Free and unquestion’d through the wilds of love;
While woman, sense and nature’s easy fool,
If poor, weak woman swerve from virtue’s rule,
If strongly charm’d, she’d leave the thorny way,
And in the softer paths of pleasure stray;
Ruin ensues, reproach and endless shame,
And one false step entirely damns her fame…
She sets, like stars that fall, to rise no more.
Now, there, I was filled with fervor. Had there been music beneath my words, ’twould have been an anthem. My tears came easily—not only because I related to the text, but because of all the cat hair in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mr. Hull pitching his body forward as if to get closer to my performance.
A bit breathless, I dropped a curtsy after my final sentence. “Well, then, have I any talent?” I asked, with all the exuberant anxiety of youth.
The actor smiled as a cat leapt upon his lap. “It wants coaching.”
“I’m happy to take corrections; I absorb learning like a sponge,” I said eagerly.
“To begin with, there are simple things you can do, even with the speeches you performed today, to strengthen their impact.”
I rubbed my stinging eyes. “Such as?”
“The final speech you gave me. As soon as the last word had left your lips you dropped your hand like a dishclout and then fell right out of character to thank me for listening. There was no transition between Jane Shore and Mary Darby. Assume that final pose and hold it. That is a simple technical note, but without technique, Miss Darby, you shall never rise above the rank of amateur, and that will never do at Covent Garden or Drury Lane. You must also allow each word to live, to breathe—and it must be heard in the balconies. No matter how choked with passion you become when you recite a line, you must take care never to slur your words, to mumble, or to drop below a stage whisper. You have a most pleasant voice, Miss Darby. Use it.”
“Thank you, sir.” A smile sneaked past my grateful humility.
“I should advise you, in future, to cultivate the roles you can comfortably assay within the scope of your tender years.” Mr. Hull drew upon his pipe and exhaled into a kindly smile. “You are not yet a Lady Macbeth, unless you conceal a terrible secret from me, but I daresay Juliet is within your sights. Your Jane Shore wants depth, although you did quite a creditable job with the last speech you presented. Your tears appeared to flow quite naturally. What you have shown me today is by no means dross, Miss Darby. There is ore to be mined, most assuredly. But acting is a craft as much as goldsmithing or tanning hides and you must apply yourself most assiduously to the study of it before attempting to set foot upon the great stages of England.”
Hopes now dashed, my face fell. Not one hour previous I had been contemplating a thousand triumphs in my head. I swallowed hard. “I thank you for your time, Mr. Hull. You have been most gracious and considerate.”
“I fear I cannot recommend you to the management of Covent Garden at present, but come back to me in a few months’ time. Perhaps there will be some roles open with which you can begin a journeymanship.”
I quit Mr. Hull’s rooms disappointed, but undaunted nevertheless. Mother’s comforting embrace was sincerely bestowed. “I shan’t give up,” I insisted, “for I do believe I can make something of it.”
We had moved once again, my mother placing herself under the protection of a lawyer, Samuel Cox, who had apartments at Southampton House in Chancery Lane. My brother and I each had our own room, and mother came and went, though she remained entirely discreet about the nature of her arrangement. She told George and me that she had been engaged to do some copying for Mr. Cox, and I knew not to press her.
On Sunday afternoons the three of us would dine with Mr. Cox, and it came out one day over dinner that I harbored ambitions for the stage. As soon as he learned I had been to see Mr. Hull, Mother’s benefactor, a gouty little man, though a kindly one, immediately offered his services if we thought they would be of use.
“What good are one’s connexions if not to secure the odd introduction now and again? Dr. Samuel Johnson is one of my acquaintance, Hetty! We’ve got the same physician for the gout, don’tcha know. Dr. Johnson, of course, is an intimate of Garrick’s—”
“You can arrange an interview with Mr. Garrick?” I asked, unable to contain myself. Suddenly, a simple Sunday dinner was as good as a Christmas feast.
“I expect so, Mary. For David Garrick was a pupil of Dr. Johnson’s, don’tcha know?”
I shook my head. “Well, no, I didn’t know that. Mercy! The greatest actor in all creation—willing to hear me recite!”
Mother chuckled, while my ten-year-old brother kept repeating under his breath, “The greatest—the great, great, greatest.”
“And I shall become the most famous actress since Nelly Gwyn!”
“You can see the girl’s got a natural inclination for the dramatic, Sam.”
Garrick resided in a grand home in Adelphi Terrace, overlooking the Thames. Once again, Mother chaperoned my audition, though as things transpired, she needn’t have worried about any untoward claims on my virtue, for I was promptly met in the vestibule by the actor-manager’s wife, the former dancer Eva Maria Veigel. Miss Veigel greeted me with such warm effusiveness I felt as though I had been her intimate all my life.
“My wife is also very supportive of young actresses,” were the first words I heard uttered by the great Garrick, a little man, something on the stocky side, who looked me up and down with the utmost intensity, as if to draw my portrait.
I did not know where to look, for all about me were the most striking objects. Miss Veigel moved about with perfect grace and her embroidered gown of
