by Jean Plaidy
Sheridan thought of those mounting bills, of disappointed hopes. God in Heaven, he thought, we mustn’t lose Dorothy Jordan.
‘You have a case, my dear,’ he said. ‘I shall consider it. There’s no doubt that you should be paid more.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Dorothy. ‘And a quick decision…’
‘Will be appreciated, I know, my dear.’
‘It will be not only appreciated, Mr Sheridan,’ retorted Dorothy, ‘but necessary.’
Theatre news always interested the public and there were spies all over the theatre ready to supply it.
The quarrel between Kemble and Dorothy Jordan, her refusal to work for her present salary – all this was soon communicated to the audiences. Dorothy wanted to bring herself in line with Sarah. Dorothy Jordan – who called herself Mrs Ford – was going into battle supported by Richard Ford and her family, who depended on her, against Sarah and the Kembles.
Gleefully the public waited for what would happen and took bets on which of their favourite actresses would emerge victorious.
There were letters in the press.
‘Take Mrs Jordan – who calls herself Mrs Ford – out of hoyden rusticity and what is she? Will the public sanction her in opposing the Manager and for demanding an increase because she can at present excite a little curiosity when perhaps in a little time her attraction may be wholly exhausted?’
But those loyal members of the public who supported Dorothy were not going to allow the other side to get away with that.
‘When the salary of performers is below the rank of their talents and the advantages rising from their labours, the public should interfere.’
The battle persisted and Sheridan conferring with Kemble pointed out that all prejudice aside it was absurd that Sarah – dear, excellent, wonderful Sarah – should take thirty pounds a performance whereas Mrs Jordan, who – comic though she might be and not in the same category for one moment as the Divine Sarah – King would have to admit, had the same pulling power as Sarah – some said better – should receive so much less. This was not, he hastily added, passing judgement on the quality of the acting of either lady… yet, it was not exactly just that two actresses with equal pulling power should show such a discrepancy in the manner in which they were paid.
‘In fact, Kemble,’ he went on, ‘you should never have paid Sarah so much. Now we have no alternative but to offer Jordan thirty pounds… but we’ll make it a week, not a performance.’
‘And if she feigns illness and plays but once a week?’
‘Then, my dear fellow, she will be in line with your sister.’
‘So you’re going to pay Jordan thirty pounds a week.’
‘No alternative. It’s thirty pounds a week and Jordan or no Jordan.’
‘We can’t afford to pay her thirty pounds a week.’
‘It’s true. We can’t afford it. But the theatre is a matter of compromise, my dear fellow. We can afford still less to lose Jordan.’
So the battle was won. Dorothy must play at least three times a week; she must appear in both plays and farce; and the public applauded. They wanted more of Dorothy Jordan and providing she did not disappoint them by not appearing when she was billed to do so they were on her side.
The first night she played after the news was out that she was to be paid thirty pounds a week, all seats were filled and people stood in the gangways.
They cheered so loudly that Sheridan declared he was afraid the roof would fall in.
‘You see, my dear Kemble,’ he said, ‘one must always please the public however much, in doing so, one displeases oneself.’
Kemble accepted his defeat as gracefully as he could. He had to admit that whatever he thought of Dorothy Jordan as an actress, the public had a very high opinion of her and she could fill a house as no other actress could.
Dorothy was not vindictive and Kemble realized his mistakes and seemed ready now to advance her career.
There was one concession she did ask of him; this was to take on her brother George and rather to her surprise he did so. So George started at Drury Lane with a salary of five pounds a week, which caused great rejoicing in the family.
Grace had watched the battle with indignation and delight; and when Dorothy received the large salary of thirty pounds a week she could not contain her joy.
Dorothy remarked to Hester that she looked almost her old self; and that was an admission that Grace was ill.
George was delighted and eager to prove himself. He accepted the smallest parts with enthusiasm – and they were small and usually consisted of walking on and perhaps saying a line or two. But he could do this with an air and was already beginning to be noticed, but perhaps that was because he was Dorothy Jordan’s brother.
Not long after her battle with Kemble, Dorothy found that she was pregnant again.
Royal visit
THE COMPANY WAS doing Love for Love and Dorothy on this occasion was not playing, so she took the opportunity to have a night at home in Gower Street where the rest of the family had moved in with her and Richard. It made it so much easier for Hester to look after the children. Young Frances was giving them some cause for concern; she was a naughty child and jealous of little Dodee. Dorothy could not look at her without remembering the child’s father and wondering whether she had inherited his characteristics. Hester, however, was an excellent guardian and with Dorothy so much at the theatre this had become a full-time occupation.
Hester declared that she had never felt the urge to act which, seeing Dorothy, she realized a true actress should feel.
‘If I had been a true actress,’ she would say, ‘I should never have dried up on that first appearance.’
‘Poor Hester. You never forgot it. You let it haunt you for ever.’
‘Some things do,’ said Hester.
And remembering her experiences with Daly, Dorothy supposed it was true.
After the show George came in full of excitement.
It had been a most interesting evening at the theatre. The Duke of Clarence had been in the audience.
‘Let’s see,’ said Dorothy. ‘He’s the third son, I believe.’
