Perdita's Prince

Command performance at Drury Lane

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, twenty-eight years old, witty, brilliant and the most successful playwright in London and manager of the Drury Theatre, was on his way to Buckingham House for an audience with the King. He knew what this meant: a royal command performance, always good for business. He was well aware that it was no use offering The School for Scandal. He laughed inwardly, thinking of some of the epigrammatical gems of that piece, of the screen scene, of his adorable but rather naughty Lady Teazle, and imagining the reception this would get from humourless George and Charlotte.

He was going to offer them The Winter’s Tale. It would have to be Shakespeare although he knew full well that the King found the great playwright dull: Still, his subjects expected him to see Shakespeare. Shakespeare was respectable, which seemed a little odd to Sheridan as some of the lines came into his mind – but Shakespeare had his place in the literature of the land and his poetry made up for his bawdiness. Any of the Restoration plays with their cynical approach to marriage would be definitely unsuitable for the King.

Arrived at Buckingham House Sheridan was conducted to the King’s apartments and in a very short time was granted an audience.

‘Mr Sheridan, it is good of you to come.’ The King was always considerate to his subjects and behaved with an absence of arrogance. The epithet homely was apt.

‘At Your Majesty’s pleasure,’ replied Sheridan with a courtly bow.

‘You will have guessed why I asked you to come, Mr Sheridan, eh, what?’ Sheridan was about to speak for one did not realize when first in the King’s company that the queries were merely rhetorical. The King went on without a pause: ‘We are thinking of coming to the theatre … the Queen and myself in the company of the Prince of Wales.’

In the company of the Prince of Wales! Sheridan felt excited. This would indeed be an occasion.

‘Drury Lane will be honoured, Sir.’

The King looked pleased. He enjoyed doing good turns and he knew how these theatre people liked a command performance. They were rare. He preferred the opera and a good concert; but it was his duty to see a play now and then.

‘The point is,’ said the King, ‘what will be played for us? It should be something in … er … good taste, eh, what?’

‘The utmost good taste, Sir.’

The King looked quizzically at Mr Sheridan. He had heard that this young man was a little wild in his habits. There had been some elopement, he believed; though why he should have heard these bits of gossip about a theatre manager he could not imagine. Except of course that Mr Sheridan had taken the town by storm with that play of his. It was his wife of course. One of the finest singers in the country. Mrs Sheridan made Mr Sheridan more respectable in the royal eyes.

‘Well,’ said the King, ‘what would you suggest, Mr Sheridan?’

‘Has your Majesty decided on Shakespeare?’

The King looked scornful. ‘Sad stuff … most of it,’ he said. ‘Eh? What?’ Mr Sheridan was pleased not to answer. The King went on: ‘But the people of this country seem to have made a god of the fellow. Mustn’t say a word against him. He’s perfect, so they tell me. I don’t see it, Mr Sheridan. I don’t see it.’

‘Then, sir …’ Sheridan’s eyes were alight with hope. Why not? Mrs Abington would have to play Lady Teazle of course. And what a player! And Mary Robinson … dear, exquisite Mary Robinson would be Maria … as they were before. Mary would want to play Lady Teazle … but she wasn’t up to the part really … lovely as she was to look at; and for all her cruderies Abington was an actress to her fingertips whereas Mary owed her success to that incomparable beauty. Incomparable but not quite. His own Elizabeth, the wife with whom he had eloped … had perhaps a greater beauty than Mary Robinson’s, but more ethereal. Elizabeth? Mary? Elizabeth would always be first but Mary was so alluring; and a man whose career necessarily brought him into the company of so many desirable women could not be expected to remain faithful to his wife even though she were delightful, understanding, virtuous … in fact all that a wife should be. Elizabeth would understand his weaknesses. But his thoughts were straying. A royal command performance for The School. It would be the crowning triumph and what fun to watch the royal disapproval of the wit … though would they grasp it? What would prim George and dull Charlotte make of the wittiest play in London? How amusing to discover.

The King had interrupted: ‘Yes it must be Shakespeare, Mr Sheridan. The people expect it of us.’

Sheridan sighed. ‘I believe Your Majesty does not greatly care for tragedy, so I will not suggest Macbeth.’

‘Can’t stand the stuff. People killing each other all over the stage, eh, what? I call that even worse than the rest of the fellow’s plays, Mr Sheridan.’

‘Then Your Majesty would perhaps care to see The Winter’s Tale. A charming story of virtue rewarded, Sir. And we have a very good production of this play. It is a favourite of mine, if Your Majesty would allow me to express my opinion. It is a play for the family, Sir. One could take one’s children and not be dismayed.’

‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘The Winter’s Tale. I remember it. A silly story, but as you say nothing to offend.’

‘I have an excellent actress in the part of Perdita, Your Majesty. She has been delighting my audiences for some little time and I am sure will please you.’

The King grunted, implying that he was not interested in actresses. But the voices in his head were telling him that he would enjoy seeing this beauty perform.

She made quite a name for herself as Juliet, Your Majesty; and since then has been a favourite of the public.’

‘Good. Then let it be The Winter’s Tale, Mr Sheridan.’

‘Sir, the players will be enchanted … and a little nervous, I dare swear. I shall take the first opportunity of letting them know the honour that awaits them.’

The King smiled, in a good humour. He liked giving pleasure and discussing the visit of his family to the play was more comforting than those interviews with his ministers.

Sheridan went back to his house in Great Queen Street … that house which was far more expensive than he could afford. But he was by nature reckless and extravagant.

He went straight to the drawing room for he knew that he would find Elizabeth there at the harpsichord. She invariably was because it was essential for her to do a great many hours practice a day. She was reckoned by the musical world to have one of the most enchanting voices of all time.

He was right. She was there; and she rose at once to greet him, coming forward her arms outstretched. Even now her beauty struck him afresh and he had to stifle a feeling of shame for the infidelities he had practised since their marriage. Not that she would not understand. Not that she would ever withdraw the comfort of her serene presence. Elizabeth was a saint – and how could a man like Richard Sheridan live up to the high ideals of a saint?

‘Elizabeth my love.’ He kissed her hands; he did not have to feign affection; it was there, rising up, swamping all other emotions temporarily whenever he saw her. ‘What do you think? I have just come from the presence of His Majesty, King George III.’

‘A royal command performance?’

‘You have guessed rightly, my dear.’

She drew him on to the sofa and said: ‘Come, tell me all about it.’ Her lovely face was framed by soft dark hair, the sweet mouth and the lovely long-lashed eyes under delicate but beautifully arched brows, glowed with interest.

Sheridan then gave an imitation of his interview with the King, exaggerating it, mocking both himself and the monarch so that Elizabeth laughed immoderately and begged him to stop.

‘The outcome of this historic interview is, my love, that we are to play The Winter’s Tale for the royal family. And the Prince of Wales himself will be present.’

‘This is a sign that the Prince will be seen more frequently in public.’

‘Papa holds the knife that will cut the apron strings. It is poised, but the cut has not yet been made.’

‘I am sorry for His Majesty. He is so good, really, Richard.’

‘Alas for the good! They suffer so much. Unfair of fate is it not? It’s the wicked who should suffer.’

He looked at her wistfully and she understood; but she smiled brightly. She would not show him that she often wondered where he was when not at home; that she trembled when she saw the accounts which came too frequently to Great Queen Street. She did not reproach him for those gambling debts which sucked up most of the profits from Drury Lane. But she was constantly worried about money.

‘Well, my love,’ he said, ‘this should bring in the cash. You know what a help these performances are. Everyone will want to see The Winter’s Tale because the royal family did. And, by God, we need the money.’

She knew it. She helped with the accounts at Drury Lane; and she knew too that they could have lived in comfort – indeed, luxury – but for her husband’s wild extravagances.

There could be a way out of their difficulties. She herself could earn money. Her voice could have been her fortune and was on the way to becoming so before her marriage. She had been offered twelve hundred guineas to sing for twelve nights at the Pantheon but her husband’s pride would not allow her to do this.

It was something Elizabeth could not understand. How much more dishonourable to run up bills which one could not pay than to allow one’s wife to sing for money. But Richard had his pride. Pride indeed. One of the seven deadly sins. Pride insisted that he must consort with rich men, that he must gamble with them, that he must do all that they did, though they were rich and he must needs earn his living.

But she could not understand Sheridan; she could only love him.

She did not remind him that the theatre was doing well, that he himself had a brilliant future before him. She would have been happy to live as they had in those ecstatic days of their honeymoon in the tiny cottage at East Burnham; but that of course was not what Richard wanted. He needed the gay life of London – the theatrical world, the literary world, the wits, the men and women of brilliance to set off the sparks which lighted his talents.

‘It will have to be a superb performance,’ he said; and she was astonished at the manner in which he could throw aside all financial anxieties at the thought of the production. ‘We must go into rehearsal right away. Nothing but the best, Elizabeth.’

‘And will Mrs Robinson perform?’

