by Jean Plaidy
Then … the end of the gay life, waiting for the birth of her child, the fear every time the bills arrived. So many of them … and the child on the way. What could they do? The birth of little Maria was some comfort; the child was enchanting and although Mary had discovered that being a mother could never be her whole life, she loved the child. But the inevitable result of such riotous living had caught up with them and Thomas Robinson was sent to the King’s Bench Prison for debt.
She accompanied him there with her child and there was no doubt that he was a chastened man, although she guessed that if he ever were released he would act in the same way as he had before. He was weak and unprincipled! and it was the unhappiest day in her life when she had married him.
When she heard of the success of Richard Sheridan’s The Rivals she thought of the chance she had had to become an actress for which many ambitious young women would have given a great deal – and which she had foolishly thrown away. For what? Marriage with a rogue who had attempted to thrust her into a life of sin – and finally a debtors’ prison.
The misery around her filled her with horror; it was no use now pining for fine clothes, but there was one comfort left to her: her pen. She discovered then that in times of stress it could give her a great deal. She cared for her child and grew closer to it, and she wrote poetry.
It suddenly occurred to her that if she could publish this poetry, if people would buy it, this might be a source of income. It would not provide the means to live the grand life which she had once believed Mr Robinson would provide for her, but it would at least be dignified. She immediately built up a picture of the salon she would have. She would be the beautiful poetess. With this in mind she wrote feverishly and very soon she had enough poems to make a book. Now she needed a patron; she would not go to a man – she had had enough of men for a while – and she did not want it said that she was patronized for her beauty. She had heard of Georgina, Duchess of Devonshire, leader of fashion, lover of the arts.
Was it possible to obtain an introduction?
This presented some difficulties, but not insuperable ones. There were some admirers from that fantastic year who would not be averse to helping her now that she had fallen on hard times. She saw the way out of her troubles. When the introduction was made the Duchess was not only impressed by the poems but by the beauty of the poetess, and when the noble lady heard that she was living with her husband in a debtors’ prison and had one young daughter she determined to help such a deserving young woman out of her predicament. So the Duchess not only found a publisher for the poems but brought about the release of the Robinsons.
Free! She remembered the first day when she came out of the prison to find her mother, who had managed to keep the home going, was waiting for her.
There was no need now to placate Mr Robinson and both women showed their contempt for him. He had her permission, his wife told him, to sleep with any servant girl he cared for; his visits to brothels were no concern of hers; all she asked was that he made no demands upon her, and that was something she would insist upon.
Mr Robinson replied that he was not at all sure of that; but he had to remember that his wife had brought about his release from prison and that she was not the pretty puppet he had imagined her to be.
She and her mother ignored him, although he inhabited the house. He had gone back to his clerking but it was not easy to live on his salary.
‘I want independence from him,’ said Mary to her mother. ‘I should like to walk out of this house and never have to see him again.’
That, Mrs Darby had to admit, would be a desirable state of affairs. But how could it be achieved?
‘I shall never make enough money from writing poetry,’ said Mary. ‘What a fool I was to reject the offer Mr Garrick made to me.’
‘You’ll never have another like it,’ sighed her mother sadly; the guilt was hers, she admitted freely. She should have known better. One could not expect a fourteen-year-old girl to recognize a rogue … but she was a woman and a mother! What would her husband think when he came home. She remembered his threats before his departure! But he did not come home and Mary was right. The need to find money was urgent, for if they did not they would be back in that prison which they had so recently left and they could not expect such opportune deliverance again.
‘Why should I not?’ demanded Mary suddenly.
‘But … Mr Garrick would never give you another chance. He’d think you were a fool to have rejected him before.’
‘I heard that Mr Sheridan is going to buy him out of Drury Lane and take over Mr Garrick’s share in the theatre and that Mr Garrick, now that he is getting old, will retire.’
‘But you don’t know Mr Sheridan.’
‘Not yet,’ admitted Mary. ‘But why shouldn’t I?’
Her success with the Duchess of Devonshire had given her confidence. Why should she not offer her services to Drury Lane? It was a way of life – an exciting way of life; she who was so startlingly beautiful, could dance and sing tolerably well, had had elocution lessons and could recite well – and above all had a strong sense of the dramatic. Surely she was a born actress. She was immediately beginning to believe she was and was already preparing herself to convince Mr Sheridan, and Mr Garrick if need be, of this.
‘I see no reason why I should not have another chance,’ she told her mother. ‘I will seek an introduction to Mr Sheridan.’
‘But how?’
‘Well, Mr Hussey introduced me to Mr Garrick, did he not? I think Mr Hussey would be inclined to help me.’
And he had been. The ballet master was a little startled when she called on him, but, in the manner of everyone else, completely enslaved by so much beauty.
‘A stage career. Why, with looks such as yours you could not fail.’
‘If you would do me the favour of introducing me to Mr Sheridan …’
‘It is Mr Sheridan who will be favoured.’
