‘It’s true,’ she said, ‘and I shall not endure it much longer. But there is no reason why we shouldn’t marry. The Kemble set are starting rumours about the immoral life I lead and that might harm me with audiences.’
‘Not a bit of it. They like their idols to have a bit of excitement in their lives.’
‘You call this exciting! I have all the responsibilities of marriage without the standing that goes with it.’
‘I’ve been happy. I couldn’t have been happier.’
‘I could have been… if I had been married.’
‘My poor darling, as soon as the old man agrees…’
‘Which he never will.’
‘He can’t live for ever, Dorothy. Then I shall have all his money… providing I don’t displease him in the meantime.’
‘To hell with his money,’ cried Dorothy. ‘We’d manage.’
Richard shook his head. She looked at him and tried to see him afresh – not as the man she had loved and still did love, though in a different way from that in which she had at first. She saw him now in all his weaknesses. Weak! that was the word that best described Richard. He was weak – content for her to be humiliated; content for her to provide the bulk of their income – anything rather than that he should face an irate parent and possibly incur the loss of his father’s money.
She was nervous and touchy and she gave way to her disappointment in him, her anger against circumstances. She had to fight her way through life and the man she had chosen to stand beside her was a weakling.
There were tears and reconciliations, but that did not alter her opinion of him.
‘It’s these Kembles,’ she said. ‘They’re determined to plague me.’
‘They can’t harm you,’ he soothed. ‘It’s you the people come to see. You’re twice as popular as Siddons.’
‘It’s true,’ she admitted. ‘But they feel they ought to like Siddons and there are many people who will insist they like what they ought to like. To weep and moan is somehow intellectual; to laugh is vulgar. They’ve got this fixed in their silly heads and Kemble and his crowd are going to see that it sticks there.’
‘We’ll fight it, Dorothy,’ he said, stroking her hair.
He’d fight it! she thought. When had he ever fought for anything? Even in his own profession he couldn’t make his mark.
But she did not want friction; she was still deluding herself that one day they would marry.
‘And I’m worried about Mamma,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t looked well lately.’
Yes, that was a period of great uneasiness.
Dorothy decided that she could no longer accept the position into which Kemble was thrusting her when it was suggested that she appear in The Romp on the same evening as Mrs Siddons played in Macbeth.
Dorothy laughed aloud when she heard.
‘I understand,’ she cried. ‘The people come to see me and it will be said that they have come for Mrs Siddons. Oh, no, no. She’ll play one night and I’ll play on another – but I’ll not draw the people in for her to get the praise for doing it.’
‘You over-estimate yourself,’ said Kemble.
‘Then it’ll make up a little for your under-estimation.’
‘So you refuse to play in The Romp.’
‘On the same night as your sister plays her tragedy, yes.’
‘What is it going to be this time – indisposition?’
‘By no means. It’s simply that I won’t be the draw for her to get the praise… and the money.’
The last word was ominous but Kemble shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
The next day a paragraph appeared in the Morning Post which ran:
‘Mrs Jordan and Kemble, according to Green Room reports, are not on the most amicable footing. It is supposed that the lady takes advantage of her popularity to be ill when she pleases and has refused to perform in a farce when Mrs Siddons performs in a play and for this modest reason “that she will not fill the house and let Mrs Siddons run away with the reputation of it”. If this be true it is proper to tell this lady that this higher province of the drama will prevail when dowdies and hoydens are forgotten or despised.’
When Dorothy read this she had no alternative but to see Sheridan, and as soon as she had an opportunity she presented herself to him.
He was a little absent-minded. His thoughts were outside the theatre. The Prince of Wales was now relegated to a position without great influence; and although he continued in affection for his dear Sherry, there was no great political advantage on the horizon. Sheridan’s dreams had been too rosy; he had thought longingly of the Great Seal; and he knew that there came a moment in a man’s life when it was possible to seize the coveted prize and that if that moment passed without bringing the reward it might never come again. The King could not last for ever; the Prince must come to the throne; but where would Sheridan be then?
It was a sobering thought.
And here was Dorothy Jordan – dissatisfied, as all actresses always were. Not getting her dues. When did they ever believe they were? She was not being treated fairly. Was it not the perpetual cry?
‘I won’t endure it,’ she was saying. ‘Kemble is a fool. I know Sarah Siddons is his sister and a little bias is natural, but in his efforts to ruin me he’s ruining the theatre. He’s going to turn away people to Covent Garden if he’s not careful.’
‘Eh!’ cried Sheridan, coming out of his reverie at the mention of his rivals. Whatever his dreams of grandeur he had to face reality now and then – and the theatre was his reality. So were the bills which came every day with wearisome regularity. He had his debt to Norfolk. He had to make the theatre pay. And one of the people he depended on in this was this little actress.
Quarrels between manager and performer were common. He’d had them himself although less than most. He was adept at flattery and thought how skilfully he’d handled the troublesome Perdita Robinson. But Dorothy was not like her. She had a real grievance.
‘You saw the paragraph in the Morning Post? “The drama will prevail when dowdies and hoydens are forgotten.” What a fool your manager is. He’s decrying the stuff he is trying to sell.’
‘You think he’s responsible for this!’
‘I know he is.’
‘You have disappointed the public on several occasions.’
‘Only when I was too ill to appear. Would you have me go on and collapse on the stage?’
‘It might not have been bad publicity. And you’ve refused to play the same night as Siddons.’
‘I certainly have. I am not going to bring them in and let her get the credit for it. What! At her thirty pounds a performance against my twelve pounds a week.’
‘Ah, money. It all comes back to money. The love of money is the root of all evil, my dear.’
‘You should tell Sarah that. There’s no doubt she loves it dearly.’
‘And you?’
‘I love it to the extent of thirty pounds a week. That is what I want and that is what I intend to have. If not…’
‘If not?’
‘I’ll say good-bye to Drury Lane.’
Sheridan looked at her obliquely. Did it mean an offer from the Garden? Kemble was a fool! They couldn’t afford to let Dorothy Jordan go. True, his sister had a reputation. The greatest actress of the day and that was generally accepted as a fact. But it did not mean that although the public liked to talk of the Divine Sarah they didn’t prefer to laugh with Dorothy Jordan.
Sheridan thought of those mounting bills, of disappointed hopes. God in Heaven, he thought, we mustn’t lose Dorothy Jordan.