Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) Page 6

  Through friends in Hull she made the acquaintance of some of the leading citizens, and in the seclusion of their houses to which the famous actress was asked as a welcome guest she spoke of ‘that creature Jordan. A loose woman if ever there was one.’ She did not think that gentlemen of Hull would wish their wives and daughters to see her perform if they knew the whole story. It was nauseating. The creature had been absent to give birth to a bastard – father unknown. Such was their Mrs Jordan!

  The ladies were duly shocked and declared their intention of staying away from The Fair Penitent in which Mrs Jordan was playing the part she had made famous – that of Callista.

  Some, however, were determined to make their disapproval known.

  Dorothy, who during her enforced absence had been longing to return to the stage, was immediately aware of the attitude of her audience. They were hostile. She had never before played before such a house.

  They seemed to have come to the theatre for anything but to see the play and when they should have been spellbound they chatted and laughed together. What has happened? wondered Dorothy. Can it be that I have lost the gift of holding an audience?

  The play was a disaster. When she died they applauded derisively. She caught sight of Mrs Smith’s delighted face in the wings and guessed she had helped to bring about this fiasco. Could she have carried her enmity to this degree? Yes, because people had crowded into the theatre to see Dorothy in those roles which Mrs Smith had reckoned to be entirely hers.

  Mortified, she changed into her simple gown and mob cap. Greenwood Laddie had never failed to charm them, yet it did on that night, and her voice could not be heard above the hissing and boos.

  The curtain came down. It was disaster. For the first time Dorothy Jordan had failed to please an audience.

  There was a knock on the door. It was one of the male actors.

  ‘Oh,’ he stammered. ‘I thought I’d look in.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Dorothy.

  ‘Tonight… You shouldn’t let it worry you. You know who’s responsible, don’t you? It’s that confounded jealous woman. I could wring her neck.’

  He was moderately good-looking and a moderately good actor. She had always liked George Inchbald. He had shown her little acts of kindness often but tonight she felt drawn towards him because after her recent humiliation she was in need of comfort.

  ‘You don’t want to take any notice of it, Dorothy. It was arranged… deliberately.’

  ‘Do you think so, George?’

  ‘I know it. Why, she has been talking of nothing else for days. I’ve heard all the whispering in corners.’

  ‘How can she be so malicious?’

  ‘Because you’re a better actress than she is and because she’s jealous.’

  She knew it, but it was comforting to hear George say it.

  ‘Ignore it,’ advised George. ‘Go on playing as though you don’t notice it.’

  ‘Don’t notice what happened tonight!’

  ‘Well, go on playing then. She can’t go on turning them against you. They come to see a play well played and nobody can play better than you.’

  ‘Oh, George…’ She held out her hand and he took it suddenly and kissed it.

  She felt then that something good had come out of this unhappy night.

  George Inchbald was right. That night had been an isolated incident. The citizens of Hull wanted to see Dorothy Jordan in her parts and when she wore male attire no one was going to boo her off the stage. They liked to hear her sing; and in fact preferred her performances to those of Mrs Smith.

  Tate Wilkinson sighed over the tantrums of his company and deplored the fall in takings which had resulted from the absences from the stage of his two chief female players; but there was no doubt that Dorothy was a draw and all Mrs Smith’s malice could not alter that.

  As for Dorothy she was more light-hearted than she had been for a long time. Every morning when she awoke she remembered that Daly no longer had any power to harm her; that in itself was the greatest blessing she could think of. Young Frances was well and Grace enjoyed looking after her. Hester was playing small parts and growing into a tolerably good actress. There was an occasional part for Francis, the eldest of the boys. At last she was no longer worried about money; and she had given the clothes her baby had worn to a hospital for the use of some poor mother. In her desire to show her gratitude for her changed position she added several layettes to the one she had used and gave these too, for she would never forget her fears when she had believed herself to be in debt to Richard Daly. It was a sort of thanks offering for deliverance.

