by Jean Plaidy
There was a titter in the audience.
Mr Ryder came on to the stage. He waved Hester aside and she ran into the wings. Grace looked as though she would faint.
A little hitch, explained Mr Ryder. His new actress was unwell. He craved the audience’s indulgence. Another actress would play her part.
Dorothy was sure she would never forget those moments: the hiss of conversation, the giggle here and there, the comments on young Miss who thought she could act; it wasn’t often they had the chance (the pleasure, thought Dorothy angrily) of seeing such a stage tragedy. She was angry herself; she wanted to go up on that stage and play the part. She could remember most of the lines because she had heard Hester say them so often and she would make up what she did not know.
The family rose and went back stage to collect a numbed and tragic Hester.
She wept all night; she had disgraced them all; she was useless; why had she thought she could act?
Grace said: ‘You can act. It was just stage fright. We all feel it but somehow we manage to overcome it in the nick of time. You didn’t. You’ll be better next time.’
‘Next time,’ cried Hester. ‘I’d rather die.’
Then she wept afresh. She would never forget the disgrace; that moment would live with her for the rest of her life.
There was no way of comforting her. The whole family tried; and Grace was wondering whether Hester could get back the job she had had in the milliner’s shop which she had left to go on the stage.
It was a morning of gloom. Mr Ryder, who was a kindly man and who knew the poverty of the family and knew also that what had happened to Hester did not mean that she was not an actress, called to see them.
He was immediately aware of the deep depression although he did not see Hester; Grace’s eyes, however, were red-rimmed with tears and sleeplessness.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was a bad business, Grace.’
‘I can’t think how it happened.’
‘Easy enough. She’s never faced an audience before. What are you going to do!’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Now look here, Grace, there might be some parts for you. You must be a bit out of practice but you could get that back… say a small part to begin with. And what about that other girl of yours?’
‘Dorothy?’
‘I’ve noticed her. There’s something about her.’
‘She’s a bit of a tomboy.’
‘She’ll grow up.’
‘She’s not as good-looking as Hester.’
‘By God, are you telling me you’re not going to let me try the girl in my theatre?’
‘Try her in your theatre! Why, she has never shown any inclination for the stage.’
‘Call her in.’
‘Good gracious me, I doubt she’s fit to be seen.’
‘Fit for me to see. I’m not looking for a tidy Miss but an actress.’
‘Dorothy an actress!’
‘Please may I see her?’
‘Dorothy,’ called Grace, ‘come here.’
She came. Ryder studied her. She had something. What was it? A gamin quality. She might have been an untidy schoolboy except for the fact that she was so dainty. Yes, there was some quality – latent perhaps, but he was sure it was there.
‘Hello, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear you play a part. Do you know any?’
Her imperturbability delighted him.
‘Phoebe,’ she said, ‘from As You Like It.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’ll do.’
To see her strut before him like that was amazing, thought Grace. She did not declaim as an actress would. She played it naturally as though Dorothy Bland was a shepherdess, and for a moment one felt that the shabby room was the forest of Arden. It wouldn’t do. It wasn’t acting. It was being natural.
Ryder felt differently. Her voice was most unusual. It was almost as though she sang the words. She seemed to give them a music of her own.
‘Look here, Dorothy Bland,’ he said, ‘how would you like to take your sister’s place? H’m? I’d pay you what I’ve been paying her. I don’t think you’ll suffer from stage fright.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Dorothy as though she were promising to wash the china or make a dish of tea.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Ryder. ‘I can give you a part in The Virgin Unmasked. It’s not much, but it’ll be a good way of making your stage début. Be at the theatre tomorrow morning.’
He left them and Grace looked in astonishment at her daughter. Dorothy was smiling. Everything had turned out for the best. The only difference was that she, not Hester, had to make the family’s fortune.
So Dorothy became an actress. She played in The Virgin Unmasked without causing a great stir in Dublin theatrical circles; and after that she was Phoebe in As You Like It.
