How pleasant it
would have been!...

Just before going to bed I spoke of writing a preface to "Francis
I.," which brought on a discussion with my mother on the subject of
that ill-fated piece, in the middle of which my father came in, and
I summoned up courage to say something of what I felt about it, and
how disagreeable it was to me to act in it, feeling as I did. I do
not think I can make them understand that I do not care a straw
whether the piece dies and is damned the first night, or is cut up
alive the next morning, but that I do care that, in spite of my
protestations, it should be acted at all, and should be cut and
cast in a manner that I totally disapprove of.

_Monday, 6th._-- ... On our way to the theater my father told me
that the whole cast of "Francis I." is again turned topsy-turvy.
Patience of me! I felt very cross, so I held my tongue. Mr. and
Miss Harness came home to supper with us, and had a long talk about
"Francis I.," my annoyance about which culminated, I am ashamed to
say, in a fit of crying.

_Tuesday, 7th._--So "Francis I." is in the bills, I see....

_Wednesday, 8th._-- ... At eleven "The Provoked Husband" was
rehearsed in the saloon, and Mr. Meadows brought Carlo to see me.
[Carlo was a splendid Newfoundland dog, which my friend, Mr.
Drinkwater Meadows, used to bring to the theater to see me. His
solemnity, when he was desired to keep still while the rehearsal
was going on, was magnificent, considering the stuff he must have
thought it.] ... After dinner went to the theater. The house was
bad; the play, "The Provoked Husband." I played ill in spite of my
pink gauze gown, which is inestimable and as fresh as ever. After
supper dressed and off to Mrs. G----'s, and had a very nice
ball....

_Friday, 10th._-- ... I wrote to H---- to beg her to come to me
directly; I wish her so much to be here when my play comes out.
Went to the theater at a quarter to six. The house was bad; the
play, "Katharine of Cleves." I acted pretty well, _though_ my
dresses are getting shockingly dirty, and in one of the scenes my
wreath fell backward, and I was obliged to take it off in the
middle of all my epistolary agony; and what was still worse, after
my husband had locked me in one room and my wreath in another, it
som