by Paula Byrne
Mary’s commitment to continue her writing career was of a piece with her decision not to follow the usual actor’s pattern of undertaking a gruelling tour in the provinces when the major theatres were closed for the summer. She was determined to cut a figure in London rather than wear herself out in provincial obscurity. She accordingly remained in her London lodgings in the summer of 1778. Early in August, Sheridan called on her to relay the sad news of the death of his brother-in-law Thomas Linley, 21 years old and the most promising composer in the land, in a freak boating accident.
Around the same time, Sheridan called again with a proposal that she should accept an engagement to play the short summer season at the Little Theatre in the Haymarket. She agreed, on condition that she should have control over her casting. She wanted to maximize her impact by only playing a few choice roles. Top of her list was the part of Miss Nancy Lovel in a comedy called The Suicide by Garrick’s friend George Colman. This was a cross-dressed ‘breeches role’, a daring opportunity for an actress to show off her legs. Mary received her copy of the part and waited for rehearsals to begin. But then she was startled to see a playbill advertising Miss Farren for the part. Elizabeth Farren was the beautiful low-born actress who would later marry into the aristocracy, becoming the Duchess of Derby. Mary wrote to the manager of the Haymarket demanding an explanation and was told that he had already promised the role to Farren and would not risk offending her. Mary responded that she must either be given the part as originally agreed or released from her contract. The manager refused to sign her off the books, she refused to play another role, and so an impasse was reached: ‘the summer passed without my once performing, though my salary was paid weekly and regularly’.24 It was a highly unusual occurrence for a player to be paid for not acting. Mrs Robinson was proving herself a determined manager of her own career.
She added several new roles to her repertoire during the following season at Drury Lane. Some were histrionic tragic performances dripping with sensibility. In Mahomet (an English version of a tragedy by Voltaire), reported the Morning Post, ‘Mrs Robinson performed Palmira with spirit, and discovered stage powers that should be more frequently called forth by the managers.’25 Others were lighter, among them Lady Plume in The Camp, a musical entertainment put together by Sheridan, and Miss Richly in The Discovery, a comedy by Sheridan’s mother Frances, in which Mary engaged in a coquettish double act with Elizabeth Farren. For her benefit in April 1779 she was Cordelia in Lear – tickets were available from her new residence in the Great Piazza on the corner of Russell Street, Covent Garden. Receipts were £210, of which she received half, following the deduction of the theatre’s ‘charges’ for expenses. By now she and Tom were leading separate lives, although he took her money. He was supporting two women in one house at Malden Lane, which was also in Covent Garden. One was a figure dancer from the Drury Lane company, the other ‘a woman of professed libertinism’. The bond creditors, meanwhile, ‘became so clamorous’ that the whole of Mary’s benefit was ‘appropriated to their demands’.26
On 10 May 1779, Sheridan presented Mary as Jacintha in The Suspicious Husband by Benjamin Hoadly, a comedy that had been premiered by Garrick thirty years before. It involved many exits and entrances through windows at night, and some risqué small talk. More to the point, it was her first cross-dressed role. ‘Last Night,’ the Morning Post informed its readers, ‘Mrs Robinson wore the breeches for the first time (on the stage at least) in the character of Jacintha in the Suspicious Husband, and was allowed to make a prettier fellow than any of her female competitors.’27 ‘On the stage at least’ seems to imply that Mary might have appeared in breeches off the stage some time before. That is certainly what she did two weeks later, when she attracted great attention by wearing Jacintha’s breeches at a masquerade in Covent Garden. This created a stir in the fashionable world, though at considerable risk to her reputation. To appear cross-dressed on stage was one thing; to do so in society quite another.