  So she was light-hearted and George Inchbald was an attractive young man. They fell in love.

  Grace was pleased; there was nothing she wanted so much as to see her daughter settled with a man to look after her and help shoulder responsibilities. She could have hoped that Dorothy might have made a brilliant match but as she said to Hester, it was not marriage rich men were after; and she thought Dorothy ought to be married. Little Frances wanted a father, and George Inchbald would do well enough.

  George’s stepmother, Mrs Elizabeth Inchbald, a novelist, playwright and herself an actress, believed that it would be a good match for she had a high opinion of Dorothy and thought her singing and speaking voices charming, though, she had pointed out, she had a faint Irish accent but that would disappear in time. So there would be no difficulty between the families.

  Marriage, thought Dorothy. Yes, she did want it. Sometimes she asked herself, Was it George she wanted as much as marriage? She longed for her mother to be satisfied; she wanted no more anxiety, and she was still smarting under the rumours Mrs Smith had spread of the immoral life she led.

  Dorothy wanted respectability and she saw it in George Inchbald.

  Gentleman Smith came again to the theatre, bringing with him an air of elegance from London. He talked knowledgeably of what was going on there. Names like Sarah Siddons and Richard Sheridan crept into the conversation. He spoke knowingly of the affair between the Prince of Wales and Mrs Robinson which had ended in such a burst of scandal. The whole of the company could not hear enough of gay London society and there was not one member of the company who did not hope that Gentleman Smith would go back to London and report that he – or she – deserved to play in Drury Lane or Covent Garden.

  But everyone knew that Gentleman Smith was more interested in Mrs Jordan than in anyone else.

  ‘She has the quality,’ he had been heard to say. ‘It’s indefinable… but it’s there.’

  The envy of the women players was as evident as ever, but as Dorothy’s position grew stronger it had less effect on her.

  George Inchbald would call at the lodgings and talk for hours to the whole family of what would happen if Dorothy was invited to play in London. It would make all the difference, he said. To continue to play in the provinces was death to an actor or actress. There was no chance really; and they had to be noticed before they were too old.

  ‘He is on the point of proposing,’ said Grace after he had left. ‘He thinks you’re going to London, Dorothy, and he’s afraid that he’s going to lose you.’

  ‘And he always speaks as though when you go he’ll be with you,’ pointed out Hester.

  ‘He’d be a good husband,’ put in Grace almost pleadingly. ‘Quite serious… and reliable.’

  Yes, thought Dorothy, serious and reliable; a good husband for her and a father for Frances.

  Gentleman Smith went back to London. Almost daily Dorothy waited for a message, but none came.

  If I were going to be asked, she thought, I should have been by now.

  It was some time before she noticed that George’s visits to the lodgings were less frequent. She saw him often in the theatre as a matter of course, but he did not seem to be waiting for her when she came off to give her the usual congratulations.

  Grace invited him to supper and he accepted with pleasure; and during that evening Dorothy realized what his devotion had be
en worth, for he talked of the precarious existence of stage folk, who could never be sure of financial security. He hinted that he believed it would be folly for impecunious actors and actresses to marry. How could they be sure when their playing would not separate them? But chiefly how could they be sure that they would keep a roof over their heads? It did not seem to him wise to bring children into such an uneasy existence.

  Dorothy understood.

  He was telling her that while he had considered marrying an actress who had a chance of a London success, he did not want to unite himself with one who was a provincial player.

  When he had gone she gave vent to her temper.

  ‘That is an end of Mr George Inchbald!’ she cried. ‘Reliable… oh, very! Reliable in his desire for a wife who can bring home a good salary. Serious in his intentions! Oh, yes. In his intentions to marry a woman with money! Men!’ she went on: ‘They are all alike. I have not linked myself with one so far. That has been wise of me. I shall go on in that way.’

  And she was not sorry, for she had never had more than an affection for him.