He did not meet her eye. He wondered how much she knew of his relationship with the beautiful actress. He felt angry suddenly. He was a man of genius, wasn’t he? She could not expect to apply ordinary standards to him. She should know that however much he strayed he always came back to her. He would never cease to love her; he knew there was not a woman in the world like her. Wasn’t that enough? Mary Robinson was beautiful … in a different way from Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s beauty was of the heavenly variety – ‘as beautiful as an angel’, they had said of her. But a man of genius must experience the world. He cannot spend his life among angels.

He spoke irritably. ‘Of course. Of course. Why not? She’s our biggest draw.’

‘Of course,’ said Elizabeth calmly. ‘I merely wondered whether she was experienced enough.’

‘Experienced? She’s been playing for more than three years. Her Juliet was an immediate success.’

‘I see. So she will play Perdita.’

‘Perdita it shall be.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can’t delay. I must tell them of this great honour. We must begin our preparations at once.’ He stood up uneasily. Was she wondering whether his affair with the actress was still going on? Did she know it had ever existed?

That was the trouble with these good women. One could never be sure how much they knew because they met all calamity, all disaster and the deceits of others, with a calm tolerance which, although it smoothed out the difficulties of life, could be damnably exasperating.

He embraced her with fervour and her response was immediate. She had sworn to love him and naturally she kept her vows.

‘I had to come home to tell my Elizabeth first of all,’ he said.

Then he was out of the house and as he called for his chair his anxieties fell from him. It was only when he entered the house that he remembered what it had cost and that a great deal of the furniture was not yet paid for. It was only when he was in the company of his wife that he remembered his sins.

Now to Mary Robinson. He imagined himself telling her the news.

When he had gone Elizabeth returned to the harpsichord, but instead of singing sat silent, thinking of her romantic elopement, of the transcending joy of those days when she had believed that when she and Richard were married they would live happily ever after. At least, she could console herself, she would never be happy without him.

Yet before he had come into her life she had lived serenely in her father’s house where everything was subservient to music. All day long the sounds of music had filled the house. Bath was such a gracious city; often here in London she dreamed of Bath. But Richard must be in London, naturally, for London was necessary to him. Here he had his theatre and he was in the centre of the gay life; here were the gaming houses, the clubs which he could not resist; here were the brilliant men like Charles James Fox whose company he so enjoyed.

But the old days had been sweet. She smiled to remember singing with her sister Mary; and her brother Tom’s playing of the violin when he was in the nursery had been declared nothing short of genius.

And how proud her father had been of his brilliant children – perhaps particularly of her! His ‘song bird’, he had called her, and she remembered well the day when he had said to her: ‘Elizabeth, I believe there never has been a sweeter voice than yours.’ How happy that had made her! And she had become famous – or almost – when she had sung in an oratorio before the King. Everyone had been talking of her voice then. And her sister Mary who had a beautiful voice of her own had said it was only a pale echo of Elizabeth’s.

Those were happy days when they had all been together in the big house in Bath and their father had taught singing. Then had come that fateful day when Mrs Sheridan, wife of a teacher of elocution, had come to the house for singing lessons; the friendship between the two families had begun and Richard was a constant visitor to the singing master’s house.

She had often thought of going into a convent and when the odious Major Matthews had pursued her and would not be repulsed she had felt the need for the sequestered life more than ever. She had a beauty which almost rivalled her musical talents and she knew that she would be pursued by men. Some in high places had their eyes on her. Horace Walpole had written in one of those letters which so many people seemed to read that the King had been unable to take his eyes from her when she had sung in the oratorio and had ogled her as much as he dared in so holy a place.

A convent promised a blissful retreat in which she could sing holy music for the comfort of its inmates. But Richard was there – the good friend, the gay young man with ambitions of which he talked to her and to whom she was able to confide her desire for the retired life. He was entirely sympathetic and she had wondered how this was possible since his ambitions lay in such a different direction.

When Sir Joshua Reynolds painted her as St Cecilia she was famous. None of the angels among whom he had placed her, so it was said, had a sweeter and more angelic face than hers. She was fragile, unworldly; and the desire to go into a convent was greater than ever; and then the doubts had come. Who had planted them in her mind but the young and virile companion of her childhood? What was the attraction between her and Richard? Why should one so worldly find such delight in the company of a woman whose ideal was a convent life?

Major Matthews had come into her life and even now she shuddered to recall him. How she loathed that man! He was coarse; he was sensuous; and her very remoteness from all that he was made him desire her the more. He was a man of means, and persistent, and she feared her father would want to make a match for her.

‘I must go into a convent,’ she told Richard. She knew of a convent in France, and if she could reach it she was certain she would be given sanctuary there.

