I had recently made a new friend in Mary Wollstonecraft, an Anglo-Irish intellectual and fellow writer. She was very much a feminist who had recently published a book, Vindication on the Rights of Woman.
‘Women should not be regarded as helpless, charming adornments in the household,’ she would fervently declare.
‘I have said as much for many years now,’ I concurred. ‘Yet it seems that because of my looks I am expected to have no brain. It has come as a shock to many that I have the ability to write poetry and novels.’
‘I believe education holds the key to achieving a sense of self-respect and an improved sense of worth that will enable women to reach their full potential.’
As one of Mary Wollstonecraft’s greatest admirers, I agreed with her on most things, but not on her view of the Queen of France, as she was extremely disapproving of that lady’s extravagant tastes.
‘As a radical, I myself spent time in Paris in 1792, where I was witness to Robespierre’s reign of terror when I was conducting research for my book: An Historical and Moral View of the Origins and Progress of the French Revolution. I saw how the royal family, including the queen, had little idea of the troubles and needs of the people.’
I partly agreed with her, yet felt the need to defend the pretty lady who had admired the prince’s miniature and returned it with a gift. ‘Having met Her Majesty, I do not believe she is half as bad as she is painted,’ I insisted. ‘She has been subjected to any number of malicious lampoons, cartoons and critics, as have I. But I consider she has borne her sufferings, her humiliations, her anxieties, with the magnanimity of a heroine.’
‘I see a new age of reason and benevolence close at hand,’ she insisted.
Whether that was true or not, poor Marie Antoinette was guillotined on the sixteenth of October, 1793, her once golden hair gone white, her beautiful face haggard. I read the details in the morning papers, appropriately bordered in black, feeling sick at the images that tortured my mind.
I paid tribute to her with ‘Monody to the Memory of the Late Queen of France’, which I published later in the year, accompanied with an engraving of the widowed queen dressed in black, with no sign of her former extravagant style.
In November the Duke of Orleans – formerly Chartres – was also guillotined. I grieved for him, even though when he had pursued me with such diligence I’d done everything in my power to avoid a liaison, debauched rake that he was. Yet no man deserved such a death.
Then in December Ban came to me grim-faced with more bad news. ‘I am sorry to inform you, my love, that our old friend Lauzun, now the Duc de Biron, has met the same fate.’
‘Oh no, that cannot be!’ I cried, and burst into tears, deeply upset. Our affair had been brief, little more than a flirtation, but he had always been there for me in my darkest hour. Once when he helped me search for Ban before that dangerous carriage drive to Dover, and again when we were penurious in France. Now he was gone and I would never be able to return the favour. How fragile life was.
Our own volatile, on-off love affair continued very much as before, Ban and I enjoying visits to Gray’s Tomb and the churchyard at Stoke Poges, as I still maintained my passion for monuments. We were also invited to hunts and picnics in the woods of Cliveden. It might have been considered an idyllic life were not Ban still heavily involved with gambling at every opportunity, which was proving to be a heavy drain upon my purse. As if I had not suffered enough in that respect from Tommy. I returned to London in the new year, for once with some reluctance, knowing that easy access to his favourite gambling clubs was too great a temptation for him to resist.
Back in the summer of 1792 when I’d been forced to leave the country yet again because of debt, I’d been on the point of finishing a comic opera. On completion I’d sent it to Sheridan. Unfortunately, my old friend was by then more interested in politics than theatre and his successor, John Kemble, claimed to be snowed under with new plays. So when a year later it still hadn’t been produced, I had withdrawn it. Now, my new play, Nobody, was an attempt at something different, and expressed my loathing for the gaming tables.
Drury Lane had been rebuilt and opened in 1794, large enough to hold an audience of over three thousand, including one hundred and twenty-three spacious boxes most splendidly decorated and lined with blue silk. The new auditorium was of an impressive height, richly ornamented in Gothic and Chinese style.
