Страница 5

Table of Contents

The lax morality prevailing in England at the time of the Restoration, produced a literary and dramatic school of art suited to the taste of the public. Congreve wrote Love for Love, and coolly remarked, when accused of immorality, “that, if it were an immodest play, he was incapable of writing a modest one.”

The reaction from the almost overstrained energy and chivalry of the Elizabethan age, which a century of Stuart rule effected in the minds of Englishmen, had brought them thus low. Manners were looked upon as better than morals. Scepticism as better than belief, as well when it concerned the tenets of the Bible as the honour of their neighbours’ wives.

The stage—especially when the public has no other intellectual outlet—is invariably the test by which we can discover the moral condition of a country. When that condition is unnatural and feverish, proportionally artificial and stimulating must be the mental food presented to it, until the audience gradually becomes incapable of digesting any other. The want at the end of the seventeenth century produced the supply. A drama arose which was polished, dainty, finished in detail, but from the stage of which virtue was excluded like a poor relation, who, clad in fustian, and shod with hob-nail boots, is not supposed to be fit company for profligate gentlemen in gold-embroidered coats and lace ruffles.

Shakespeare was too strong food for the digestive capacities of an age whose poets preferred falsehood to truth. Pepys speaks of Henry VIII. as a simple thing made up “of a great many patches.” The Tempest, he thinks, “has no great art, but yet good above ordinary plays.” Othello was to him “a mean thing,” compared to the last new comedy. He is good enough, however, to allow that he liked or disliked Macbeth, according to the humour of the hour, but there was a “divertissement” in it, which struck him as being a droll thing in tragedy.

The fiery energy of Pitt was needed to galvanise the paralysed enthusiasm, the fanatical earnestness of John Wesley was needed to arouse the deadened moral sense of England. Religion and patriotism come first as important factors in the education of a people, but they are closely followed by poetry and the drama. If Pitt and Wesley did much to elevate the political and religious tone, as much was done to elevate the literary and dramatic by Samuel Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, David Garrick, and Sarah Siddons.

Our readers may be inclined to think we exaggerate the importance of the stage, by thus classing poets and players together; but if we wish to appreciate the influence wielded by players a hundred years ago, we have but to examine the careers of these last two great artists; and if we wish to appreciate the moral reform effected, we have but to turn to a list of the plays in vogue at the time of the Restoration and the plays in vogue twenty years after Garrick had been acting, and ten years after Sarah Siddons’s first appearance.

The reaction came, as do all reactions, with too great intensity; vice was not only punished in its own person, but the sins of the father were visited on the children, with a harshness almost Semitic. Through the fine-spun sentiment of The Fatal Marriage, and the melodramatic heroism of The Grecian Daughter, two of Mrs. Siddons’ greatest parts, we trace the high moral tone that cleared away eventually the foul and noisome atmosphere hanging over the theatrical world. Gloomy morality and dramatic pathos paved the way for the return of the Winter’s Tale and Hamlet.

Justly are the memories of David Garrick and Sarah Siddons revered by Englishmen, not only because they devoted their genius to the reinstatement of England’s greatest dramatist, but that, also, by their strict adherence to an almost rigid decorum in public behaviour and private life, they raised a profession that had hitherto been despised and looked upon as one unbefitting a modest woman, or an honourable man, into a position of respectability and consideration.

That these two great artists had faults, who can wonder? No reformation was ever yet accomplished by the flaccid-minded ones, and we must remember that many of the stories told of his vanity and meanness and her hardness and reserve, were circulated by their enemies on and off the stage, because of their very rigidity and morality. In spite, however, of some passing clouds, never was there a career so admired, a personality so adored in public life, as that of Mrs. Siddons. Whenever she appeared, enthusiastic applause rang through the house, not only on account of her pre-eminent genius, but because of her untarnished private character. Step by step we propose to trace the career of this wonderful woman, who, dowered with singular beauty and genius, and placed amid all the temptations of a profession in which so few of her sex remain pure, has shown an example of unswerving rectitude and religious fervour, unusual in any walk of life, keeping her to the last a “great simple being,” direct and truthful, noble and industrious. She had faults, as we have said, but they were so far outbalanced by her virtues that we can well afford to forgive them; always remembering that, though only the daughter of a strolling actor, born amidst the lowliest surroundings, she conceived an ideal of her art which enabled her to raise the stage of her country, from consisting simply in the delineation of the coarsest gallantry, into a source of the highest moral and artistic instruction.