Thomas Ryder was not displeased; he might not have a star performer, he told himself, but at least he had a tolerable actress.
Dorothy was delighted. It was more fun than making and selling hats; moreover, she had prevailed on Hester to accept a small part and once Hester had done this successfully, she was ready to undertake bigger parts and so overcome the terrible fear of appearing on the stage.
Life was easier; there was more money. Ryder often talked to Dorothy in whom he felt a special interest because he had selected her to play in his theatre before she had realized she was an actress.
‘We have to do better business,’ he said, ‘or we’ll be running at a bigger loss than I can afford. Did you know the house was half empty last night?’
‘I was aware of it,’ Dorothy told him.
‘And I have Smock Alley standing empty. There’s not room for two theatres in Dublin. If it goes on like this I’ll have to get rid of my lease of Smock Alley – and who’s going to take it, eh? If Dublin can’t support one theatre, how can anyone open up in Smock Alley?’
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders; she was thinking of her newest part.
‘If you would let me sing a song,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that would bring them in.’
‘There’s no place for a song in the play.’
‘We could make a place,’ she wheedled.
‘Rubbish,’ said Thomas; and went on to brood on a new means of luring people into Crow Street.
Shortly afterwards he came up with an idea. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a play with men playing the women’s parts and women the men’s.’
It seemed a crazy notion. To what purpose? But when some of the women appeared in breeches the purpose was obvious, and this was particularly so in the case of Dorothy. Her figure was enchanting, her legs long, slim and beautifully shaped.
Yes, said Thomas Ryder, this could well give them the opportunity they were looking for.
The play, Ryder announced, would be The Governess – a pirated version of Sheridan’s The Duenna. He had not intended such an inexperienced player as Dorothy to have a big part, but when he saw her in breeches he decided she should have that of Lopez.
Dorothy was delighted. She would make something of the part. How pleased she would be if she could sing!
‘Sing!’ cried Ryder in exasperation. ‘Now why should Lopez sing?’
‘Because,’ replied Dorothy, ‘Dorothy Bland would like to sing and the audience would like to hear her.’
‘Nonsense,’ retorted Ryder. ‘You play your part, my girl. That’s all the audience ask of you.’
‘Don’t forget the theatre has been half empty these last weeks.’
‘The Governess will pull them in.’
Dorothy posed before the mirror in her breeches. Grace said: ‘I don’t know. It’s not modest somehow.’ Dorothy kissed her. ‘Don’t you worry, Mamma. I’ll take care not only of myself but of the whole family.’
Poor Mamma, she was terrified that Hester or Dorothy – and more likely Dorothy – would get into some entanglement and, always having longed for the blessing of clergy on her union, was fearful that one of the girls should find herself in a
similar position. She was constantly saying that if their father had married her they would not now be wondering where the next penny was coming from, for Judge Bland would surely have relented when he saw his grandchildren. But because she lacked marriage lines she lacked security. Security! It was an obsession. She wanted it for her girls.
So she was constantly warning. And she was right, said Dorothy to Hester. But she need have no fear.
At rehearsal Dorothy swaggering on the stage in her male costume designed to show off her figure so amused Thomas Ryder that in a weak moment he gave way to her pleading to let her sing.
The first night of The Governess arrived. The theatre was full, as it had not been for some nights, because people had come to see the women in male costumes and they were not disappointed. Particularly admired was the young actress who took the part of Lopez; her figure was trim and yet voluptuous; she was so completely feminine that her masquerading in male attire was an absurd delight. The audience was intrigued. They were beginning to notice Dorothy Bland.
When at the end of the play she came to the front of the stage and sang for them they were spellbound. There was an unusual quality in her voice; though it was untrained it was sweet and true, but so were many other voices. Dorothy’s had a quality purely her own which touched them; it had a haunting charm, warm, full of feeling, tender and sincere.