Dear Richard. How chivalrous he was! She knew now that he was fighting against his own emotions. He realized the incongruity of a match between themselves; how would such a delicate creature fit in with his ambitions? But he could not allow her heart to be broken, her spirit quenched by the hateful Major Matthews. He must save her from that so he had conceived the plan for conducting her to her convent and with only her maid for company and as chaperone they had fled from Bath. It was a mad adventure; and before they had reached London Richard had declared his love for her. At that time it had seemed more important than ambition. And herself? She had made a discovery too. It was not life in a convent she wanted but life with Richard.

‘We must marry,’ said Richard, ‘for even if we did not wish to, now that we have eloped together there is no other course open to us.’

She smiled recalling it; that hasty marriage; the solemn words said before the priest, and no sooner was the ceremony over and they returned to the lodgings Richard had found for them than her father arrived in a great state of agitation, threatened to horsewhip Richard and carried his daughter back to Bath.

‘But we are married,’ she had insisted.

‘Doubtless a mock marriage,’ growled her father. ‘I know these scoundrels.’

But this was not a scoundrel. This was Richard, the friend of her childhood. Her father must realize this. He did and was somewhat mollified to recall it. He cared so much for me, she thought tenderly. He wanted my happiness above all things. He would never have forced me into marriage with Major Matthews. If she had not been so young and impetuous she would have known that. But perhaps she had deceived herself then. Perhaps at heart she had wanted to elope with Richard, had wanted to marry him all along. Could it be that she had always seen the prospect of life in a convent as an impossible dream?

Richard would always be surrounded by drama. She caught her breath with horror even now as she remembered hearing the news that Major Matthews had challenged him to a duel, that Richard had accepted the challenge and had been wounded. She had wanted to go to him at once but her father had restrained her and Richard had written to her – impassioned letters with that touch of brilliance which playgoers were finding so much to their taste.

And her father … her dear father had relented. ‘Since you feel as you do, there’d better be a proper ceremony and you can set up house together.’

And so they were married in a manner fitting her father’s position in Bath; and they went to live in the little cottage at East Burnham.

How many times during the years that followed had she thought of that little cottage and the happiness she had had there! Far more so than in this luxurious house in Great Queen Street. There had been no debts then, no knowledge of what the future with a brilliant man could be like. Romantically innocent she had believed that life would be one long round of bliss.

But he had soon begun to talk of London – wistfully at first. It was his Mecca; it was the centre of the literary world. There was no intellectual life at East Burnham. One must be in London.

‘And, Elizabeth my love, there is money. It has to be earned you know.’ London where the streets are paved with gold, the great city which was waiting to acclaim Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the only place where he could give free play to his talents.

And so … goodbye to the cottage where she had been so happy, and to Orchard Street where she learned about debts and witty men who took her husband from his own fireside to clubs where they gambled. To chocolate and coffee houses where men congregated to talk of the events of the day, to read the lampoons which were handed round about the famous and notorious, to laugh at the cartoons. ‘To live,’ said Richard.

It was to her that he read The Rivals. She was the first to sit entranced, her hands clasped together, and to call him a genius.

He accepted her verdict. He knew he had genius.

And the people accepted him. They saw The Rivals and decided they wanted more of Sheridan. Success came quickly, for he was only in his twenties, and the most talked of playwright and soon … manager of Drury Lane.

But oh the debts! The eternal demands for money! Why was it that as he grew more successful his debts increased and the more money he earned the more he needed?

‘The company we keep is too grand for us, Richard,’ she expostulated.

‘Too grand for the Sheridans!’

‘We cannot afford to entertain them, Richard. If they need such entertainment shouldn’t we tell them it is beyond our means.’

He had laughed at her, lifted her and held her above his head.

‘Now you look like an angel … looking down on a poor weak mortal. An avenging angel! My dearest St Cecilia, we cannot reach our rightful place in society unless we mingle with the ton. If we did not mingle with the rich and the noble we should soon be relegated to a back seat.’

‘It is your plays surely that have made you famous – not your acquaintances.’

But he had laughed at her and said she was his angel; she lived in the rarefied atmosphere far, far above him, so far that she could not see what life was like among ordinary mortals.

And the bills continued to come in and her dowry of three thousand pounds which had once seemed so considerable was quickly swallowed up; and she had asked her father to help them out of their pecuniary embarrassments so many times that she could not bring herself to ask again. She was ashamed to ask, for Richard earned far more money than her father ever had and it seemed so wrong to take his money. When she told Richard this he laughed at her. ‘But it is not what one earns that is important, my love. It’s what one spends.’

How true … how sadly true!

And they could have been so comfortable. She had never wanted luxury … luxury that was unpaid for and a reproach to her every time she was aware of it. If she told him that she had been happier in the little cottage in East Burnham he would have laughed that mocking laugh of his. St Cecilia! he called her. His angel who was too good for ordinary mortal men.