Far from the strife of political parties or the vagaries of fashionable dramatists, both she and Garrick, with whose name we have coupled hers, were born in the romantic country of Wales: he at Hereford; she in the small town of Brecon, by the shores of the river Usk. The following copy of her certificate of baptism, from the register-book in St. Mary’s, Brecon, is given in the Gentleman’s Magazine in 1826: “Baptism, 1755, July 14th, Sarah, daughter of George Kemble, a commedian (sic), and Sarah, his wife, was baptised. Thomas Bevan, curate.” Her father’s name was “Roger,” not “George,” as given above. The young couple’s theatrical wanderings happened to bring them, at the time of Mrs. Kemble’s confinement, to the little Welsh town, where they had put up in the High Street at a public-house familiarly called “The Shoulder of Mutton.” In 1755 the inn was a picturesque gable-fronted old house, with projecting upper storey, exhibiting as sign-board a large shoulder of mutton. It was much frequented by the farmers on market-day for its good ale and its legs of mutton, which might regularly in those days be seen roasting before the kitchen fire, on a spit turned by a dog in a wheel.

Brecon is not without dramatic and historic interest, and, as Mrs. Siddons afterwards was fond of pointing out, is several times mentioned by Shakespeare. Buckingham, in Richard III., says:

Oh! let me think on Hastings, and begone

To Brecon whilst my fearful head is on.

Sir Hugh Evans also, that “remnant of Welsh flannel,” in the Merry Wives of Windsor, was curate of the priory of Brecon in the days of Queen Elizabeth; and from the intimacy which existed between Shakespeare and the priors of the priory, Campbell tells us, “an idea prevails that he frequently visited them at their residence in Brecon, and that he not only availed himself of the whimsicalities of old Sir Hugh, but that he was indebted for much of the romantic setting of the Midsummer Night’s Dream to the surrounding scenery, where Puck and his fairy companions are familiar household words, one of the glens in the neighbourhood being named Cwm Pwca, or the Valley of Puck.” Be this as it may, we cannot wonder at Mrs. Siddons’ desire to connect the places that played important parts in her fortunes with the name of the great poet whom she honoured so devotedly and so well.

Roger Kemble, father of the little girl, was the manager of a strolling company of actors, his theatrical “circuit” including the counties of Staffordshire, Gloucestershire, and Warwickshire. He was born in Hereford in the year 1721, and it was said that he began life as a “barber.” John Kemble, when convivial, would sometimes allude to this fact; but, indeed, in those days many actors are said to have been “barbers,” the fact being that, when strolling, it was sometimes found convenient for one of the company to combine the two professions. He was a Roman Catholic, and was fond of tracing his descent from an old English family, claiming as ancestors a Captain Kemble, who fought at Worcester in the camp of the Stuarts, and a Father Kemble, who died for the faith a few years later.

Her mother was a Miss Ward, daughter also of an actor and manager of a strolling company. Peg Woffington, when only fifteen, played at his theatre in Auniger Street, until Mr. Ward’s strait-laced severity drove the wild young Irish girl away. The Wards seem, indeed, to have been almost Methodistical in their strict religious views. The following inscription may be seen on their tomb at Leominster:

Here, waiting for the Saviour’s great assize,

And hoping through His merits hence to rise

In glorious mode, in this dark closet lies

John Ward, Gent.,

Who died Oct. 30th, 1773, aged 69 years;

Also

Sarah, his Wife,

Who died Jan. 30th, 1786, aged 75 years.

Mrs. Siddons was, therefore, 31 before her grandmother died. Tough, vigorous races, both Kembles and Wards, full of religion and prejudices, which they kept intact until they died. On one side we see the great actress inherited Irish blood. John Ward was an Irishman, and Sally, his daughter, was born in Clonmel. Roger Kemble, a member of Ward’s company, aided by his good looks, courteous manners, and fine black eyes, won the heart of Sally Ward. The father strongly objected to the match; but, finding opposition of no avail, at last reluctantly consented, making the hackneyed joke—afterwards attributed to Roger Kemble himself, on the occasion of Sarah’s marriage with Siddons—that “he wished her not to become the wife of an actor, and she had certainly complied with his request.”

The young couple were married at Cirencester in the year 1753. Sarah was their first child. John Philip, the second, was born two years after his sister, at Prescott in Lancashire. They had ten brothers and sisters, and, although all of them—except those who died in very early youth—went on the stage, none reached the pre-eminence of the two eldest. They were an intelligent, industrious family, blossoming into genius in one member and very remarkable talent in another. As Roger Kemble was a Catholic and his wife a Protestant, it was agreed that the girls were to be brought up in the mother’s faith, the boys in their father’s.

