the stage and for his manners and intelligence off it, was to be Leontes. ‘By Jove, Mrs Robinson,’ he said, ‘you will make a conquest of the Prince; for to-night you look handsomer than ever.’5
Before she was due to go on, Mary chatted in the wings to Richard Ford (son of one of the proprietors of Drury Lane), who introduced her to his friend, George Capel, Viscount Malden, who was a politician and also a boon companion to the young Prince of Wales. Malden was 22, the same age as Mary. Known as a dandy, he was attired in his usual flamboyant dress – pink satin with silver trim and pink heels to match his coat. The Prince watched them from his box, as he conversed with his companions. He was of medium height, stocky with a rather florid complexion and powdered hair. Mary always remembered the especially clear view of him that she had as she waited in the wings.
Mary hurried through her first scene and as she stood directly below the Prince’s box, she heard him making flattering remarks. She was conscious that he was staring at her so much that it drew everyone’s attention. For Mary, there must have been a special frisson in speaking some of Perdita’s lines in front of the real Prince:
I am all shame
And ignorance itself, how to put on
This novel garment of gentility …
… I shall learn,
I trust I shall with meekness, and an heart
Unalter’d to my Prince, my Florizel. [leans on Florizel’s bosom]6
On the final curtsy, the royal family returned a bow to the performers. Mary’s eyes met the Prince’s: ‘with a look that I never shall forget, he gently inclined his head a second time; I felt the compliment, and blushed my gratitude’.7
Any doubt that he had been charmed by the lovely shepherdess in her simple dress and milkmaid’s red ribbons was dispelled as Mary was leaving the theatre: she met the royal family crossing the stage and ‘I was again honoured with a very marked and low bow from the Prince of Wales.’ One cannot help wondering whether she timed her departure from the green room in order to give herself the chance of bumping into the Prince. Since she was not appearing in that night’s afterpiece, Sheridan’s The Critic, she could have left the theatre much earlier. Instead, she waited backstage, chatting to her charming and well-connected new acquaintance Lord Malden: ‘He remarked the particular applause which the Prince had bestowed on my performance; said a thousand civil things; and detained me in conversation till the evening’s performance was concluded.’8 At home after the show, she threw a lavish supper party for her friends. It lasted far into the night and the handsome young Prince was the only topic of conversation.
During the previous six months, the Prince had regularly poured out his heart to Mary Hamilton, the sub-governess of his sisters the royal princesses. She was 23 to his 16 (he would always prefer older women). His letters to her, in which he called her Miranda and signed himself Palemon, survive in a private collection. Like a young man in a novel of sensibility, he threatened that he would commit suicide if she rejected him. She in turn threatened to resign her post if he did not stop pestering her, so he promised to address her ‘by the endearing names of friend and Sister, and no longer with the impetuous passion of a Lover urging his Suit’.9 But he still sent her gifts, such as a ‘Ring set with Brilliants’, which she returned on the very day of the command performance of The Winter’s Tale. He immediately penned a response in his favoured language of extreme sensibility: ‘I am astonished, I am surprised I am enchanted I am enchanted thou ever ever ever dearest, dearest, dearest cruel Creature, Oh believe me my Miranda that if ever I could love you more than I do this has done it. I am & ever shall be unto my last health Thy Palemon toujours de même.’ He also told her that he was looking forward to going to the theatre: ‘how happy should I be to see you there and agreeably entertained with me’.10 So the Prince went to the theatre that night full of thoughts of Mary Hamilton. By the end of the evening, he was ‘head in heels in love’ with Mary Robinson.
The unpublished letters to Miss Hamilton written by the Prince in the following few days tell the extraordinary story of the beginning of the relationship between the Prince and the actress from his point of view. It is a very different account from that in the Memoirs.
It must have come as something of a shock to Mary Hamilton at ten o’clock on Sunday morning to receive a letter in which, twenty-four hours after professing his undying passion for her, ‘Palemon’ announced that he had fallen in love with someone else:
I was delighted at the Play last Night, and was extremely moved by two scenes in it, especially as I was particularly interested in the appearance of the most beautiful Woman, that ever I beheld, who acted with such delicacy that she drew tears from my eyes, she perceived how much of my attention was taken up with her, not only during her acting but when she was behind the Scenes, and contrived every little innocent art to captivate a heart but too susceptible of receiving every impression she attempted to give it, and Alas my Miranda my friend, she did but too well succeed, consider what is almost impossible, and allow whate’r next to impossibility for the lively and strong and lively passions of a Young Man glowing with the utmost Warmth of desire, and yet feeling himself incapable of gratifying his darling. Her name is Robinson, on or off the stage for I have seen her both, she is I believe almost the greatest and most perfect beauty of her sex.11
Whereas Mary’s account, written twenty years later, emphasizes the Prince’s gaze upon her, George’s, written the very next day, suggests that she was acting for him alone, both onstage and off, contriving ‘every little innocent art to captivate’ his heart. This letter also reveals the emotional power of her performance as Perdita: she was able to draw tears from the eyes of the young Prince.
The real surprise in this letter is the phrase ‘on or off the stage for I have seen her both’. In Mary’s account and in the subsequent myth of ‘Florizel and Perdita’, the command performance on 3 December 1779 was the first time the couple saw one another. But the Prince reveals here that he had seen her before, not only on the stage but also in society. Indeed, in the very next sentence he explains that ‘this passion has laid dormant in my bosom for some time, but last night has kindled it again to such a degree (for what can be more moving interesting, or aimiable [sic] than exquisite beauty in distress) that Heaven knows when it will be extinguished’. He had fallen for Mary Robinson some time before, but put her out of his mind until he saw her play the part of Perdita, the lost one, the ‘exquisite beauty in distress’. Already accustomed to projecting himself into dramatic roles (‘Palemon to Miranda’), George cannot help imagining himself as Prince Florizel.
‘Pardon me, pity me, comfort me,’ he writes to Miss Hamilton, ‘my heart is already something easier by having imparted to you my friend what I have not another friend I can strictly call so to whom I could with implicit confidence impart it.’ He knows that all his secrets will lie as secure in her bosom ‘as in the silent grave’, so she will ‘hear every thing relating to this affair’. He implores her not to reveal anything to the King and Queen. The letter ends with a postscript: ‘a[dieu] a[dieu] a[dieu] toujours chère. Oh! Mrs Robinson.’
Upon receiving this astonishing letter, Miss Hamilton sat down immediately to reply. Acknowledging that the subject embarrassed her, she endeavoured to express her sentiments:
Now my dear friend with respect to the present