If he would be reasonable … if he would give up the worldly life … if he would be content to live simply and write his plays …

But that was to hope for the impossible. Why had they fallen in love? Why had they not seen that they were so different, that each had their eyes fixed on a different ideal? He was gay, handsome, witty and brilliant – a man of the world. And she asked for nothing from life but her music and his love.

She sighed and turned to the harpsichord.

Yet I would not change him, she told herself. As if I could! For if I changed him he would not be Richard Sheridan – and it is Richard Sheridan whom I love.

Sheridan did not go to the theatre. None of the players would be there at this hour. Instead he directed the chairman to the house of Mrs Mary Robinson, where the lady’s maid, Mrs Armistead, received him, for Mary Robinson’s hired footman had not yet appeared for duty.

His eyes followed Mrs Armistead as she took him to a small drawing room where he could wait while she went to tell her mistress of his arrival. Mrs Armistead was so quiet, so discreet, yet one could not help but be aware of her. She was handsome, but in a way which was by no means flamboyant; neatly dressed in her maid’s uniform, yet she did not look like a maid. Sheridan had noticed more than once that she walked with unusual grace; and it suddenly struck him that it was her dignity which drew attention to her.

In a short time Mrs Armistead returned to tell Mr Sheridan that her mistress would be with him very soon.

‘Thank you,’ said Sheridan. He was on the point of detaining the woman, but she seemed to sense this and with unhurried dignity left him.

No nonsense, thought Sheridan with a smirk. No flirting with the lady’s maid behind the lady’s back.

Then he forgot the maid because Mary had come in. He had to admit that every time he saw her she took his breath away. Her beauty burst upon the eye as the sunlight would after coming out of the dark. Mary was a dazzling beauty. Different from the handsome maid – whose looks were of a more subtle nature and had to be discovered gradually; Mary’s were so brilliantly obvious that their impact was immediate.

Conscious of the effect she had on people Mary always dressed for the part. Today she wore a pink satin gown, fashionably hooped and ornamented by a silver pattern. Her hair was dressed in loose curls and lightly powdered, her exquisite neck and bosom rather freely exposed.

Sheridan opened his eyes to express the wonder she expected to see in the eyes of any man; then taking her hand humbly kissed it.

Mary smiled; she was satisfied.

‘Sherry, my dear, dear friend.’

‘My angel!’

He would have embraced her but she lifted a hand. Mary gave herself airs now that she was a well-known actress.

‘What an unexpected pleasure to see you at this hour! What will you take? Coffee? Chocolate? Tea? Wine?’

He would take nothing, he told her; it was enough for him to drink in her charms.

She laughed – a little refined laugh. Mary was always anxious that she should be treated as a lady. She liked to think that she had brought refinement to the stage and as a good business manager he was ready to humour an actress who had the gift of bringing in the people. It was enough for them to look at Mary Robinson, irrespective of the play. And there was no doubt that she had brought in the nobility too. The Duke of Cumberland was an admirer, though Mary – wisely perhaps – had resisted all his offers.

‘What brings you, truly? You are not going to tell me that you could not wait for a glimpse of me at the theatre today?’

‘If I told you that it would be true too.’

‘Oh, come, come.’

Yes, she was a little imperious. Well, with beauty such as hers perhaps it was forgivable. Her dark hair was luxuriantly abundant; her brow was a little high and the deeply set eyes under the level brows, the straight nose, the perfectly formed lips, were touched with an air of haunting melancholy which made her face unforgettable. This was no mere pretty girl. This was beauty. The contours of her face were perfect; her body was beautifully proportioned; she moved with the utmost grace; she was conscious, Sheridan was sure, every minute of the day, of her beauty.

‘Well, my beautiful Mary, there is something else. I was determined to tell you first.’

‘A new play?’

He shook his head. A faint irritation had passed across her face. She had not really forgiven him for not giving her the part of Lady Teazle. ‘Mrs Abington is so … vulgar,’ she had declared. Always eager that her refinement should be acknowledged, she invariably called attention to the vulgarity of others. ‘Precisely so,’ he had retorted. ‘That’s why it’s Abington’s part. Don’t forget Lady Teazle was not of the ton. You, my dearest Mary, have only to walk on a stage and everyone knows you are a lady. And, bless you, you are not a good enough actress to hide it.’ Careful, he had thought. A backhanded compliment. But one thing he had been determined on: Abington was going to play Lady Teazle – and not even for beautiful Mary would he allow his play to have anything but the best. She had not been reconciled and continued to believe that she had been slighted.

Now he said quickly: ‘No, no. Guess again.’