‘Yes – and jolly… a regular sailor. They said he was only home for a brief leave, and so he came to the theatre. I’m surprised he didn’t wait until you were on.’
‘Or dear Sarah,’ said Dorothy. ‘But why all the excitement? We’ve had Dukes in the audience before.’
‘He was in the Green Room, you see, and young Bannister who was playing Ben went in all ready for the stage. He was meeting some girl there and going to show himself off and who should he find in there but the Duke. The Duke said to him: “Hello, young fellow, what are you supposed to be – a sailor?” “Why, yes, Your Highness,” said Bannister, “I’m Ben the sailor.” “Then you won’t do, Ben, my boy.” He laughed a great deal, and his language is not what you’d expect from royalty, because royal he is and the brother of the Prince of Wales.’
‘Naturally,’ said Hester, ‘if he’s the son of the King. Go on.’
‘The Duke said “No sailor wears a handkerchief that colour round his neck. You want a black one. I won’t accept you as a sailor, Ben, with that colour handkerchief. Oh, no. I shall protest. If you’re going to be a sailor you must look like one.” Well, by this time several people had come into the Green Room and someone ran and fetched Kemble. You should have seen him bowing and scraping and Your Royal Highness this and Your Royal Highness that. It was something not to be missed. And then Kemble sent someone for a black handkerchief. Bannister put it on and the Duke said it was not tied as it should be. And he tied it himself… with the right sort of knot. “I ought to know,” he said. “I used to do it myself when I first went to sea as Midship-man Guelph.” And everyone laughed and he laughed with them and he said that young Bannister at least looked like a sailor now. The play was late in starting and there was nearly a riot and then Kemble came on the stage and said His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence was honou
ring them and told them that he’d tied Sailor Ben’s knot for him and the audience roared and cheered and there was the Duke taking the bow – not like the Prince – but jolly and friendly. And it was an evening I wouldn’t have missed.’
‘Well,’ said Dorothy, ‘I hope next time His Royal Highness, the obliging Duke, condescends to visit the theatre, I’ll be there to play for him.’
Shortly after that George played Sebastian to Dorothy’s Viola in Twelfth Night. The critics were not very kind to him. He lacked his sister’s genius, they said; and he was too much like her to play with her. But George had shown himself to be an actor.
The first one to congratulate him was Maria Romanzini. She herself was already half way up the ladder to fame and fortune, but she followed George’s progress with intense interest.
‘Was I good?’ he asked her.
‘You were very good.’
‘You wait,’ he said, ‘very soon now they’ll be crowding in to see me.’
‘It’ll be wonderful,’ she said; she knew that once he felt secure he would ask her to marry him.
With the spring it was necessary to go on tour again and Dorothy was uneasy; she did not like to leave Grace who had grown more feeble in the last weeks; Hester stayed behind to look after her and the tour began.
Now that she was pregnant once more she thought longingly of the home life. To play occasionally at Drury Lane would always be a pleasure, but the exhausting tours with all the difficulties of travel and facing provincial audiences was something she would gladly abandon.
It was necessary, though. She needed the money. It was amazing how even her salary was swallowed up. Thirty pounds a week had seemed affluence at first but with so many calls on her purse it did not go far. Richard’s briefs were infrequent; his father, in spite of his vast fortune, had not increased his allowance; and the bulk of the expenses must be met by Dorothy. She simply could not afford to give up these tours even though, as now, she was expecting a child.
She passed through Leeds and Harrogate and went on to Edinburgh playing all her roles to which she had added Nell in The Devil to Pay which had become one of the most popular. Rosalind in As You Like It, Roxalana in The Sultan, Lucy in The Virgin Unmasked, Peggy in The Country Girl were among others and of course she included the most popular of them all, Sir Harry Wildair in The Constant Couple, Miss Hoyden in A Trip to Scarborough and Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp.
She was playing to big houses in Edinburgh when news came from Hester that Grace had taken a turn for the worst and was constantly asking when Dorothy would be back. Hester thought that if she wished to see her mother alive she should return without delay.
In the middle of the season Dorothy left Edinburgh and returned to London.
The sight of her mother’s wasted frame appalled Dorothy and she was glad that she had ignored the threats of an irate manager and come home.
‘You came, then,’ said Grace, tears filling her eyes.
‘Of course I came. What did you expect?’
‘And the theatre…’
‘Can do without me for a while.’
‘So you are going to stay with me till the end.’
‘Oh, Mamma, do not say that. You are ill and will get better.’
But Grace knew differently.
‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a good girl to me, Dorothy.’
‘We belonged together. You were good to me… to us all.’
‘I tried,’ said Grace. ‘I never forgave myself for bringing you into the world without a name… but when I think of what I should have been without you I know that the best thing I ever did was to give my Dorothy to her public.’
‘Oh, Mamma, don’t think of all that now. It’s no use reproaching ourselves for what we do.’
‘I feel happy to leave them all in your hands. You’ll look after them.’
‘I would, Mamma, but they don’t need me. They can look after themselves. George is doing well. He’ll be marrying soon, I expect.’
