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 gave 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.’