The song she had chosen to sing was one they all knew about an Irish colleen who came to Milltown, a district of Dublin, to ply her trade as an oyster seller. They had heard it many times before but never as sung that night.
They called for her to sing again, which she did; and it was clear from that night that Dorothy Bland was no ordinary actress.
Grace read the letter to her daughters. It was formal and from a lawyer who represented Francis’s relations. The family resented the fact that Miss Grace Phillips allowed her actress daughter to use their name and to have it appearing on play bills. As she had no right to this, they must ask her to stop doing so.
Dorothy could not restrain her feelings. She had a temper, as the family well knew; but it did not greatly worry them because although it would flare up suddenly it was quickly over.
‘Impudence!’ she cried. ‘They have done nothing for us and now they are telling us what we should do.’
‘Take no notice of them,’ advised Hester more calmly. ‘You’ve made something of a stir as Dorothy Bland, are you going to throw it away because Papa’s family are ashamed of us?’
‘I am not,’ Dorothy assured her. ‘And I may well make it known that I am connected with the high and mighty Blands of Dublin’s fair city – yes, and that they will have nothing to do with us although it is their plain and bounden duty to keep us from starvation.’
‘You’re not on the boards now, Dolly,’ Hester reminded her sister.
‘Now, girls,’ put in Grace, ‘I’ve been thinking about this; and it’s not wise to go against your Papa’s family. It’s always been my hope that one day they would do something for us. Now that your grandfather, the Judge, is dead, it may be that the rest of the family will feel differently.’
‘It doesn’t seem like it,’ retorted Dorothy. ‘And why do you imagine they should suddenly turn so virtuous?’
‘You never know,’ insisted Grace; ‘and it’s always wise to be on the safe side.’
Dorothy laughed suddenly. Dear Mamma, who had been so badly treated by life, who had really believed that Papa was going to marry her one day – how she always wanted to be on the Safe Side.
Dorothy kissed her suddenly. ‘All right, Mamma. We’ll be onthe safe side. We’ll compromise. I’m not going to give up Papa’s name altogether. But we’ll meet the high and mighty Blands half way. I’ll be Dorothy Francis. They couldn’t object to that.’
They all thought this was a good idea; and from that day Dorothy became Miss Francis.
Miss Francis was a considerable actress. She could dance prettily; her singing voice was unusually appealing and when she sang on a stage the audience were always loth to let her go. If the play was not going well it was always advisable to bring in Dorothy Francis to sing or do some sort of a jig on the stage and the audience could usually be put into a good humour. In addition her speaking voice had a soothing effect and when she spoke a prologue the noisiest audience grew quiet. It was not so much that she was a good actress as that she was Dorothy Bland – or Francis as she had now become – with a carefree diffidence, a gaiety, an insouciance… who could say what it was? But whatever the description it was Dorothy – and the people liked it.
Is it those shapely legs? wondered Thomas Ryder, determined to get her into breeches parts as much as possible. Is it her singing voice? Her speaking voice? Her way of romping through a part as though she enjoyed it? Even a tragic role seemed less tragic in her hands. There was something about Dorothy which assured him that the day he had decided to let the young sister try where the elder one had failed had not been an unlucky one for him.
Dorothy – with Hester and the rest of the company – went to Waterford and Cork to play under Ryder’s management while Grace stayed behind in Dublin with the young children because her two daughters were earning enough to make this possible.
By the time she was back in Crow Street Dorothy had come to regard herself as a professional actress. The smell of tallow candles, the draught that blew in from the wings, the excitement of facing an audience and the gratifying ring of applause were a part of her life; and she asked for no other.
She had her friends – and enemies – in the company. Ryder was one of the best of the former; the latter were made up of those actors and actresses who were jealous of her popularity with audiences, those who declared that the young upstart took more than her share of the applause.
There were many ways in which they could make life burden-some; they could try to distract the audience’s attention from her; they could discuss her disparagingly in the Green Room; they could talk of her in the taverns as a girl who had achieved success through a fine pair of legs and hint at the reason for her favouritism with Ryder.