‘You are deliberately keeping me in suspense.’ She moved to a sofa and holding out her hand bade him sit beside her.

‘Then I will do so no longer. His Majesty sent for me to tell me that there is to be a command performance.’

‘I see.’ She was pleased, and tapped lightly with long tapering fingers. A habit, he had noticed, to call attention to them. They were as perfectly formed as the rest of her. ‘And I am to play before the King and Queen?’

‘Of course. How could it be otherwise? And there is something else. The Prince will accompany them.’

There was no sign of melancholy in her face now. Her eyes sparkled. ‘What play?’ A terrible fear showed itself. It would be The School. Trust Sheridan to put on his own play. And Abington would have the better part!

‘Shakespeare, of course. His Majesty thinks the “fellow” wrote “sad stuff” but the people seem to think it’s all that’s suitable for royal consumption.’

‘Romeo and Juliet?’ Juliet had been her first part. He remembered how beautiful she had looked.

‘The Winter’s Tale. You will be Perdita.’

‘Perdita!’ She was not displeased, but she was apt to think Juliet would have been better.

Sheridan disillusioned her. ‘Young love in defiance of parental authority is a sore point with HM at the moment. You know the Prince is apt to give Papa anxious moments on that account.’

She laughed. Perdita. Innocent, wistful, beautiful Perdita. She was growing more and more excited every moment.

‘I have seen him now and then,’ she said. ‘He’s a pretty boy.’

‘I feel sure he will be delighted to see you.’

Her mind immediately went to costumes. She saw herself in pink … her favourite colour because it became her most. But blue, perhaps. Satin? Velvet?

‘We should go into rehearsal immediately,’ said Sheridan.

He was looking at her appraisingly. She was even lovelier animated than melancholy, and the most susceptible young man in the country was the Prince of Wales. Surely he would not be able to look on all this beauty unmoved?

Was that what Mary was thinking? She had refused the protection of many rich and notorious men. Suppose … But that was looking too far ahead.

He leaned towards her and kissed her lightly.

‘Well, think about it, and be at the theatre early. We’ll go into rehearsal right away. I want perfection. You must please their Majesties … and the Prince … Perdita.’

He rose to go and Mrs Armistead, who had been listening at the door, walked out of sight unhurriedly and with dignity just as he came out of the room.

‘Armistead,’ said Mrs Robinson, ‘Come here. I’m to play Perdita in The Winter’s Tale.’

‘Is that so, Madam?’

‘It’s not a bad part.’

‘No, Madam.’

‘There’s something special about this performance though. The King and Queen will be there with the Prince of Wales.’

‘That will be a triumph, Madam.’

Mrs Robinson sighed and looked at herself in the mirror on the wall. She always seated herself so that she could comfortably see into it.

‘I am not sure, Armistead.’

‘No, Madam?’ The cool raising of very well marked brows matched the voice. Armistead was merely respectfully polite to a mistress who wished to confide in her.

‘I should never have been a play actress. It is hardly becoming to a lady.’

‘No, Madam.’

Mrs Robinson looked surprised. She had expected contradiction.

‘Somewhat higher than a lady’s maid,’ said Mrs Robinson, a little tartly.

‘Certainly, Madam.’

‘And several of my friends have noticed you, Armistead. They say you look too good for a lady’s maid.’

‘Then, Madam, that makes two of us.’

Mrs Robinson was a little startled. But then Armistead did startle her now and then. But what an excellent servant she was! Always so discreet! Besides, she could not concern herself with Armistead now. She had Perdita to think of.

The Prince’s servants had prepared him for his visit to the theatre and very handsome he looked in blue velvet trimmed with gold embroidery. He was particularly delighted by the diamond buckles on his shoes. All the same he must go with his parents and this in itself was an indication of his position. His father had commanded that there should be a royal visit to the theatre, had chosen the play and selected the date.

What fun it would have been to have strolled into the theatre with his chosen companions: to have gone to see a witty comedy such as The School for Scandal. Instead it was to be The Winter’s Tale. He did not share his father’s opinion of Shakespeare, but he would have liked to see a racy comedy of manners all the same, and the fact that his father had chosen the play immediately made him long for something else.

He turned to his equerry Colonel Lake and said: ‘I am ready. Let’s go.’

Together they went to the King’s apartments where his mother received him. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him. This gorgeous glittering creature, her son! She could never see him without recalling the wax image at which she had gazed so often and so fondly. Dear handsome George! In spite of his wildness and all the trouble he caused them he would always be her favourite.

‘You look … splendid,’ she whispered.