The accounts given us of Mrs. Siddons’ childhood are meagre; but, from numerous memoirs and racy theatrical reminiscences, we can see what the life of the travelling actor in England a hundred years ago was like, with all its accompaniments of squalor and humiliation. In these days, when actors and actresses of no very great eminence are whirled about in first-class express carriages or in special trains from place to place, it is difficult, in spite of accurate information, to realise the hardships attending the profession then. The travelling from town to town in all weathers, in carts little better than those constituting a gipsy caravan; the parading through the streets, offering play-bills and puffs. A resident of Warwick—Walter Whiter, the commentator on Shakespeare—when Mrs. Siddons had “become known all the world over,” recalled as one of the sights of his boyhood in the town, the daylight procession of old Roger Kemble’s company, advertising and giving a foretaste of the evening’s entertainment. A little girl, the future Queen of Tragedy, marched with them in white and spangles, her train held by a handsome boy in black velvet, John Philip Kemble, of the “all hail hereafter.”

It is almost impossible to conceive the ignominy the company was subjected to, when either the mayor of the town—which was often the case—had forbidden theatrical representation, or when, owing to the pranks of some rowdy members of the troupe, the feeling of the inhabitants was aroused against them collectively, and they were obliged to cringe and supplicate for a renewal of the favour of the changeable and narrow-minded provincials.

Enough of the Puritan spirit still remained to induce Government to frequently place restrictions on the representations of the “Servants of Belial.” A story is told of the Kemble company evading the tax on unlicensed houses, introduced by Sir Robert Walpole, by selling tooth-powder at a shilling a box, and giving the ticket; a proceeding which reminds one of the old smuggling trick of selling a sham sack of corn, and making a present of the keg of brandy placed within it.

The representations of these strolling actors, FitzGerald tells us, took place sometimes in a coach-house or barn, or sometimes in a room of an inn; even the open inn-yard, with its galleries running round, was now and then converted into a theatre. All sorts of old clothes and decorations were borrowed, a few candles stuck in bottles in front, and then the play began. Very often the proceeds did not cover expenses, and either debts were made or the owner of the inn let them go scot-free in consideration of the amusement they had afforded his guests.

The shifts and tribulations, related later by the Kembles themselves, seem almost incredible. Stephen Kemble, the wittiest of the family, described with great humour a season of privation in a wretched village, where the unfortunate actors could not muster a farthing, and were in consequence dunned and abused by their landladies. To avoid their persecution he lay in bed two days, suffering the pangs of hunger, and then was obliged to take refuge in a distant turnip-field, where he persuaded a fellow-actor to accompany him by boasting of the hospitality and size of the establishment.

In one town the theatre was said to have been built, the stage in Sussex, the audience in Kent, the two being divided by a ditch, so as to enable the players to evade their bailiffs by escaping into another county. There is a certain humour and tragedy running through all these theatrical histories, that makes us laugh at one moment at the comical incidents related, and makes us sad the next to think of men of talent—often men of genius—being subjected to such degradation.

It is difficult to understand how Sarah and John Kemble can have emerged from it so untainted by its associations, and so far above its social and artistic aims and ideals; or how their stately manners and stem ideas of morality and decorum can have been fostered in such an atmosphere. In blaming them, perhaps, later, for what their detractors called their “closeness” about money matters, we must remember that the years of suffering and privation they had been through, and the very laxity they saw around them, was likely to crystallise strong natures like theirs into hardness and rigidity, exaggerating, perhaps, their ideas of theatrical dignity and self-respect.

There can be no doubt, in spite of all its drawbacks, that, from a professional point of view, the Bohemian existence of the strolling comedian was a valuable discipline for artistic perception. The intimate communion in which all lived together, gave much more chance of expansion to rising genius than the artificial barriers now erected between the leader of a company and his subordinates. Not only was the freemasonry existing between underling and superior invaluable, but also the course of probation before country audiences, who, uninfluenced by prestige or fashion, spoke their mind without reserve. Young recruits, who arrived ignorant and raw, thus obtained the necessary ease of deportment and knowledge of stage effects, uninfluenced by preconceived ideas. The very fact, also, of so much depending on the individual excellence of the actor, independently of scenery and accessories, was a valuable stimulus. His expression, his action, had to tell the story.

In passing his earliest years upon the stage, the strolling actor obtained a power of identification with theatrical representation only to be thus acquired. The atmosphere he breathed from his earliest years was dramatic. When quite a child, Sarah Kemble was announced as an “Infant phenomenon,” at an entertainment the company gave. As she appeared, some confusion arose in the gallery which overpowered all her attempts. Her mother immediately led her down to the footlights, and made her recite the fable of The Boys and Frogs, which at once lulled the tumult and restored good humour. Thus early was the actress taught to dominate her audience, an art that stood her in good stead in after life.