My play was accepted and cast, although not without some difficulty, and finally appeared thanks to the intervention of Dorothy Jordan who greatly supported me in the enterprise, even calling at my house to discuss it with me.
Nobody, however, was not well received. Gambling is such a popular national pastime that the play was condemned before ever it appeared. The aristocratic ladies who so loved to visit the gaming tables to squander their husband’s fortune, expressed their disapproval by hissing behind their fans. I asked for that to be withdrawn. I could suffer no more humiliation.
In February I had produced my second novel The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times which was entirely different from Vancenza, as it commented on social themes in a modern setting. And Maria, who clearly shared my talent as well as my beauty, also published a novel entitled The Shrine of Bertha. I was so proud of her. But then William Gifford, a rival poet, gave both novels poor reviews, which upset her greatly.
‘Why would he be so unkind, Mama?’
‘Jealousy, dearest. It was me he wished to injure, not you. He probably hasn’t even read either novel. I would advise you never to read reviews.’
‘Easier said than done, Mama. Besides, you read them all the time, and complain over the comments.’
‘Oh, I do, and as you know only too well, dearest, am easily put down by lack of appreciation for my work, sometimes vowing I will never pick up my pen again. I swear every day to quit my muse for ever, and am every day as constantly foresworn.’
We laughed at that, knowing that despite the occasional bad review I could never stop writing. Before the year was out I had produced more poetry, this time of a satirical nature, proving I was not simply a romantic poet.
But money became tighter than ever and we moved into a less fashionable house, my wild spending very much a thing of the past. Even so, my income bled away faster than I could earn it. I needed to maintain an elegant home, provide reasonably fashionable gowns for myself and my daughter, pay for a box at the theatre and keep a carriage which alone cost £200 per year. In addition to these basic necessities I had considerable medical bills to pay. Yet my publishers were making more money out of my books than I was, despite my prodigious output. As was my lover, his luck at the tables having run dry.
During that summer of 1794, Ban and I again quarrelled over money and for once I left him. Maria and I moved back to our old home at Windsor, although it took only a few sonnets to bring him back to my side. More good news arrived in October as Ban was at last promoted to the rank of major general and our idyll continued.
But not for long.
Over the coming year we seemed to drift ever further apart, Ban being brought particularly low when his brother John stood against him as a Tory.
‘This is all Pitt’s doing, and will undoubtedly split the Liverpool vote,’ Ban complained, bristling with fury.
It seemed the Tories were mocking Ban’s military record. One newspaper called him a Jacobin because he’d visited France for some unknown purpose, spoke the language fluently and wore his hair – as did the Revolutionaries – in the ‘French Crop’. Another went so far as to say that were he re-elected, the French would overrun the country and kill the womenfolk.
‘This paper likens me to a dog with his tail cut off,’ he roared.
I tried to make light of the comments. ‘Apparently a fierce cur who wears a black collar around his neck, and has two claws missing from his right paw. Take no notice. I have suffered all my life from such slights upon my character.’
‘And more often than not you would write a ste
rn letter in response.’
‘True, but this is a political campaign, so perhaps it is best to address your remarks to your constituents and win them over, rather than engage in ill-tempered argument with the press.’
‘They urge anyone who finds me to return me to my keeper, Mrs R. You are most certainly not my keeper!’
I smiled rather sadly. ‘Are you quite certain about that? You do not contribute a great deal to our finances. The paper also suggests returning you to any of the gaming houses in Covent Garden. Perhaps they are your true home.’
He cast me a sour look although did not deny the charge. ‘I shall leave at once for Liverpool, to begin my campaign.’
I kissed him fondly and wished him a safe journey, but there was a coolness between us.
Ban remained in Liverpool for some weeks where he dutifully reminded his constituents of his loyalty to the city, and how he had supported their best interests. His efforts must have paid off as he was duly elected. Perhaps things would improve for us now, I thought.
