by Paula Byrne
There is nothing so difficult to preserve as female reputation; as it is rare, it creates universal envy: those who possess it, proud of the treasure, often become its detractors, merely because they cannot brook the presumption of a rival; while they practise, with insolent superiority, every vice that can contaminate the soul! How ridiculous is the woman that conceives a single perfection, which benefits no living creature but herself, sufficient to counterbalance the total want of every social virtue! – Small is the triumph of chastity that has never been assailed by the cunning of the seducer.23
Knowing so well the value of her own lost reputation, she could write eloquently on the vulnerability of a woman’s position once she had forfeited her good name:
She knew, that from the moment a woman places her reputation in the power of an undeserving object, she is no longer mistress of her own happiness; as perpetual dread of disgrace is worse than even the full conviction of the most atrocious crimes, she becomes the wretched and fearful dependant upon the mercy of her enemy at all time liable to the contempt and shame he may draw upon her: – he, on the other hand, holds himself the entire master of all her actions – a frown intimidates her; a sneer overwhelms her with apprehension – her good name is only maintained at his option, and if he proves a tyrant, she becomes his slave, if not his VICTIM.24
The Prince decides not to let Elvira’s obscure birth and lowly rank prevent him from marrying her: ‘her virtues place her above the trifling distinctions of rank or fortune’. This might suggest that the novel is a wish-fulfilment fantasy of Mary winning the hand of the accomplished young Prince – except that on the brink of their wedding, Elvira discovers that the Prince is really her brother! Upon which she falls into a delirium and dies.
Perhaps the most interesting feature of the novel is its revelation of the increasing radicalization of Mary’s views on rank and power:
Little and contracted minds are apt to envy the possessors of exalted titles and empty distinctions. IGNORANCE only descends to bestow admiration upon the gew-gaw appendages of what is commonly called RANK; it fancies it beholds a thousand dazzling graces, dignifying and embellishing the varnished front of artificial consequence. To the abject sycophant, who eats the bread of miserable obedience, poisoned by the breath of adulation, the baubles of greatness are objects of veneration; the imbecility of childhood is amused with every toy: – but the ENLIGHTENED MIND thinks for itself; explores the precepts of uncontaminated truth; weighs, in the even scale of unbiassed judgment, the rights and claims of intellectual pre-eminence; exults in the attributes of reason; and opposes, with dauntless intrepidity, every innovation that dares assail even the least of its prerogatives.25
Overt political commentary of this sort was unusual within the genre of the Gothic novel, which in the hands of writers such as Mrs Radcliffe displayed an inherent conservatism in its nostalgia for the feudal Middle Ages. As a broad generalization it may be said that sentimental fiction, as pioneered by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, was more amenable to radical thought: the sentimental novel offered a declaration of the universal rights of feeling, in which inequality of rank was no obstacle to spiritual union (typically, a well-born woman might fall in love with her impoverished tutor). Mary Robinson in many respects followed Mary Wollstonecraft’s trajectory from sentimental fiction to radical feminism, but it is striking that this path is anticipated in her Gothic fiction.