  ‘I shall have to be besottedly in love,’ she told Grace, ‘before I consider sharing my life with a man.’

  It was Grace who was heart-broken. The longing to see Dorothy respectably married was the dearest wish of her life.

  The next three years passed quickly. Dorothy devoted herself absolutely to the theatre, Cornelius Swan coached her and she was never too sure of her own ability not to learn from others. Her spontaneous generosity brought her the friendship of beginners; her talents brought her the envy of her rivals; she was careless of their enmity and devoted herself to her family.

  Then one day the letter arrived. Dorothy could scarcely believe that she was being offered a chance to go to London and appear at Drury Lane that autumn.

  She called to her mother and Hester. ‘Read this,’ she cried. ‘Read this. Tell me that I’m not dreaming.’

  Grace snatched the letter from Hester; they read it, their cheeks flushed, their eyes round.

  At last – the great chance. Gentleman Smith had not failed them.

  The news spread rapidly through the theatre. Dorothy Jordan is going to Drury Lane. Those jealous actresses, Mrs Smith and Robinson, ground their teeth in fury, but there was nothing they could do about it. They were sure Mr Sheridan would be unmoved if they tried to pass on to him news of Dorothy’s scandalous life. What scandals could a provincial actress hope to create to compare with those which circulated about him? Dorothy was going. In spite of them she was the one who had been given the great chance. She was to act in the same theatre as the great Sarah Siddons.

  It was unfair; it was favouritism; it was intolerable; but there was nothing they could do about it.

  Tate Wilkinson grumbled. ‘No sooner do I train an actress and make her of some use to me than I lose her.’

  Grace tried to put a sympathetic façade over her elation.

  ‘She’ll never forget what you did for her,’ she soothed. She believed that Tate Wilkinson’s reward would be posterity’s gratitude to the man who had helped Dorothy Jordan when she most needed it.

  Dorothy could think of nothing but her London début; she played indifferently; she even forgot her lines.

  ‘My God,’ cried Mrs Smith. ‘Is this our London actress?’

  George Inchbald came to offer his congratulations, his eyes alight with speculation. Dorothy received him coldly. ‘When I’m in London, George,’ she said, ‘I shall think of you playing in Leeds and Hull and York.’

  He flinched; but he told himself an offer to play in London did not necessarily mean an actress’s fortune was made.

  Dorothy dismissed him from her mind. She could not wait for the summer to be over.

  She was in her dressing room preparing to play Patrick in The Poor Soldier when Tate Wilkinson came in.

  ‘There’s a distinguished visitor in the theatre tonight,’ he told her,

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The great Siddons herself.’

  Dorothy felt as she had never felt in the theatre before: nervous. The great Sarah had surely come to see her because she would know that in a short time they would be playing together in Drury Lane. It couldn’t be that Sarah would regard her as a rival – scarcely that – but all actresses were uneasy when someone younger and reputed to be very talented was about to share their audiences.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ said Wilkinson.

  When he left her she studied her reflection in the glass. She looked really scared. She would be all right once she trod the boards. She was actress enough for that.

  But she could not forget that everything depended on what happened at Drury Lane. And Sarah Siddons, at this moment, was seated regally in her balcony box over the stage, come to pass judgement.

  Dorothy played for the statuesque woman in the box which was poised above the stage – a place of honour for Sarah – but it was not one of her best performances. It was not the way to play. One did not act to impress. One forgot an audience when on the stage; one became the part which was the only way to play it. But who could forget Sarah? Sarah herself had no intention that anyone should.

  The eldest daughter of Robert Kemble had acting in her blood. She was the Queen of the Drama and she intended to keep the crown until she died.

  She was some thirty years old and had appeared at Drury Lane when she was seventeen and David Garrick had been the actor-manager, so she was not going to be easily impressed by the performance of a provincial player. And she made it quite clear that she was not.