Five days after playing Jacintha for the first time, Mary took on another breeches role, Fidelia in Isaac Bickerstaffe’s reworking of William Wycherley’s comedy The Plain Dealer – the part is in the tradition of Shakespeare’s Viola, in which a young woman follows her beloved to sea dressed in man’s clothes. But it is a darker play than Twelfth Night: in Wycherley’s original Fidelia is almost raped on stage.28 From this point on in Mary’s career both on stage and in society, it is hard to avoid the subject of sex. Breeches roles were tremendously popular – they afforded male audiences their only public glimpse of the shape of a woman’s leg – but they reinforced the old prejudice that women who disported themselves on stage were little better than prostitutes. Actresses were required to lead exemplary lives if they stood a chance of earning respectability, and very few did, exposed as they were to the temptations of the rich patrons who frequented the theatres looking for mistresses. One commentator compared the stage to the window of a toyshop through which actresses could be seen and purchased.29 Actresses in the 1780s were seen as no different in kind, but only in degree, from the more obviously sexually available performers of the brothel. ‘Drury Lane Ague’ was slang for syphilis, ‘Drury Lane Vestal’ for a whore, ‘Covent Garden Abbess’ for a madam. Drury Lane and Covent Garden were in close physical proximity to bagnios and brothels; prostitutes sold their services in and around the theatre buildings.
Actresses were thrilling to look at, glamorous and mysterious. Because they were on public display, they broke all the conduct-book rules about feminine modesty. Periodically there were outcries against the immorality of the stage, and it was the actresses who usually bore the brunt of the the press’s opprobrium. In private, too, even those who were closely connected to the theatre had their doubts. Sheridan forbade his wife to perform in public once they were married, earning the approbation of Dr Johnson. When his wife’s sister Mary Linley was offered a contract by Garrick, he wrote a letter to her brother that positively bursts with invective: were she to accept Garrick’s offer, she would become ‘the unblushing Object of a Licentious gaping croud’, the ‘Creature of a mercenary Manager, The Servant of the Town, and a licens’d Mark for Libertinism … a Topick for illiberal News-Paper Criticism and Scandal’. ‘It would be needless to add the circumstance of a Girl’s making a Shew of herself in Breeches.’30 He argued that no decent man ever married an actress and that nine out of every ten actresses ended up bitterly regretting going on the stage. He would rather see his sister-in-law dead than become an actress.
Furthermore, there was anxiety about actresses emulating aristocratic women so successfully that they could play the fine lady offstage as well as on it. Well-to-do women often sold their second-hand clothes to actresses. Actresses used their freedom in selecting their own apparel to associate themselves further with women of quality. By dressing fashionably both onstage and off, they reinforced the idea that there was little to separate them from their most established and wealthy patrons. Mary was careful to emphasize the continued patronage of the Duchess of Devonshire and the esteem in which she was held by several other ‘respectable and distinguished females’. The prominence of ladies of quality in the theatre world was another bane of anti-theatrical pamphleteers. Actresses would often speak Prologues and Epilogues that appealed to the generosity of ‘The Ladies’ for applause and approval. Actresses increasingly aligned themselves with aristocratic women to defend themselves against the less flattering comparisons suggested in scurrilous biographies and the ever more scandalous paragraphs in the newspapers and periodicals. As Mary insisted, ‘I had still the consolation of an unsullied name. I had the highest female patronage, a circle of the most respectable and partial friends.’31
Such patronage could not, however, shield her from family disapproval. When Mary’s elder brother John visited England from Tuscany, where he had become a respectable merchant, he was horrified by his sister’s choice of profession. She managed to persuade him to see her perform, but the moment he saw her ente
ring the stage he ‘started from his seat in the stage-box, and instantly quitted the theatre’. Hester, meanwhile, heartily disliked the idea of her daughter being on stage and, although she would go to the theatre to see her perform, she did not hesitate to show ‘painful regret’.32 Mary claims that fortunately her father remained abroad all this time, so never saw her act. But actually he came in and out of the country during these years. In 1779 he opened a subscription at the London Coffee House ‘for fitting out a stout privateer’. So it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that one night Nicholas Darby may have slipped into Drury Lane and seen his daughter under the lights.
In Mary’s 1796 novel, Angelina, the heroine’s despotic father (who is a merchant like Nicholas Darby) condemns female stage players: ‘my daughter an actress! why, I’d cut her legs off, if I thought she wished to disgrace herself by such an idea’. He would rather ‘see her dead, than making such a moppet of herself, as to run about like a vagrant, playacting’. Mary’s own attitude comes across when one of her female characters voices an impassioned defence of the profession as a serious and respectable art:
We have many females on the stage, who are ornaments to society, and in every respect worthy of imitation! For my part, I adore the Theatre, and think there is more morality to be found in one good tragedy, than in all the sermons that ever were printed. With regard to acting; it is an act which demands no small portion of intellectual acquirements! It polishes the manners; enlightens the understanding, gives a finish to external grace, and calls forth all the powers of mental superiority!33
*Brereton died in 1787 after a year’s confinement in the Hoxton lunatic asylum. Later the same year Priscilla married another famous actor, John Philip Kemble (brother of Sarah Siddons).