My own year seemed to be a good one as I published two more novels: Angelina, in three volumes, and Hubert de Sevrac, a Gothic romance. The latter sold well, particularly on the Continent. I also brought out a selection of sonnets, Sappho and Phaon, my most ambitious poetic work to date. This had taken some time to write, but was worth the effort as reviewers said it illustrated my mastery of technique and ability to express emotion and passion. The volume was also beautifully presented at the cost of half a guinea.
‘Why do they call you the English Sappho?’ Ban asked.
‘Because they associate my work with intense emotion and passion. The original Grecian Sappho fell hopelessly in love with the handsome Ovid, but when he deserted her, she committed suicide by throwing herself off a cliff. Ah! why is rapture so allied to pain?’
‘What nonsense, a real woman would never act so foolishly,’ he scoffed.
I was not in the best of moods, my head fuzzy and aching from the opium I had recently taken in a desperate bid to ease the crippling pain in my joints. ‘That wasn’t the point I was trying to make. Do you not have the wit to understand anything the least profound that does not come in the shape of a playing card or dice? My reviewers recognise that I have personal experience of pain, separation, betrayal and loss. Therefore I can completely empathise with an ancient Greek poetess who suffered similar trials. Poetry is about emotion and sensitivities, not reality.’
‘We have all suffered trials in life. Perhaps I should try my hand at writing verse.’
At one time I might well have laughed at the very idea of Ban playing poet, but at that precise moment I found his flippancy irritating as I was in such a fragile state of health. ‘Is the lyre of Apollo tuned by an ass? I think not.’
‘You don’t believe I have the intellect?’ he snapped.
‘The only emotion you understand is a competitive desire to beat your opponent, whether at the gaming table, in the boxing ring or on the cricket pitch.’
Perhaps to prove me wrong, he did pen a few lines, which I found deeply hurtful.
The limbs may languish, but the mind can’t faint,
Genius like freedom bows not to restraint;
Down with all tyrants strikes upon my ear!
Alas! I’ve got a female Robespierre.
‘Why did you write such cruel words?’ I challenged him. They seemed symbolic somehow, of our fractured relationship. ‘Robespierre was guillotined for his reign of terror. Do you equate me with that villain?’
‘Do you equate me with a man with no brain, one who wishes to confine you to the domestic front?’
‘I did not accuse you of such. But I am all too aware that you do not care for my association with Mary Wollstonecraft and her feminist beliefs.’
‘I have never objected to your writing, but I think the woman is too much the radical who drives you to make wild accusations that are unfounded and illogical.’
‘I am entirely logical.’
‘Then why imply that being a soldier makes me into some kind of idiot, as if planning a campaign requires no intelligence? While you, as a writer, are apparently a person of supreme intellect. I could easily claim that the opposite was the case, that you do nothing more challenging than make up pretty rhymes.’
I flushed bright crimson, instantly wanting to slap his arrogant face. ‘Pretty rhymes? You think my brain as paralysed as my legs?’ I cried in fury, at last using that word I’d sworn never to utter again.
‘On the contrary, there are times when it is far too agile.’
My mood swings, admittedly affected by the opium that I took for the pain, were only a part of the reason that I was so touchy and easily offended. I was deeply jealous of his freedom and physical fitness, and fearful of rivals for his love. While he resented my feminist philosophy, and the little supper parties I held for literary acquaintances such as William Godwin, John Bell and others, since we were content to talk about literature and poetry all night long, and not of the war, gambling, violent sports or slavery.
How different we had become, Ban and I.
Throughout the summer of 1797 I gave myself up to my writing, publishing another novel, Walsingham, very much a feminist novel which brought me some financial relief, if at great cost as the effort involved greatly affected my health.
My dear friend, Mary Wollstonecraft, tragically contracted puerperal fever following the birth of her daughter, also named Mary, and died on the tenth of September. Her husband, William Godwin, was utterly devastated as they’d only recently married after living together quite happily for years. I personally resolved to honour her memory by following her feminist philosophy in my writing.
