Of course no one dared to comment on my talent winning the day—or the evening, as the case was—for they all knew me to be utterly untested. And no one was more terrified than I at the prospect of stepping upon that stage, in front of nearly two thousand boisterous souls who lacked no compunction about delivering their reviews on the instant with catcalls, hisses, and missiles of tankards, goblets, and rotten fruit.
Perhaps the prostitutes who plied their trade in the “green boxes” in the theatre’s uppermost tier would take no respite from their trolling to look upon the stage; but otherwise, conversation briefly ceased while all attention was fixed toward the proscenium. From behind the scenes as I waited for the bellman, I could hear the heated conversations of the dandies in the pit, the titters of the quality in the side boxes, and the hearty laughter of the middle classes in the center boxes amid the cries of the orange sellers picking their way among them.
My heart throbbed convulsively as I approached the wings. What was I thinking? echoed in my poor brain; suddenly I forgot all my lines. My mouth was as dry as if I had stuffed it with cotton wool. Fearing that my resolution would fail, I leaned upon the Nurse’s arm, almost fainting.
“Buck up, love,” my colleague whispered reassuringly. “I felt this way, too, on my first night. But I was there with you in the rehearsals, remember? You’ll take to it as a duck to water, dearie.”
“Go, child,” urged Mr. Sheridan. “Show ’em what you’re made of!”
And then we were on! With trembling limbs and fearful apprehension I approached the audience, not daring to look at them. The thundering applause that greeted me nearly overpowered all my faculties. I stood mute and bending with alarm, and the stage fright did not subside until I had feebly articulated the few sentences of the first short scene. Fear had palsied both my voice and action. Oh, dear God, I thought, I’m certain they cannot hear me. Mr. Garrick will have my head. If he had told me ten times, he had told me a thousand that I must still project my voice to the rafters or all the naturalness he’d taught me would be for naught if no one could hear a bloody word I said.
On my return to the Green Room after my first scene, I was again encouraged, as far as my looks were concerned, by a plethora of compliments. “But you must speak up, girl,” exhorted Sheridan. “The conversations in the pit were louder than you were. And sure they won’t hush up if you don’t give them a good reason. Playgoers come to the theatre to see one another first; the players take second fiddle unless they offer a livelier tune.”
The second scene being the masquerade, I had time to collect myself, and stepped more confidently upon the boards. And what a sublime sensation coursed through my bosom when I dared to take my first look toward the pit and saw the gradual ascent of heads. All eyes were fixed upon me—most thrilling indeed—but to me the most impressive response was the keen, penetrating gaze of Mr. Garrick, seated in the center of the orchestra. His approbation, above all, was the finest imprimatur any actress could hope for.
As I acquired courage, I found the applause increase, and the night was concluded with peals of admiration. By the end of the final act, the audience held their breath as one when the stagehands laid out the green carpet, that I should not dirty my white satin gown—the customary costume for characters about to die. Crowning my powdered auburn curls was a veil of the most transparent gauze that fluttered to my feet, whilst about my waist a string of beads and a little penitent’s cross of wood completed the portrait of the tragic Juliet.
I took my bows to the most thunderous applause; my heart throbbed with inexpressible happiness. I had done it! I had conquered my temporary fears and achieved my lifelong dream. Of all the places I had ever set foot in, I was certain now that not only was the Theatre my temple: it was my natural home.
After my performance I was complimented on all sides, but the praise of Mr. Garrick—one of the most fascinating men and most distinguished geniuses of the age, and the one object I most wished to please—was a gratification that language cannot utter. Only sighs and tears and smiles can begin to express what was in my heart. I had made him proud of me. And yet, inside my brain the single thought niggled me: If my own father had been able to know me then, would he have been half so pleased with my efforts?
I was offered a contract to appear at Drury Lane for the remainder of the season, assigned a number of roles in the repertory both leading and supporting, from tragedy to comedy, from trouser parts to comely lasses, from swaggering swains to sighing ingénues. Truth told, I found it highly amusing that I should have any credence in the trouser roles that season, for by then, in such habiliments, my domestic condition was quite apparent. Nonetheless, Sheridan felt that I was up to the task, and who was I to contradict him?
My second venture on the boards was in the role of Amanda, a duped young wife, in Sheridan’s own A Trip to Scarborough. It had been billed as a brand-new comedy, but when we began to play, the canny crowd realized at once that the script was merely a watered-down rewrite of Sir John Vanbrugh’s lusty Restoration romp, The Relapse—only without all the lust, which present tastes deemed indecent. Regardless of the tamer incarnation, the experience was, of course, a great disappointment to those who had paid good coin to see a new work.
Feeling as betrayed