  When the performance was over she was escorted back-stage with the ceremony of royalty – for the part she played off-stage was that of a queen – and asked for her opinion of Mrs Jordan’s performance.

  ‘Since it is asked,’ said Mrs Siddons, pronouncing her words clearly as though to reach the back of the house, and striking the pose of a seer, ‘I will give my considered opinion.’ She never used one word when six would fit the same purpose. ‘I have come to a conclusion while watching this performance and it is this: Mrs Jordan would be well advised to remain in the provinces rather than to venture on to the London stage at Drury Lane.’

  It was what Dorothy’s enemies had wanted to hear.

  Dorothy herself laughed. Nothing Mrs Siddons could say could stop her. She was under contract now. It had been signed by Richard Brinsley Sheridan himself together with his business partners Thomas Linley and Dr James Ford. With such a contract in her pocket should she care for the attempts of any actress – even Sarah Siddons herself – to undermine her?

  ‘The woman’s jealous!’ declared Grace.

  And although it seemed incredible that the Queen of Drury Lane could be envious of a little provincial actress as yet untried, Dorothy liked to believe this was so. After all she was some seven or eight years younger than the great tragedienne; and although Sarah was one of the most handsome women she had ever seen there was something forbidding about her.

  In any case, what was the use of brooding?

  She was going to Drury Lane to seek her fortune.

  And that September she left the North for London, taking with her her mother, Hester, her daughter Frances and brother Francis. The rest of the children went to Aunt Blanche in Wales; but Dorothy would support the whole family on the wages she was to receive in her new position.

  Début at Drury Lane

  LONDON DELIGHTED AND fascinated. Dorothy knew as soon as she set eyes on it that it was here she wanted to stay. The bustling streets with their noisy people who shouted and laughed and seemed bent on enjoyment were full of life; and the carriages, the sedans with their exquisitely dressed occupants, powdered and patched, their faces made charming and sometimes grotesque with rouge and white lead were in great contrast to the beggars who whined in the alleys and the street traders calling their wares. Here was the lavender seller thrusting the sweet-smelling branches under the noses of passers by; the piemen offering to toss for a pie; the shoe black; t
he ballad sellers singing their latest offerings often to thin reedy voices; the crossing sweepers ready for a penny to run under the horses to sweep a passage across the muddy roads. It was life as she had never seen it before.

  Dorothy was determined that she had come to stay.

  They took lodgings in Henrietta Street, which was not very grand, for Dorothy was going to have many calls on her purse; but the whole family was enchanted with London and to be in those streets, Grace declared, just did you good. You knew that this was the only place worth being in.

  The theatre was different from anything Dorothy had played in before. Royalty came here quite often, she understood. The Prince of Wales was a frequent visitor and came with his friends, his brothers and his uncles. Sometimes the King and Queen came; then of course it had to be a most moral play. They accepted Shakespeare because everybody accepted Shakespeare, although the King did not think much of it and had been known to refer to it as ‘sad stuff’, but the people expected the King and Queen to see Shakespeare so they saw it.

  It was different with the Princes – those gay young men – who were always satisfied by the appearance of pretty actresses, especially in breeches parts.

  Then every actor and actress must be thrilled to meet Richard Brinsley Sheridan, for the author of The School for Scandal, The Rivals and The Duenna, the notorious wit and friend of the Prince of Wales was the biggest name in the theatre. And now that he was going into politics and had become Secretary to the Treasury in the Coalition Government and had allied himself with that great statesman Charles James Fox, one could not even compare him with managers like Daly and Wilkinson. Sheridan was as different from them as London was from the provinces.

  No sooner had Dorothy arrived in London than she was completely convinced that this was the great opportunity and that she needed all her special gifts, everything she had learned since she had begun, to hold her place there.

  She talked over her affairs with Grace and Hester. Her great anxiety was Sarah Siddons.

  ‘I think I know,’ she said, ‘why they have brought me here. They want a rival for Sarah Siddons, and what worries me is that I can never be that.’