One of my favorite Victorians is John Mitchell Kemble, a friend of Tennyson’s and Thackeray’s who was a pioneering scholar of Anglo-Saxon (Old English). When I was writing my dissertation on Tennyson’s interest in the history of the English language, Kemble frequently threatened to take over because he was so – well, boisterous is the best word for it. Ever since then, I’ve had an ongoing fascination with Mr. J.M. Kemble, Esq. When I get a little free time or need a change of pace from my other work, I do a little research on his life, and it never fails to entertain.
It shouldn’t be surprising that the subject of my study is so entertaining, because he came from a huge family of famous actors (and producers and singers). I could spend twelve lifetimes trying to learn everything about them, though I’d rather not. For perspective, one biography of John’s sister Fanny weighs in at just shy of 500 pages. Consequently, I try to restrict my research to the one man, who seems to be everywhere in the historical record, having been both remarkable in his own right and friends with many other remarkable people. A couple weeks ago, for example, I picked up a slim little history of the University of Cambridge, hoping to find out what tuition cost in the 1820s and ’30s. Instead, I found a reference to Kemble being among those who had advocated for the elimination of religious tests at Oxford and Cambridge in an 1834 petition to Parliament.
Admittedly, this is part of the fun of research: it branches out sideways and offers new insights when you’re not looking for them. Likewise, despite my best intentions to remain focused on one particular Kemble, I recently happened upon the story of John’s little brother Henry, and my jaw remained on the floor for much of the day. His life was certainly dramatic; it reads like a novel. I don’t know whether I’ll have any use for this story in my future research, but it was so incredible that I had to share it somewhere. So here goes.
Henry may have been the only Kemble not to at least dabble in theater. Whether through rebellion or natural disinterest, he was resolved not to follow in the path that so much of his family had trodden. His mother refused to let him join the navy, but his sister eventually bought him a place in the army, where he enjoyed a stable enough career. At least he looked good in his uniform; in fact, he looked good in anything. Henry was extremely handsome all his life, and he combined his attractiveness with the family boldness. While visiting his brother John at Cambridge, he met various scholars, one of whom noted in his diary that Henry was “a young ignorant strange impudent soldier.”
It proved to be a winning combination for one woman in particular; in the early 1840s, Henry worked his way into the heart of Mary Ann Thackeray. She was out of his league by the standards of social class and intellect, if not appearance. Mary Ann’s father was the provost of King’s College, Cambridge and chaplain to four successive kings and queens, including Victoria. He was also a wealthy man. Nevertheless, his daughter was born into a house full of death.
Mary Ann’s mother was the provost’s second wife, the first having died without bearing children. While in labor, she was cared for by a well-known obstetrician with a well-known blot on his record. Three months earlier, Sir Richard Croft (no relation to the fictional Tomb Raider family, I assume) had attended the heir to the throne as she struggled to give birth. Although he followed the established medical procedures of the day, the child was stillborn when it finally came, and Princess Charlotte died a few hours later (incidentally clearing the way for her cousin Victoria to eventually be crowned). As Mary Ann Thackeray’s mother struggled to bring her into the world, it must have felt as if history were repeating itself. Haunted by the previous tragedy, Sir Richard shot himself in the house before Mary Ann even arrived. Her mother didn’t survive the process, either.
After that grim beginning, however, Mary Ann had a happy enough life growing up amongst scholars and spires. By her mid-twenties, she had befriended several of the Kembles, and when their handsome soldier brother proposed, she accepted. But her father wasn’t having any of it. He was sure that Henry was only after her – or rather, his – money. If Mary Ann went ahead with the marriage, her father declared, she would never see a penny of it.
Henry – who definitely found his fiancée’s wealth her most important feature – was willing to take the risk; he figured that once the union was complete, his father-in-law would relent and reinstate the inheritance. Unsure what to do, Mary Ann asked advice of her friend and potential sister-in-law, Fanny Kemble (of the 500-page biography). As Henry’s sister, you would think Fanny would have been in favor of the marriage, but she knew him too well to advise it. “If your father does relent and you are well off,” she admitted, “he will make you a kindly enough husband, so long as all goes well. But if he should not, and you were to be poor, your lot would be miserable … [H]e would visit upon you his disappointment and discontent.” (More than a hint of potential domestic violence, there…)
Despite this warning, Mary Ann decided to go through with it. Fortunately for her – but not her heart – Henry had decided by then that it was too big a gamble. He broke it off and went back to the army. Mary Ann eventually reconciled with her father and inherited his money, at which point Henry had the nerve to propose again. The object if his rather shallow affections still loved him, but she was wise enough to reject his offer. She never married.
What more can be wanted from this dramatic tale? How about a little insanity? Henry was confined in a private asylum by 1854, when W.M. Thackeray (the novelist cousin) reported: “Henry Kemble is better off than some imbeciles. … [H]e fancies himself staying at a gentleman’s country seat: and is happy.” When, as a child, he had been asked what profession he wanted to pursue, he’d replied that his goal was to “be a gentleman and wear leather breeches.” As a 45-year-old mental patient, he believed himself to be living a version of that dream. Oh, and somewhere in there he fathered two children from an unknown mother.
Remember how I said that Henry’s story read like a novel? Well, after Mary Ann had died, Fanny told the whole tale to her friend Henry James, the novelist. He took it as the model for Washington Square.
Note: Almost all of the facts I describe are taken from the following article:
Dickins, Bruce. “The Story of ‘Washington Square’.” The Times Literary Supplement, 13 Oct. 1961, p. 690. The Times Literary Supplement Historical Archive, http://tinyurl.galegroup.com/ tinyurl/8oLSC6. Accessed 17 Jan. 2019.