‘Thank you, Madam.’ He wished he could have said the same for her. Pregnant as usual, she resembled a barrel; her face was sallow and she looked old. He thought of Mary Hamilton’s rosy face.

Ah, Mary, Mary, I would rather be in my room at the Dower House writing to you than going to the theatre. In one of his pockets he carried the lock of her hair. ‘Toujours aimée,’ he thought. Yes, Mary forever. A pure love. If he could have married her that would have been wonderful, but since they could not marry she was right of course to keep their love pure.

The King was ready to leave.

‘Ah.’ His anxious eyes were on his son. Not so many scandals now, he thought. Settling down, aware of his responsibilities. He could even look with approval on the Prince. He was a handsome fellow, all said and done; and the people liked a handsome fellow. If he would behave reasonably he would do very well.

People cheered the royal cavalcade as it passed through the streets to Drury Lane. The news that there was to be a command performance at the Lane had been circulating for days and since the Prince was to be present this won public approval.

At the theatre Mr Sheridan greeted them. The Prince was interested in Mr Sheridan. He had heard talk of what an amusing fellow he was – one of the most witty in London; and he certainly liked the look of him, and subtly Mr Sheridan managed to show that, honoured as he was to receive a royal visit, it was the presence of the Prince of Wales which gave him particular pleasure.

He conducted the King and Queen to their box and the Prince to his.

The theatre was crowded and every eye it seemed was turned not on the royal box but on that one which jutted out over the stage and in which sat the glittering handsome Prince of Wales with his two attendants, Colonel Lake and Mr Legge.

The curtain went up and the play began.

The Prince was startled. He could not believe his eyes. There on the stage was the most enchanting creature he had ever set eyes on. He could scarcely believe that she was real. He could not take his eyes from her. What a figure! It was perfection! Those eyes. Had there ever been such eyes? That dark hair … those beautiful teeth, the softly smiling mouth. This was not a woman. This was a goddess.

‘Gad,’ murmured the Prince. ‘The most perfect creature I ever saw in my life. This is perfection. This is beauty. She is a goddess. What charm! What grace! What acting! Stab me – but I would not have missed this for the world.’

He was leaning over the side of the box and Perdita was close to him. She could not help but be aware of him. Beside her was Prince Florizel – but she was far more conscious of the Prince in the box than the one on the stage.

It was as though she spoke to him and not to Florizel. It was as though he were down there on that stage … She was his Perdita; he was her Florizel.

He was in a daze of delight. He knew now that he had never been in love before. He would never be in love like this again … except of course that he would be in love with Perdita until he died.

When her presence on the stage was not needed, the play had no interest for him, but actresses waited in the wings for their cue and they often contrived to stand where they could be seen by those who had boxes overhanging the stage. So even when she was not playing he did not lose sight of her, for she stood opposite his box where he might have a full view of her.

It was the custom in the theatre for young men to step up on to the stage while the play was in progress, and make comments on the performance or slip into the wings to exchange a little conversation and perhaps make assignations with the actresses. It was unlikely that anyone would criticize the play while the King was present, but Lord Malden, who greatly admired Mrs Robinson, could not resist the temptation to mount the stage and slip into the wings.

Malden, a handsome twenty-two – one year older than Mary Robinson – magnificently attired in pink satin and silver, with pink heels on his shoes to match the colour of his coat – was completely visible to the Prince as he chatted with the actress and young George could scarcely bear to sit in his box and see the young viscount in that place where he, above all others, longed to be.

Maiden, bewildered by her beauty, was unaware of the jealousy he was arousing, but Mary was fully aware of it and delighted by it. One of the actors had said to her in the Green Room before the performance had started: ‘By Jove, Mrs Robinson, you look more handsome than ever. You will surely make a conquest of the Prince tonight.’ And when he had spoken those words and she had caught a glimpse of her reflection, when she realized that it was true, that never before had she looked so beautiful, she had begun to consider what a conquest of the Prince of Wales might mean and the prospect seemed very alluring.

And sure enough there he was, beside himself with jealousy, leaning over the side of the box, paying no attention to the players on the stage, his eyes on her and Malden in the wings while he muttered to his equerries about Maiden’s great good fortune.

As all eyes were on the Prince, most members of the audience were well aware of what was happening. The King and Queen, however, could not see their son and they were unconscious of his behaviour; what they did realize was the pleasant mood of the audience and the King was congratulating himself that it was a very loyal company.

Perdita came on to play her scene with Florizel and the audience broke into frantic applause, in which the Prince joined, and when she raised her eyes to his box and smiled he was in transports of delight.

‘What a night, what a play, what a goddess!’ he murmured. ‘What beauty! What Art!’ This was said so that she could hear and she blushed becomingly, which delighted him still further.