And so to the meeting which was to change her life and to bring her to this night when she could dream of dazzling possibilities which did not seem absurdly out of her grasp.
*
The Green Room at the theatre. She could see it so clearly. Was she not familiar with every aspect of it? But then it had been new to her and there was the handsome Mr Sheridan taking her hand, kissing it and being so charming because she was so beautiful.
So she wanted to be an actress?
Mr Garrick himself, she told him, had once offered her a chance.
‘And you didn’t take it?’
‘I married instead.’
‘The old man will never forgive you that. In offering you a chance to act with him he thought he was giving you the keys to heaven. And you chose … marriage.’
‘Unhappily.’
Mr Sheridan was alert. She knew now, because he had told her, that all the time he was weighing her up, and that almost at once he made up his mind that he wanted her … for Drury Lane and himself.
*
No need now to hasten over her memories, to close her eyes and glide over the thin ice which could break suddenly and plunge her into horrid memory. From now on it was success.
At the theatre Mr Sheridan presented her to Mr Garrick. He had aged since she had last seen him but he remembered her well.
‘I offered you a chance in the theatre and you refused it,’ he accused.
‘It was madness,’ she admitted meekly.
‘Madness, folly, stupidity. None of these is a quality that makes a good actress.’
‘I know.’ She was meek and forlorn; but she knew that he would not have bothered to come and see her if he had not thought her worth a little effort.
‘Do you know, young woman, that there are thousands of would-be actresses who would give twenty years of their lives for the chance you had … and threw away.’
‘I know it well,’ she said. ‘It was the biggest mistake of my life.’
He turned away from her as though in disgust and said to Sher
idan: ‘And you want this young woman to play Juliet.’
‘At least she’ll look the part,’ answered Sheridan.
Without glancing at her Garrick muttered: ‘Let’s hear you. Begin here:
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name …’
She knew it well. How many times since Sheridan had suggested she might play Juliet had she enacted the balcony scene before her mirror, seeing herself in some diaphanous garment leaning over the balustrade in moonlight, picturing the gasp of admiration from the audience when she appeared.
And as she began to say the words she was on that stage; she was the young girl in love for the first time.
‘Or, if thy wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’
And the old man beside her was suddenly transformed. The most beautiful voice that had been heard in the theatre for years – perhaps the most beautiful ever – was answering her:
‘Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?’
She went on:
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy …’
Perhaps she was not word perfect, but she was over-dramatic; she would need a great deal of coaching, but the fire was there. He carried her through the scene and then she heard him murmur in that glorious voice of his:
‘… all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.’
She knew that she must succeed; that she wanted more than anything to play Juliet and to play her as she had never been played before.
Romeo, as if by magic, had become Mr Garrick – no longer the passionate and romantic lover but a carping old man.
He said nothing and had started to walk away.
Sheridan walked after him while Mary stood trembling.
‘Well?’ said Sheridan.
Mr Garrick stood still and seemed to consider. Mary thought he was not going to answer.
She ran to him. ‘If you will give me a chance I will work, I will study … I will learn …’
‘You’ll need to,’ said Mr Garrick; and walked out of the room.
But that was Mr Garrick’s way. He was not unimpressed; and although she was a mere novice he had discovered that sense of drama in her character without which he would not have considered her. But to Sheridan’s delight and her unbounded joy Mr Garrick said he would coach her himself and this meant that she would make her debut at Drury Lane in the exciting and all important role of Juliet.
*
Juliet! She would remember that night in every detail. It was worth remembering – even her stage fright just before the curtain rose. She. had worn pale pink satin trimmed with crepe and ornamented with silver and spangles; white feathers were in her hair; and for the tomb scene she had appeared in satin with a veil of transparent gauze; there had been beads about her waist on which a cross hung. She did not have to be told that there had never been a lovelier Juliet. This knowledge had carried her through; she was never unaware of her beautiful image and the very thought of it gave her courage.
She had been eighteen – a few years older than Juliet, but she looked like a child in the early scenes; later in the play when she was in love and loved she matured slightly. Garrick had said this miracle must be subtly conveyed; he had made her live Juliet, be Juliet, the innocent child and the girl who became a woman overnight. And because the genius of Mr Garrick was such that made all those whom he honoured with his advice determined to please him and win a word of praise from him, she, knowing he was in the audience that night, made up her mind that she would force the old man to admire her.
Oh, the glory of that never-to-be-forgotten night when she faced an audience for the first time! There had been a moment of silence and then an audible gasp from the audience. It was the expected homage to her beauty; and what better foil could there have been than the ageing figure of the old nurse!
‘How now, who calls?’
She had been afraid her voice would fail her but there it was, high and clear, the voice of Juliet.
She was launched. This was her métier.
What an evening, with the excitement rising higher with every moment. An audience that would not have missed a word she said, that could not take its eyes from her. It was Juliet’s night. It was an enchanted night. It was her night of triumph. She could not but be conscious of this. Mr Sheridan had caught her coming off the stage and taking her in his arms had kissed her with reckless passion.
