Jean Plaidy: Goddess of the Green Room

‘Hello, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear you play a part. Do you know any?’

Her imperturbability delighted him.

‘Phoebe,’ she said, ‘from As You Like It .’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’ll do.’

To see her strut before him like that was amazing, thought Grace. She did not declaim as an actress would. She played it naturally as though Dorothy Bland was a shepherdess, and for a moment one felt that the shabby room was the forest of Arden. It wouldn’t do. It wasn’t acting. It was being natural.

Ryder felt differently. Her voice was most unusual. It was almost as though she sang the words. She seemed to give them a music of her own.

‘Look here, Dorothy Bland,’ he said, ‘how would you like to take your sister’s place? H’m? I’d pay you what I’ve been paying her. I don’t think you’ll suffer from stage fright.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Dorothy as though she were promising to wash the china or make a dish of tea.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Ryder. ‘I can give you a part in The Virgin Unmasked. It’s not much, but it’ll be a good way of making your stage début. Be at the theatre tomorrow morning.’

He left them and Grace looked in astonishment at her daughter. Dorothy was smiling. Everything had turned out for the best. The only difference was that she, not Hester, had to make the family’s fortune.

So Dorothy became an actress. She played in The Virgin Unmasked without causing a great stir in Dublin theatrical circles; and after that she was Phoebe in As You Like It .

Thomas Ryder was not displeased; he might not have a star performer, he told himself, but at least he had a tolerable actress.

Dorothy was delighted. It was more fun than making and selling hats; moreover, she had prevailed on Hester to accept a small part and once Hester had done this successfully, she was ready to undertake bigger parts and so overcome the terrible fear of appearing on the stage.

Life was easier; there was more money. Ryder often talked to Dorothy in whom he felt a special interest because he had selected her to play in his theatre before she had realized she was an actress.

‘We have to do better business,’ he said, ‘or we’ll be running at a bigger loss than I can afford. Did you know the house was half empty last night?’

‘I was aware of it,’ Dorothy told him.

‘And I have Smock Alley standing empty. There’s not room for two theatres in Dublin. If it goes on like this I’ll have to get rid of my lease of Smock Alley – and who’s going to take it, eh? If Dublin can’t support one theatre, how can anyone open up in Smock Alley?’

Dorothy shrugged her shoulders; she was thinking of her newest part.

‘If you would let me sing a song,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that would bring them in.’

‘There’s no place for a song in the play.’

‘We could make a place,’ she wheedled.

‘Rubbish,’ said Thomas; and went on to brood on a new means of luring people into Crow Street.

Shortly afterwards he came up with an idea. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a play with men playing the women’s parts and women the men’s.’

It seemed a crazy notion. To what purpose? But when some of the women appeared in breeches the purpose was obvious, and this was particularly so in the case of Dorothy. Her figure was enchanting, her legs long, slim and beautifully shaped.

Yes, said Thomas Ryder, this could well give them the opportunity they were looking for.

The play, Ryder announced, would be The Governess – a pirated version of Sheridan’s The Duenna. He had not intended such an inexperienced player as Dorothy to have a big part, but when he saw her in breeches he decided she should have that of Lopez.

Dorothy was delighted. She would make something of the part. How pleased she would be if she could sing!

‘Sing!’ cried Ryder in exasperation. ‘Now why should Lopez sing?’

‘Because,’ replied Dorothy, ‘Dorothy Bland would like to sing and the audience would like to hear her.’

‘Nonsense,’ retorted Ryder. ‘You play your part, my girl. That’s all the audience ask of you.’

‘Don’t forget the theatre has been half empty these last weeks.’

‘The Governess will pull them in.’

Dorothy posed before the mirror in her breeches. Grace said: ‘I don’t know. It’s not modest somehow.’ Dorothy kissed her. ‘Don’t you worry, Mamma. I’ll take care not only of myself but of the whole family.’

Poor Mamma, she was terrified that Hester or Dorothy – and more likely Dorothy – would get into some entanglement and, always having longed for the blessing of clergy on her union, was fearful that one of the girls should find herself in a similar position. She was constantly saying that if their father had married her they would not now be wondering where the next penny was coming from, for Judge Bland would surely have relented when he saw his grandchildren. But because she lacked marriage lines she lacked security. Security! It was an obsession. She wanted it for her girls.

So she was constantly warning. And she was right, said Dorothy to Hester. But she need have no fear.

At rehearsal Dorothy swaggering on the stage in her male costume designed to show off her figure so amused Thomas Ryder that in a weak moment he gave way to her pleading to let her sing.

The first night of The Governess arrived. The theatre was full, as it had not been for some nights, because people had come to see the women in male costumes and they were not disappointed. Particularly admired was the young actress who took the part of Lopez; her figure was trim and yet voluptuous; she was so completely feminine that her masquerading in male attire was an absurd delight. The audience was intrigued. They were beginning to notice Dorothy Bland.

When at the end of the play she came to the front of the stage and sang for them they were spellbound. There was an unusual quality in her voice; though it was untrained it was sweet and true, but so were many other voices. Dorothy’s had a quality purely her own which touched them; it had a haunting charm, warm, full of feeling, tender and sincere.

The song she had chosen to sing was one they all knew about an Irish colleen who came to Milltown, a district of Dublin, to ply her trade as an oyster seller. They had heard it many times before but never as sung that night.

They called for her to sing again, which she did; and it was clear from that night that Dorothy Bland was no ordinary actress.

Grace read the letter to her daughters. It was formal and from a lawyer who represented Francis’s relations. The family resented the fact that Miss Grace Phillips allowed her actress daughter to use their name and to have it appearing on play bills. As she had no right to this, they must ask her to stop doing so.

Dorothy could not restrain her feelings. She had a temper, as the family well knew; but it did not greatly worry them because although it would flare up suddenly it was quickly over.

‘Impudence!’ she cried. ‘They have done nothing for us and now they are telling us what we should do.’

‘Take no notice of them,’ advised Hester more calmly. ‘You’ve made something of a stir as Dorothy Bland, are you going to throw it away because Papa’s family are ashamed of us?’

‘I am not,’ Dorothy assured her. ‘And I may well make it known that I am connected with the high and mighty Blands of Dublin’s fair city – yes, and that they will have nothing to do with us although it is their plain and bounden duty to keep us from starvation.’

‘You’re not on the boards now, Dolly,’ Hester reminded her sister.

‘Now, girls,’ put in Grace, ‘I’ve been thinking about this; and it’s not wise to go against your Papa’s family. It’s always been my hope that one day they would do something for us. Now that your grandfather, the Judge, is dead, it may be that the rest of the family will feel differently.’