The character in Vancenza who comes closest to representing Robinson’s own authorial consciousness is the lively Carline, a feisty anti-heroine smuggled into an otherwise orthodox story line. She is the source of the novel’s comic moments, principally by virtue of her semi-detachment from the sentimental convolutions of the plot: ‘Elvira was overwhelmed with confusion – the Prince respectfully reserved – the Marchioness in high spirits; and Carline enjoying the general embarrassment.’26
The Oracle was quick to puff the new triumph of its most celebrated in-house author. James Boaden, now editor of the paper, wrote a sonnet on Vancenza and regular paragraphs were inserted with updates on the book’s stunning sales figures: ‘The rapid sale of Mrs Robinson’s novel of Vancenza has nearly taken all of the Second Edition already. This distinguished encouragement cannot but prove highly flattering to the Authoress, and will doubtless tempt her to pursue with unceasing and ardent zeal the paths of Literature.’27
For the third edition, prepared just three weeks after the publication of the first, Mary wrote a substantial new dedication: ‘The sale of two Editions of Vancenza, within one month after its publication, is too unequivocal a proof of protection, to allow me a silent gratification, where my heart prompts me to acknowledge the gratitude of its feeling. I disclaim the title of a Writer of Novels; the species of composition generally known under that denomination, too often conveys a lesson I do not wish to inculcate.’ Having detached herself from the run of the mill novelists of the day, she then concluded: ‘TO THAT PUBLIC, by which my literary productions have been so warmly received, I embrace this occasion of expressing my sense of obligations, and of respectfully dedicating the volumes of VANCENZA. Clarges-Street, February 27, 1792.’ This was a way of saying that she required no aristocratic or royal patron, but rather that she was a professional author whose patrons were her paying public.
If Mary expected Tarleton to return to her after the success of her first novel, she was to be disappointed. At the height of Vancenza’s success, she wrote a Valentine’s Day poem full of love-melancholy and hinting at imminent death:
No more about my auburn hair
The sparkling gems shall proudly vie;
The cypress, emblem of despair,
Shall there a faded chaplet die.
Young dimpled Pleasure quits my breast
To seek some gaudier bower than mine,
Where low Caprice, by Fancy drest,
Enthrals my truant Valentine …
Whene’er the icy hand of Death
Shall grasp this sensate frame of mine,
On my cold lip the fleeting breath,
Shall murmur still – ‘Dear Valentine!’
Then o’er my grave, ah! drop one tear,
And sighing write this pensive line –
‘A faithful heart lies mouldering here,
That well deserved its Valentine!’28
It is hard to judge whether this is an expression of heartfelt anguish or a bravura performance. Mary’s poems came from her experience, but lyrics such as this were written in a heightened and self-dramatizing style designed to create a frisson of strong feeling in the readers of the Oracle. They should not necessarily be treated as ‘raw’ autobiography. That said, there is no doubt that she was capable of fierce jealousy. One can sense her venom towards the rival who has snared Tarleton’s heart. Vancenza proposes that jealousy – which Mary carefully distinguishes from envy – is the inevitable concomitant of strong passion: ‘There is a natural mistrustful timidity in the female heart, even though it possesses every exquisite and refined qualification, that makes it, if it really loves, throb at the very shadow of a rival: she, who has never experienced the truth of this observation, is either more or less than woman.’29 This would be a recurring theme in her later novels.
The critical reception of Mary’s first novel, like that of her poetry, was broadly favourable. ‘An ancient Spanish record of domestic woe, extremely interesting and pathetic, has been decorated by the pen of our fair enchantress with peculiar taste, elegance and variety,’ said the European Magazine.30 The Monthly Review concentrated on the novel’s heightened style:
Vancenza, it is true, is not written in the simple style, but it is written, and in our opinion well-written, in the style of elegance peculiar to Mrs Robinson. The richness of fancy and of language, which the fair author had so successfully displayed in her poetical productions she has also transferred to prose narration; and has produced a tale, which, we venture to predict, will be much read and admired … the pleasing production of a fertile fancy, and a feeling
heart.31
The English Review warmly commended the novel, though considered it somewhat below the high standard of her poetry. It was an ‘elegant and affecting little tale’ that would send readers ‘weeping to their beds’. This might sound like lukewarm praise, but the reviewer still considered that Mrs Robinson was the greatest female author ever to have written in the English language:
There have been so many elegant proofs of the poetical powers of Mrs ROBINSON, that the most churlish critic cannot refuse to bear testimony in favour of her genius. Indeed, considering the number and the variety of her productions, we are disposed to think that she has more successfully climbed Parnassian heights than any female votary of the muses which this country has produced.32
There was inevitably a backlash against such high praise. In a damning article published some time later, the Critical Review objected to Robinson’s ornate language – ‘if you intended the language to be prose, it is too poetical; if to be poetry, it is very faulty’ – together with her unrealistic details and inconsistencies of plot. The reviewer was clearly provoked by the excessive partiality of Mary’s supporters:
Mrs Robinson’s eager, partial, and injudicious friends, have misled and injured her; nor are we wholly free from the inconveniences which they have occasioned. The merits of Vancenza have so often met our eyes; it has so often been styled excellent, admirable; the world has been so frequently called on to confirm this suffrage with their plaudits, that we dare not hint a fault, or hesitate dislike. What we disapprove, we must speak of plainly, and if our gallantry is called into question, the blame will fall on those who have compelled us to be explicit. After this introduction, we need not say that we think this novel unworthy of the high reputation of its author, a reputation the source of which it is not our present business to examine … it is with reluctance that we have engaged in this disquisition; but whatever may be the splendor of a name, we have never scrupled offering our opinion. The public will ultimately decide, and to their supreme tribunal we leave the decision, scarcely apprehending that the judgement will be reversed.33
Though Mary’s own public did decide in her favour, posterity has taken the opposite view: Vancenza was a product of the vogue for Gothic fiction and it now seems overblown to the point of absurdity. Its extraordinary commercial success and the way in which it established Mary’s reputation as a novelist make it a fascinating historical document, but it is her later novels that are the ones still worth reading.
Mary’s pleasure in the success of her first novel was marred by the death, on 23 February 1792, of her loyal friend Sir Joshua Reynolds. She published a poetic Monody in his memory. In early March her daughter Maria Elizabeth was ill as a result of her smallpox inoculation. Even a small domestic incident of this sort was reported in the Oracle: ‘Mrs Robinson’s literary pursuits are for the present interrupted by the claims of maternal affection. Her lovely and accomplished daughter is now under inoculation, and by the superior skill and attention of Dr MOSELEY, in fair way of doing well.’34 A week later, Maria Elizabeth’s return to health was celebrated in a poem published in the Oracle under the title ‘Written on the Recovery of my Daughter from Inoculation’.
Although its sales were exceptionally strong, Vancenza made little money for Mary. The book was ‘printed for the Authoress and sold by J. Bell’. This was a different arrangement from either subscription or the common practice of selling a limited copyright to the publisher for a fixed sum agreed in advance, in return for him taking the profit if a book succeeded or the loss if it failed. ‘Printed for the Authoress’ meant that Mary was standing the risk and should have reaped the profits: Bell would have charged for production costs and commission on sales, but Mary should have been entitled to substantial royalty earnings. She does not appear to have been given them, perhaps because Bell’s business was in dire straits (he went bankrupt the following year). ‘My mental labours have failed through the dishonest conduct of my publishers,’ she later wrote. ‘My works have sold handsomely, but the profits have been theirs.’35
So despite her literary success, Mary found herself deep in debt once again. She decided to leave England for the Continent. As she waited for her boat across the English Channel she wrote to Sheridan, begging for money and describing her miserable plight now that Tarleton had left her without his protection. It is the most raw and poignant of her surviving letters:
Dover, July 23 1792
My dear Sheridan
You will perhaps be surprized to hear that after an irreproachable connection of more than ten years, I am suffered to depart, an Exile from my country and all my hopes, for a few paltry debts. I sail this evening for Calais Alone – broken hearted, and without twenty pounds on the face of the Earth. My state of health is to[o] deplorable to bear description, totally lame and depressed in Spirits beyond what my strength can support. I conjure you not to mention this letter to anyone. I am sufficiently humbled by the base ingratitude of the world, without the additional mortification of public Exposure.