‘You’re wonderful, Juliet. You’re all that I knew you would be.’
And she had laughed and been happy. ‘The happiest night of my life,’ she had cried; and he had said: ‘It’s but a beginning. You will see … Juliet.’
And back to play and to sense the excitement in the audience … on to the last scene in the tomb …
‘… oh happy dagger!
This is thy sheath. There rest and let me die.’
The great sigh as she fell beside Romeo’s body and lay there.
The play went on … and she was thinking: This is the end of our troubles. I shall make my fortune. I shall be a great actress. And I owe all this to Mr Garrick and Mr Sheridan … and to my own resolution.
‘For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’
The curtain had come down and the applause was instantaneous.
Up it went and there they all were with herself in the centre, smiling, taking the bow.
Flowers were thrown at her feet, exquisitely dressed men were crowding to the front of the stage. Down went the curtain to howls of protest, and up again … and there she was alone and the whole of the theatre going wild with joy.
And in the Green Room, later, they had crowded about her. Names she had heard Mr Robinson mention with awe. There had been Lord Maiden, friend and equerry of the Prince of Wales, in black velvet trimmed with gold. ‘Mrs Robinson, it’s an honour to kiss your hand …’
His Grace of Cumberland had eyed her with appreciation. The King’s own brother! What society she was climbing into! And being paid for it – not falling deeper and deeper into debt.
‘His Grace of Cumberland desires to be presented.’
Lecherous eyes examined her. His Grace had never seen a Juliet he so admired. He trusted she would grant him the pleasure of seeing more of her.
Oh no, my lord, she had thought; I must tread warily. You and others will have to learn that even though I am a play actress I am a lady.
Sheridan was watchful of her. He looked upon her as his creation. He had seen her possibilities; he had persuaded Garrick to coach her; she was going to add to his fortune and his personal happiness.
‘Mrs Robinson is fatigued, gentlemen. I know you will wish her to have the rest she so well deserves.’
And so home to the house in Great Queen Street where she had sat with her mother talking of that night and the triumphs to come.
*
They had come, so quickly and in such number, but she would never again know the excitement of that first night. The theatre became her life. Her mother took charge of little Maria; Mr Robinson lived in the house but he had no say in the running of it now. He had to be quiet; he had better keep out of his wife’s life or he might ruin her chances which would be of little use to him, for with her salary she was able to pay his card debts and make him a small allowance which she told him scornfully, added to his salary, would have to suffice for him and his mistresses.
Mr Robinson was a subdued man. He had been wise to marry Mary; he had always known it; and now he was proving how right he had been. It was disconcerting to be pushed into the background, but at least she provided him with money and he preferred the kitchen sluts to his ladylike beauty.
‘The bad days are behind us,’ Mary told her mother.
And so it seemed. With each role she played she improved her acting ability and she grew more and more beautiful. The costumes she wore on the stage delighted her and she g
ave a great deal of thought to them, and whenever a new play was to be put on playgoers would ask themselves what Mrs Robinson would wear this time. Of one thing they could be certain; it would be unusual and becoming.
She appeared in public places – the Pantheon and the Rotunda, Vauxhall and Ranelagh, always exquisitely gowned, gaped at, stared at, quizzed – the famous Mrs Robinson, dressed as no one had ever dressed before.
Sheridan delighted in her and she in him. She had found him irresistible and she could never forget that he had given her her chance. To him she confided her troubles; he knew how she was plagued by Mr Robinson and the fear of what debts he would accumulate; to him she confided of the horrors she had suffered in the debtors’ prison. He knew that that memory would never entirely leave her and being the brilliant playwright that he was, he understood Mary better than she understood herself.
She was a born actress; in fact she acted all the time, offstage as well as on. Her life story was one big part in which she was always the wronged or admired but always honest and virtuous heroine. Her motives were always what they should have been, not always what they were. He knew his Mary and she fascinated him. Besides, her beauty was unique. He could not compare it with his own Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth’s was of the soul. Ah, his saintly Elizabeth! He loved Elizabeth, but he was in love with Mary Robinson and, as he would say, he was not a man to pamper himself with noble sacrifice. She became his mistress. She was coy, feigning reluctance. She felt uneasy about this relationship, she told him, because he had a wife.
And she a husband, he reminded her. ‘Which makes us eligible.’
‘You jest about a sacred matter.’ Dear Mary had little appreciation of humour. But he was enchanted with her faults as well as her virtues.
She had met Elizabeth and that, she had declared, filled her with dismay.
He wondered whether Elizabeth knew. He could not be sure. But Elizabeth had become disillusioned long ago. He would have explained that what he felt for Mary Robinson was a transient emotion. His life was bound up with Elizabeth; he was sure he could have explained it to her had she asked. But she did not. At this time she was obsessed by their baby son, young Thomas; that, her singing, reading plays for him which came into the Lane in hundreds from would-be playwrights, and helping with the accounts. What time had Elizabeth for suspicions?