Besides this early theatrical training, Sarah received as good an education in the ordinary rudiments of learning as it was possible for her energetic mother to obtain for her. Mrs. Kemble sent her child to respectable day schools, we are told, in the country towns to which their various wanderings brought the troupe. At Worcester, a schoolmistress of the name of Harris received her among her pupils at Thornloe House, refusing to accept any payment. An old lady, living not long ago, recalled perfectly the contempt of the young girls in the establishment for the “play actors’ daughter,” until, some private theatricals being set on foot, her histrionic taste and experience made her services extremely valuable. She won universal popularity by exhibiting a device for imitating a “sack back” with thick sugar-loaf paper procured from the grocer. But this education must have been desultory, for Roger Kemble could not afford to dispense with the girl’s assistance.

Besides the appearance mentioned above, we hear of her acting as a child, in a barn at the back of the “Old Bell Inn,” at Stourbridge, Worcestershire, when some officers quartered in the neighbourhood gave their services. It is said that she burst into laughter at the most tragic moment, and inflamed to fury the military tragedian who acted with her. The play was The Grecian Daughter. Another tradition tells us that her first appearance in a regular five-act piece was as Leonora in The Padlock.

A play-bill of one of these early performances was found not long ago, pasted on a brick wall in a shoemaker’s shop, in one of the country towns of the Kemble circuit.

Campbell tells that Roger Kemble determined not to allow his children to follow his vocation; we think, however, this statement must be bracketed with the legend of the ancestor at the battle of Worcester, for we find him, as we have seen, making Sarah appear when almost a baby, and taking John away from a day school at Worcester, while still in frock and pinafores, to act in Havard’s tragedy of Charles the First. The characters were thus cast: James, Duke of Richmond, by Mr. Siddons, who was now an actor in Kemble’s company; James, Duke of York, by Master John Kemble, who was then eleven years old; the young princess by Miss Kemble, then about thirteen; Lady Fairfax, by Mrs. Kemble. Singing between the acts by Mr. Fowler and Miss Kemble. In the April following, we again find “Mr. Kemble’s company of Comedians” appearing in “a celebrated comedy,” called The Tempest, or the Enchanted Island, with all the scenery, machinery, music, monsters, and the decorations proper to be given, entirely new. “The performance will open with a representation of a tempestuous sea (in perpetual agitation), and storm, in which the usurper’s ship is wrecked; the wreck ends with a beautiful shower of fire; and the whole to conclude with a calm sea, on which appears Neptune, poetick god of the ocean, and his royal consort, Amphitrite, in a chariot drawn by sea-horses, &c. &c.” It was in this performance, as Ariel, Chief Spirit, that, at the age of thirteen, Sarah made her first success. “She darted hither and thither,” we are told, “with such airy grace; there was something so sprite-like in her free swiftness of motion, she seemed to be so entirely a creature born of the loves of a breeze and a sunbeam, that the whole audience broke into frantic applause at the end of the play, and her proud happy father began dimly to foresee his daughter’s future.”

Later, we find a performance by the company of Love in a Village announced, the names printed thus:—

 Sir William Meadows, by Mr. K—mb—le.

 Young Meadows, by Mr. S—dd—ns.

 Rosetta, by Miss K—mb—le.

 Madge, by Mrs. K—mb—le.

 Housemaid, by Miss F. K—mb—le.

In the November following, John Philip was sent to Sedgely Park near Wolverhampton, a Catholic seminary. A short entry has been discovered in the College books, stating that “John and (sic) Philip Kemble came Nov. 3rd 1767, and brought 4 suits of clothes, 12 shirts, 12 pairs of stockings, 6 pairs of shoes, 4 hats, 2 Daily Companions, a Half Manual, knives, forks, spoons, Æsop’s Fables, combs, 1 brush 8 handkerchiefs, 8 nightcaps.”

“Jack abiit, July 28, 1771.”

After four years’ residence here, his father sent him to the English College at Douai, to pursue a regular divinity course, his intention being to put the future Coriolanus into the priesthood.

Sarah still continued her studies, such as they were, at the various towns at which the “comedians” pitched their tent in their wanderings to and fro. She was taught vocal and instrumental music, and her father, remarking that she had fine natural powers of elocution, wished them cultivated by regular tuition as a part of her education, with no view to the stage; for this purpose he was tempted to enter into an agreement with an individual named William Combe, to give her a course of lessons.