‘Ah… marriage…’
‘I know, Mamma, and I’m sorry, but Richard says one day…’
‘It was what your father said, Dorothy. “One day, Grace,” he said, “my father won’t have the power to stop me.” But he never really did have the power, did he? And then he went away and married that woman… leaving us all.’
‘It’s long, long ago and best forgotten.’
‘He would have been proud of you, Dorothy.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Well, we came through, didn’t we? Do you remember when we heard you were to come to Drury Lane?’
‘I shall never forget it, Mamma, nor shall I forget your help and love. Throughout my life nothing has helped me more than that.’
Grace nodded, smiling. ‘I’d like to think it’s so,’ she said.
They were silent for a while.
Then she said: ‘Dorothy, you’re going to have another child.’
‘Yes, Mamma.’
‘It’s so like… so like…’
‘Don’t fret, Mamma. Rest. I’m here with you. Hester’s near, too. We can send for all the children if you wish.’
Grace closed her eyes. ‘I’m happy,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to the end… and I’m happy. Richard’s a good man. He’ll marry you, Dorothy… one day.’
‘One day,’ repeated Dorothy and her mouth curled a little cynically; but she did not allow Grace to see this.
Let her die happily believing that one day her daughter would reach that status which she had always longed for her to possess.
Dorothy was inconsolable for some months after the death of her mother. She was almost unaware of the threats of Jackson the Edinburgh manager who sued her for breaking her contract. This was one of those occasions when Richard could act for her. He dealt with Jackson to her satisfaction and although she declared that she would never perform in his theatre again the matter was settled without too much expense.
The imminent birth of her child meant an absence from the theatre and the coming of the baby – another little girl whom she named Lucy – did much to console her.
That autumn Richard Daly came to London. Naturally he was in the theatre to see Dorothy act.
Maria Romanzini came into Dorothy’s dressing room to tell her.
‘He’s here,’ she said, her lovely dark eyes round with horror. ‘He’s actually in the theatre.’
When she was told to whom Maria referred, Dorothy too felt a tremor of alarm. Foolish, she told herself. What harm can he do me now? She turned to Maria. ‘You look as though you’re afraid he’s going to carry you off,’ she said.
‘He used to terrify me,’ Maria replied, shivering.
‘You’re a big girl now, an important actress at Drury Lane Theatre, How can an Irish manager harm you?’
‘I don’t like to think of him here, Dorothy.’
‘George will protect you now as your mother did before. Not that he’d be such a fool as to attempt to harm you. Everything is changed for us both, Maria.’
That was true and yet she had to remind herself continually of it, and when one of the theatre servants came to tell her that Mr Daly from Dublin was in the Green Room and was requesting her to meet him there she said sharply: ‘Pray tell Mr Daly that I cannot see him.’
She had never thought for a moment that that would silence him. He called at Gower Street but she had guessed this would happen and her servants had been warned that she was not and never would be at home to Mr Daly.
He wrote to her. He wished to see little Frances. She could not deny him a sight of his own daughter.
She was terrified. She gave instructions that Frances was to be closely guarded. The doors were to be kept bolted all day and Mr Daly was never to set foot inside the house.
Now she realized how deeply he had scarred her youth. She dreamed of that horrifying experience in the attic; she would awake from nightmares of fleeing from Dublin, recalling it all – the cold of the boat, the nagging anxiet
ies that no one would employ her in England, the humiliating experience of carrying a child of a man she hated.
All this came back vividly from the past and she cried: ‘Never, never will I tolerate him near me.’
He did not give in easily. He wrote congratulating her on her success. He had always known she had a talent that was near to genius. He offered her large sums of money if she would appear in Ireland. Her answer was No. Never again will I accept Richard Daly as my manager, she kept assuring herself. Never again will I willingly speak to him.
And at last even he had to accept her answer and he went back to Dublin without having spoken to Dorothy or having had a glimpse of his daughter.
When he had left Dorothy laughed at her fears. There was no need to have been so frightened. He was the evil genius of her youth; he could not harm her now.
Another year. More parts to be played. More triumphs to be won.
She was going to play Letitia Hardy in The Belle’s Stratagem and a new piece had been offered to her – a short play to be performed after the main event. It was one of the farces which the public had come to expect from her called The Spoiled Child and the main part was Little Pickle, a schoolboy, which seemed to have been written for Dorothy. It was the sort of part the public liked best from her; in the first place it put her into breeches; in the second it allowed her to do all sorts of clowning, some of which she thought up on the spur of the moment; and there were some catchy songs – the sort she sang with such verve that in the space of a few moments she had the audience singing with her.
Dorothy threw herself wholeheartedly into rehearsals for The Spoiled Child for she knew that this was the piece which would bring in the crowds. As a play it had no merit; it was sheer knockabout farce; but in Dorothy’s hands it was a masterpiece. She knew she would have the audience shrieking with laughter over Little Pickle’s pranks, such as sewing a courting couple together with a needle and thread while they were unaware of it; and putting his aunt’s parrot on the spit in place of the roasting pheasant, and pulling chairs away when people were going to sit down. It was the sort of practical joke type of humour which could send audiences wild with delight.