*When first published, Mary’s Memoirs filled two volumes: in a suitably dramatic touch, the first volume ends at this point in her story, as ‘with trembling limbs, and fearful apprehension, I approached the audience’.
CHAPTER 7
A Woman in Demand
It has ever been a decided opinion in my mind, that the man who first seduces a woman from the paths of chastity is accessory to all the ills that may await her during the remaining hours of her existence.
Mary Robinson, Walsingham
Mary’s marriage had become a sham. Nevertheless, in the summer of 1779 she accompanied Tom to Tregunter once again. In all probability, he was seeking breathing space from his creditors and wanted to make another attempt to get money out of Harris.
Her reception at Tregunter House was much better than it had been the time when prison loomed: ‘Mrs Robinson, the promising young actress, was a very different personage from Mrs Robinson who had been overwhelmed with sorrows, and came to ask an asylum under the roof of vulgar ostentation.’ Elizabeth Robinson expressed her disapproval of Mary’s profession, but the ‘supposed immorality was … tolerated’ as the labour was ‘deemed profitable’.1 The visit appeared to go well. Harris arranged parties and dinners to show her off. The well-to-do women of the locality treated her as ‘the very oracle of fashion’. After two weeks in Wales, she returned to London to prepare for the new season. On the way home, a pause at Bath exposed her to the solicitations of the dangerous duellist, George Brereton, prominent amongst her husband’s creditors. Tom had met him in the racing town of Newmarket some time before.
Mary’s re-enactment of the story is one of the best scenes in the Memoirs. It reads like a true novel of sensibility. Brereton had married his cousin, the daughter of the Master of Ceremonies at Bath. Despite the Robinsons’ financial difficulties, they stayed at the Three Tuns, one of the city’s best inns. Brereton was initially friendly, but then his attentions turned to ardour: he made ‘a violent and fervent declaration of love’, which ‘astonished and perplexed’ Mary. She thought the best course of action was to leave town and go to Bristol. They checked into an inn there, in Temple Street. The next morning, just as they were going out to make a visit in Clifton, Tom was arrested at the suit of Brereton on the basis of a promissory note ‘in magnitude beyond his power to pay’. A few minutes later, Mary was informed that a lady wished to see her in an upstairs room. Assuming it was one of her old acquaintances, she followed a waiter into another room, while her husband was detained by the sheriff. Brereton was waiting for her: he had got wind of their movements and followed them to Bristol. ‘Well, Madam,’ he said with a sarcastic smile, ‘you have involved your husband in a pretty embarrassment! Had you not been severe towards me, not only this paltry debt would have been cancelled, but any sum that I could command would have been at his service. He has now either to pay me, to fight me, or to go to a prison; and all because you treat me with such unexampled rigour.’2
When she begged for mercy, he asked her to promise that she would return to Bath and ‘behave more kindly’ to him. She realized what he was asking and burst into tears. She accused him of inhumanity. He replied that she was the one being inhuman – for not giving in to him and for making him follow her to Bristol at a time when his own wife lay dangerously ill in Bath. He rang the bell and ordered the waiter to look for his carriage. Mary lost control of herself and screamed that she would expose him as a seducer and villain. Brereton changed colour and tried to calm her down, fearing an embarrassing incident in a public place. He tried to reason with her, asking why she chose to stay with a husband who treated her so badly. It would be an act of kindness to estrange her from such a man. His neglect of her would justify any action she took. Was it not ‘a matter of universal astonishment’ in society that a woman renowned for her ‘becoming spirit’ should ‘tamely continue to bear such infidelities from a husband’? This hit a nerve with Mary, for Brereton was echoing the view taken not only by the gossips in the theatre world but also by her closest circle of friends. At the same time, it was a line that libertines had tried on her before.