Since Colonel Tarleton has suffered me, to be thus driven a wanderer, upon the mercy of an unfeeling world, after having endured every insult from his present low associate, I am resolutely determined never to accept of any favour from him. – I shall in a few weeks be able to arrange my affairs – will you my dear Sheridan do me the kindness to lend me one hundred pounds? – I will pay you upon my honour; I know you will not refuse me; you will not suffer one whom you once honoured with your friendship, to endure every calamity, in a Country where she is without a friend to speak to. Indeed indeed my dear Sheridan I have not deserved what I Suffer – my Conduct has been Ever to[o] generous and too disinterested. I now feel the effect of my credulity.
When I arrive at Calais I shall not have five guineas – Send your letter under Cover carefully Seald, to the care of Mrs Belsher City of London Inn, Dover. She will forward it to me. Pray pray do not refuse me. I will – I will pay you upon my honour – I shall count the hours until I receive your answer – I have no other hope. Adieu.
Yours most truly
Mary Robinson
Pray don’t tell Tarleton – he will triumph in my sorrows and delight in hearing me humbled. I am finishing an Opera in Three acts, which I mean to offer you – I think it will succeed – at least I hope so – Pray send me a line.36
The next evening, she and her mother and daughter left Dover. The journey must have been exceptionally difficult for the three women, especially as Mary would have needed assistance climbing aboard, moving around the boat, and disembarking – depending on the weather, the crossing could have taken up to twenty-four hours.
Her plan was to go to her brother George in Italy. On the passage to Calais, she wrote what she thought would be her final farewell to Tarleton. It was posted back to London and published in the Oracle under the pen name ‘Julia’ and with the title ‘Stanzas Written between Dover and Calais, July 24th, 1792 Inscribed to——’:
Bounding billow, cease thy motion;
Bear me not so swiftly o’er!
Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean,
I will tempt thy rage no more.
Ah! within my bosom beating,
Varying passions wildly reign!
Love, with proud Resentment meeting;
Throbs by turn, of joy and pain.
Joy, that far from foes I wander,
Where their arts can reach no more;
Pain, that woman’s heart grows fonder,
When the dream of bliss is o’er …
Yet ere far from all I treasur’d,
********! ere I bid adieu,
Ere my days of pain are measur’d
Take the song that’s still thy due!
Yet believe, no servile passions
Seek to charm thy wand’ring mind;
Well I know thy inclinations,
Wav’ring as the passing wind!
I have lov’d thee! Dearly lov’d thee!
Through an age of worldly woe!
/> How ungrateful I have prov’d thee,
Let my mournful exile show!
Ten long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour, I counted o’er;
Looking forward till to morrow,
Every day I lov’d thee more!
Pow’r and Splendour could not charm me;
I no joy in Wealth could see;
Nor could threats or fears alarm me –
Save the fear of losing thee! …
Fare thee well, ungrateful Rover!
Welcome Gallia’s hostile shore;
Now, the breezes waft me over;
Now we part – To Meet No More.37
This became one of Mary’s most popular poems. It was set to music and, under the title ‘Bounding Billow’, became a well-known piece in the repertoire of drawing-room numbers to be sung around the piano.
Mary’s tame paper the Oracle reported that she was only going to be on the Continent for the summer season; she would be returning in the autumn to bring out her newly composed opera at Drury Lane. Her daughter’s account of this time abroad makes no mention of the break from Tarleton or Mary’s debts, suggesting instead that she set off for Spa in search of help for her rheumatism. Like St Amand les Eaux, where Mary had taken her mud baths some years before, Spa was a health resort in Flanders. When the three women arrived in Calais, they were unsure whether or not to proceed there, since they had heard that the region was ablaze with revolutionary and counter-revolutionary violence. They decided to stay a while in Calais. According to Maria Elizabeth, Mary’s time ‘passed in listening to the complaints of the impoverished aristocrats, or in attending to the air-built projects of their triumphant adversaries. The arrival of travellers from England, or the return of those from Paris, alone diversified the scene, and afforded a resource to the curious and active inquirer.’38 There was talk of the massacre in the Tuileries and the imprisonment of the royal family.