The itinerant players were generally looked upon as a valuable addition to the inn parlour, and were welcome to a supper or a pot of ale in return for their society and amusing talk. It was on one of these occasions that Roger Kemble, who was a jovial and popular companion, met Combe, and was so attracted by his clever conversation, as to engage him as instructor to his daughter. Mrs. Kemble, evidently a woman of considerable common sense and penetration, refused to ratify the appointment, however, and Roger was obliged to get out of his promise by giving a performance for the benefit of the adventurer, who, having run through a fortune, was perfectly penniless.

To the last day of his life William Combe entertained a rancorous dislike to the great actress, and took pleasure in telling his friends maliciously how sordid her early life had been, and how he himself remembered her, when a girl, standing at the wing of a country theatre, beating snuffers against a candlestick to represent the sound of a windmill, in some rude pantomime.

Curiously enough, Milton’s poetry more than Shakespeare’s was the object of Sarah’s admiration in her youth. When but ten years old, Campbell tells us, she pored over Paradise Lost for hours together. The long, tiresome speeches between Adam and his wife, Satan’s address to the sun—most children’s despair—were her delight. The stately, ponderous verse suited her genius. The poet also gives us a story which, he tells, Mrs. Siddons left amongst her memoranda.

One day her mother promised to take her out with a party of friends picnicking in the neighbourhood. She was to wear a new pink dress, if the weather were fine. On going to bed the evening before the great event, she took her prayer-book with her, and opening it, as she supposed, at the prayer for fine weather, fell asleep with the book folded in her arms. At daybreak the child found, to her dismay, that she had been holding the prayer for rain to her breast, and that the rain—Heaven having taken her at her word—was pelting against the windows. She went to bed again, with the book opened at the right place, and found the mistake remedied. When she awoke the morning was as rosy as the dress she was to wear.

Croker thinks it necessary, with all the weight of his authority, to refute this childish reminiscence, by pointing out that the prayers for rain and fine weather are on the same page of the prayer-book. We repeat the story principally because it shows the quaint methodistical piety and almost childish superstition which dwelt with Mrs. Siddons all through her chequered career. There is little doubt this piety was greatly owing to the principles inculcated by her mother.

Mrs. Kemble was a stately, austere woman, with a certain amount of genius and much force of character, and energetic and brave in her humble sphere of life, in most difficult circumstances. She fought by the side of her husband a hard battle with poverty, and maintained and educated a family of twelve children. Spartan in her views of training youth, her imperious despotism of character has often been described as absolutely awful. It was the custom of the time to rule a household with some sternness, but her children trembled in her presence. In later days she addressed a characteristic reproof to her son John: “Sir, you are as proud as Lucifer.” He and that majestic mother of his must indeed have been a Coriolanus and Volumnia in every-day life. Her voice had much of the measured emphasis of her daughter’s, and her portrait, the only one we know of, that always hung in Mrs. Siddons’ sitting-room, had an intellectual, almost grand expression, reminding us more of a good-looking Elizabeth Fry, with the tight-fitting frilled cap, and soft muslin handkerchief crossed around the throat, than what one might have pictured Sally Kemble, the strolling actress. Though extremely handsome when Roger Kemble first married her, and subjected to all the temptations of an actress’s life, she never wavered in wifely devotion, and would maintain to the last day of her life that in some parts her Roger was “unparalleled.” Hers is the only testimony to that effect, and we rather imagine him to have been a very indifferent actor, but a handsome good-tempered man with the manners of a gentleman, and views of life beyond his humble profession.

Proud, reserved, John Kemble paid, years after, the best tribute to his memory, when, on hearing of his death, he wrote to his brother from Madrid, on 31st December 1802: “How sincerely I always loved my father and respected his sound understanding, you know too well for it to be necessary that I should even mention what I feel this moment, on opening your letter. God Almighty receive him into His everlasting happiness, and teach me to be resigned and resolute, to deserve to follow him when my appointed hour is come. My poor mother, though I know she will exert becoming firmness of mind in this, and every passage of her life, cannot but feel a melancholy void in losing the companion of her youth, the associate of her advancing years, and the father of her children. I regret from the very bottom of my heart that I cannot, with the most dutiful affection, assure her, at her feet, that what a grateful son can offer and do shall never be wanting from me to promote her content and ease and happiness. How, in vain, have I delighted myself in thousands of inconvenient occurrences on this journey, with the thought of contemplating my father’s cautious incredulity while I related them to him! Millions of things, uninteresting maybe to anybody else, I had treasured up for his surprise and scrutiny! It is God’s pleasure that he is gone from us. The resignation I had long observed in him to the will of Heaven, and his habitual piety, are no small consolation to me; yet I cannot help feeling a dejected swelling at my heart, that keeps me in a flood of tears for him, in spite of all I can do to stop them.”