Brereton continued to taunt her as she paced the room in anguish. ‘How little does such a husband deserve such a wife,’ he said:
‘How tasteless must he be, to leave such a woman for the very lowest and most degraded of the sex! Quit him, and fly with me. I am ready to make any sacrifice you demand. Shall I propose to Mr Robinson to let you go? Shall I offer him his liberty on condition that he allows you to separate yourself from him? By his conduct he proves that he does not love you; why then labour to support him?’3
Mary was almost frantic. ‘Here, Madam,’ continued Brereton, after pausing four or five minutes, ‘here is your husband’s release.’ So saying, he threw a written paper on the table. ‘Now,’ he added, ‘I rely on your generosity.’ She trembled, unable to speak. Brereton told her to compose herself and to conceal her distress from the staff and guests at the inn. ‘I will return to Bath,’ he said, ‘I shall there expect to see you.’ He stormed out of the room, got into his chaise and drove away from the inn door. Mary hurried to show her husband the discharge. All the expenses of the arrest were settled shortly afterwards. They returned to Bath. Robinson did not ask too many questions. Mary warned him against placing his freedom in the hands of a gamester and his wife’s virtue in the power of a libertine, but she knew he would not listen.
Back in Bath, they moved to a different inn, the White Lion. The next afternoon, a Sunday, Mary was astonished to look out of the window and see Brereton parading down the road ‘with his wife and her no less lovely sister’ – the story of the wife’s dangerous illness was a lie. When the Robinsons sat down to dinner, Brereton was announced by the waiter. He ‘coldly bowed’ to Mary and then apologized to Tom, producing a story about how he had only taken action because he was himself being menaced for the money, that he had come to Bristol to prevent rather than to enforce the arrest, and that he had now paid off the demand. Perhaps he would have the honour of seeing the Robinsons later that evening? They did not wait around for him: immediately after dinner they set off for London. Mary dramatizes this story – like that of her meeting with her husband’s first mistress, Harriet Wilmot – so as to
emphasize that she was a wronged woman long before any scandalous liaison of her own, but the vivid details have the ring of truth.
Back in London, the Robinsons rented a spacious and elegant house from the actress Isabella Mattocks, in the heart of Covent Garden, near Drury Lane Theatre. They entertained with abandon: ‘My house was thronged with visitors, and my morning levees were crowded so that I could scarcely find a quiet hour for study.’4 Robinson had a lucky streak with the cards and they spent the money on horses, ponies and a new carriage.
Once again the gossip sheets whispered that the rising star Mary and the dashing theatre manager Sheridan were more than friends. A letter to the Morning Post signed ‘Squib’ said ‘Mrs Robinson is to the full, as beautiful as Mrs Cuyler [another actress]; and Mrs Robinson has not been overlooked; the manager of Drury-Lane has pushed her forward.’ Mary responded: ‘Mrs Robinson presents her compliments to Squib, and desires that the next time he wishes to exercise his wit, it may not be at her expense. Conscious of the rectitude of her conduct, both in public and private, Mrs Robinson does not feel herself the least hurt, at the ill-natured sarcasms of an anonymous detractor.’5 She was learning to play the press, an art for which she had good masters in Sheridan and Garrick.
Sheridan continued to pay her marked attention, but she claimed that – in contrast to the behaviour of the libertines – his attitude was always courteous and respectful. He was too good a friend and a man of too much honour to take advantage of her miserable marriage. ‘The happiest moments I then knew, were passed in the society of this distinguished being. He saw me ill-bestowed on a man who neither loved nor valued me; he lamented my destiny, but with such delicate propriety, that it consoled while it revealed to me the unhappiness of my situation.’ And yet she also writes more defensively: ‘Situated as I was at this time, the effort was difficult to avoid the society of Mr Sheridan. He was manager of the theatre. I could not avoid seeing and conversing with him at rehearsals and behind the scenes, and his conversation was always such as to fascinate and charm me.’6 Is there a hint of some impropriety here? In the original manuscript of the Memoirs a long paragraph immediately preceding this remark is heavily deleted – could Mary have confessed something and then thought better of it? On the other hand, it is striking that the author of the anonymous Memoirs of Perdita, who was for the most part eager to accuse her of having affairs with almost every important man she met, restrained himself in the case of Sheridan: ‘Of the nature of their intimacy, though the tattle of the day may have spoke freely, no particulars have transpired; nor should tattle always be regarded.’7