He could scarcely restrain himself. He wanted to leap on to the stage, to thrust Florizel aside, to cry: ‘I am your Florizel from now on – as long as I live.’

When the play was over and the players assembled for the applause the Prince leaned forward. Perdita lifted her eyes to his and smiled; he inclined his head twice and everything he felt for her was in his eyes.

But it was time to leave the theatre. He was in an agony of despair. What was happening backstage? He imagined amorous gallants like Malden storming her dressing room, daring to approach her, talking to her, paying compliments. It was unendurable.

His equerries were waiting. The King was growing impatient. He scowled. He – the Prince of Wales – was not free. He must go home with Papa and Mamma like some schoolboy.

He must have his independence. It was never so important as now that he had found Perdita, sweet Perdita!

But wait, he thought. I may not see her tonight, but there is tomorrow. And I shall never forget this night.

He spent a restless night. He dreamed of her; he longed for her.

It was no use trying to think of Mary Hamilton. What a child he had been to have imagined that was love. A pure love. He laughed. He had grown up tonight when he had fallen in love with Mary Robinson. He was going to waste no time in letting her know of his devotion.

He was still fond of Mary Hamilton, but this was different; this was real love such as he had never known before.

He would not completely neglect poor Mary. He would still write to her because writing to Mary had become a habit with him. She was after all his dear sister and he her brother.

He could see nothing but Perdita … talking in the wings with Maiden – pink satin jacket and pink heels! he thought disparagingly, but the rogue had looked handsome and he was not treated like a schoolboy – Perdita acting a love scene with the actor who had played Florizel.

Oh, beautiful Mrs Robinson, I am a real prince. I am your Florizel.

It was impossible to sleep, obsessed as he was by such emotion. So he did what he had done frequently when he needed to be soothed; he wrote to Mary Hamilton. He told her of his visit to the theatre and all that had happened there, that on this night he had discovered a goddess. What a comfort for a brother to write to his dear sister.

‘Adieu, adieu, toujours chère,’ he wrote. And added for the sheer thrill of writing that name: ‘Oh, Mrs Robinson.’

Such a tumultuous success must be celebrated and, anticipating it, Mary Robinson had invited a few friends to supper at her house near Covent Garden.

Lord Maiden, who was at her side as soon as the curtain had fallen and the royal party had left, begged to be allowed to be her escort, and knowing of his close association with the Prince of Wales graciously she accepted this.

Sheridan was of the party. He was flushed with triumph. The evening had been as successful as the first night of The School for Scandal, and he had to acknowledge the part Mrs Robinson had played in that success.

It was a gay company which assembled in her drawing room. Mrs Armistead, hovering in the background, never obtruding, noticed a new face among the guests.

We are rising in the world, she thought. Not only Lord Malden but Mr Charles James Fox himself. Who knows where this might end.

And she was elated, seeing in her mistress’s success her own; for Mrs Armistead knew that she was too handsome and more important still, too clever, to remain a lady’s maid all her life.

Lord Maiden whispered to Mrs Robinson: ‘I never saw His Highness so enchanted before, Mistress Perdita.’

And Mrs Robinson flushed and said he was very young, the dear Prince, and so handsome that she could scarcely believe it was possible.

Everyone was talking of the Prince, how different he was from his father; how elegant, how graceful, how gracious. An Englishman, nothing of the dull German about him.

He was no longer a boy either. They could not keep him in leading strings much longer. And when he attained his majority he would be the most powerful young man in the country.

Mr Fox was determined to ingratiate himself with the beautiful actress and she was wary of him. She was deeply conscious of his reputation with women; and had no intention of offering him any encouragement – particularly now the Prince had made his interest so clear. It was a pleasant compliment, of course, that the great statesman should visit her house; it meant that everyone of importance would be clamouring for an invitation; especially now that the Prince had noticed her.

Mrs Robinson felt intoxicated with success and the excitement of the prospect before her.

‘You have won on all sides,’ whispered Mr Fox. ‘The Queen thought your performance very fine. As for the Prince …’ He laughed aloud. ‘He gave the whole house no doubt of his feelings. He could not take his eyes from you. I congratulate you on making the greatest conquest in the world.’

‘You are flattering me, Mr Fox. I daresay he was merely carried away by the play.’

‘Carried away by so much beauty, Madam. And it would not be possible to flatter you, for whatever hyperbole one employed one could not praise you more than you deserve. I shall now give a toast to the whole company.’

Mr Fox had risen and raised his glass. All were silent, listening.

‘I give you the Prince – and the beauty and genius he has tonight had the wit to admire. Ladies and Gentlemen: the Prince and the fair Perdita.’