Dorothy could take these taunts better than Hester. In truth she enjoyed a fight, and the attitude of some of her fellow players increased her determination to succeed. She could retaliate by displaying her superior talents on the stage, by singing with more and more feeling, dancing with more and more verve. In those early days life was a battle – a gay and exciting one which seemed to offer certain success.
There was one man in the company who gave her a few twinges of fear. His name was Richard Daly and he was a swaggering braggart of a man – not a great actor but the opinion he had of himself made up for a lack of acting ability. There was a quality in him which made it impossible for anyone to be unaware of him. He was tall and well made; in fact he would have been extremely handsome but for the fact that he squinted. This squint added a diabolical touch which many declared to be entirely fascinating. He was constantly boasting of his successes with women and it was obvious that this was no idle boast. He was a real dandy – the most elegant man in the theatre and any casual observer would have thought he was the manager rather than Ryder. He was a great duellist, adept with sword and pistol; and he wore a diamond brooch in his coat with great pride because it had once saved his life. It seemed he had challenged a college acquaintance, Sir Jonah Barrington, to a duel – for what reason no one seemed sure – and Sir Jonah had fired first. The bullet would have gone through his heart but for the diamond brooch; in fact some of the gems had become embedded in his chest. He had had the brooch reset and wore it always that everyone might remember how ready he was to make a challenge and that he was Devil-May-Care Daly.
Daly was a gambler, and if his acting was not of the highest standard, having graduated from Trinity College, he was educated and could quickly memorize a part; moreover he had an excellent wardrobe of his own which was useful in business. Daly had no sooner joined the company than he began to dominate it.
He was a deep
ly sensual man and greater than his interest in gambling and duelling was his interest in women. There was not a woman in the company on whom he did not cast his speculative eye, and it was scarcely likely that Dorothy would escape.
He would waylay her on the way to her dressing room; he would bar her way almost playfully but she was aware of his brute strength and he wished her to be.
‘Dear Miss Francis, why in such a hurry?’
‘Dear Mr Daly, what concern is that of yours?’
‘All Miss Francis’s actions are a concern of mine.’
‘Then it’s more than Mr Daly’s are of mine.’
‘A kiss for a free passage.’
‘These passages are already free,’ she told him. ‘Or so I believe. I must verify this with Mr Ryder.’
A threat of course. Ryder had it in his power to dismiss Daly.
‘I am in no mood to take orders,’ he told her.
‘I know. You solve your problems with bullets. But don’t spoil that nice diamond brooch again.’
She would dodge past him with a derisive laugh; and he would laugh with her, but his eyes, as far as the squint would allow her to see, were smouldering.
He was the sort of man whom her mother would wish her to avoid. And I am in complete agreement with her, thought Dorothy.
But for the existence of Mrs Lyster, the leading female player in Ryder’s company, Dorothy might have been uneasy, for she sensed something evil in the man.
Mrs Lyster was a fine comic actress. Dorothy liked to stand in the wings and watch her perform for she had great talent and there was much to be learned from her. She had been a Miss Barsanti before her marriage to Mr Lyster who had recently died leaving her a comfortable income. Dorothy admired Mrs Lyster not only for her acting ability but for her poise and that comfortable and apparent sense of security which having an income apart from her theatrical earnings gave her.
There was someone else who admired Mrs Lyster and that was Richard Daly; and Mrs Lyster like so many women seemed to be completely fascinated by the man and not in the least revolted by his squint; on the contrary to find it an added attraction.
Daly’s interest in the widow did impede to some extent his pursuit of Dorothy, but in spite of the fact that everyone knew his intentions towards Mrs Lyster were serious and honourable (Dorothy, laughed at the word because it was clearly Mrs Lyster’s income which made her so overwhelmingly attractive) he still turned that smouldering gaze on Dorothy.