But the difficulties in my own relationship came to a head on the twenty-third of May 1798 when Ban’s mother Jane, who had been ill for some time, finally died. Her greatest wish in life had been to separate us, despite my having supported her son both financially and emotionally for fifteen years.
‘I take it she has left you a sizeable inheritance?’ I asked, once the funeral was over and the will had been read.
‘She left me only £1,500, together with a list of my debts she’d settled over the years. It was certainly not the fortune I expected.’
‘My own current debts amount to twelve hundred pounds, much of which were run up on your behalf. I would not expect you to cover all of them, but you could help by repaying something of what I have loaned you over the years.’
He gave a snort of bitter laughter. ‘You gave the money readily, lavished it upon me, in fact, so I feel no necessity to do so. Have I not repaid you in kind?’
I flushed with annoyance, hating the fact that some of his argument was undoubtedly true, if hard to swallow when I was in such dire difficulties. ‘Repaid me how? With your loyalty? How can I be certain of that, since you are so often absent? Is it true that you are pursuing an heiress in possession of a substantial fortune?’
Ignoring my question, he said, ‘I’ve made it abundantly plain that I am not a rich man. I am no prince of the realm but a poor soldier still only on half pay, and with no other reliable source of income.’
‘Yet you have lived like a prince, very often at my expense when your wins turned into losses.’ The sting of his ingratitude wounded me deeply, plagued as I was with an oversensitive heart, and overly suspicious of what secrets he was keeping from me. ‘I read recently in the Oracle that during one evening you were down by £800.’
He laughed, as if the incident were amusing. ‘Ah, but I later recovered £312 on one card alone. The change in my luck is but temporary.’
‘Then find someone else to finance your losses!’ I screamed, exasperated to the limits of my endurance.
‘Perhaps I will,’ came his sharp response, and turning on his heel he walked away.
I fled to Bath, fully expecting him to return when his luck changed, as he had done many times before. When he failed to appear, I stubbornly took his name out of every poem or manuscript in which it
featured. ‘To a dear friend’ became ‘To a once dear friend’. I even removed his name from ‘Ode to Valour’, and denied that the character, General Grey Crop in my new novel, was in any way based upon him.
‘I only portray the follies not the vices of individuals,’ I told the press, when asked.
Nevertheless, as ever, I poured my emotion into my poems, recalling how Ban had broken my heart, and how much I still loved him.
When ling’ring sickness wrung thy breast,
And bow’d thee to the earth, or nearly,
I strove to lull thy mind to rest –
For then I lov’d thee, Oh! How dearly.
He called upon me one more time, if briefly, later in the year, but we had little to say to one another. The visit was awkward, our conversation stilted and overly polite. Perhaps he could see how I trembled at the mere sight of him.
‘Are you in good health, Mary?’
‘Perfectly, thank you. And you?’
He chose not to answer, as if unwilling to bludgeon my pride with his own rude health, when it was perfectly plain I was anything but well. ‘Napoleon is gathering his forces and preparing to attack Spain and Portugal. I wished you to know that I am to command His Majesty’s forces in Portugal, and on the twelfth of December will be presented to the king at a levee.’
‘Congratulations! I know this is what you have long wanted. I’m pleased for you.’
‘It is kind of you to say so.’
We were talking like strangers, after over fifteen years together!
He hadn’t even bothered to sit down, clearly anxious to have done with me. ‘I will call another day, Mary, as I shall ever be your friend.’
It was not his friendship I craved, at least not that alone. I needed his heart, his love, but it seemed he had gifted that elsewhere. Only days later I read in the paper what his courage had failed to tell me. It was the announcement of an engagement between Miss Susan Priscilla Bertie and General Tarleton. The piece ended upon a caustic note as it wished him well. ‘Forgetful of the general’s peccadillos, we hope for him all the happiness afforded by youth and £20,000.’
Lady of Passion Page 27
