MY SPANISH ADMIRER
LILY and I were in great anxiety. My friend was in a more serious
predicament, for she had a child, whom she loved with intense devotion.
It is bad enough to be stranded and penniless in an English town; but
the situation is far worse when an artiste is far from home and in a
strange land. However, it was useless to sit down and cry over our
misfortunes; something had to be done at once.
Leaving us in a café, Gamboli went out and explored the town. He was
away for some time, and we began to wonder what had happened. We were
too distressed to talk, and we were both hungry. At last he returned,
and we saw from the expression on his face that he had not been
entirely unsuccessful.
“We can show to-night in the casino,” he said cheerfully. “But I’m in a
fix about a pianist; there is no one to play the accompaniments to the
dances.”
What was to be done? We were delighted with this chance of earning a
pound or so, but it looked as though the chance would be lost for the
want of a pianist. We could not dance without music.
Gamboli lit a cigarette and sat down to think. We could see no way out
of the difficulty. Poor little Henry began to complain of hunger, and
we tried to comfort him as best we could. Suddenly from the distance
came the sound of a piano organ in the street. Gamboli jumped up.
“I’ve got it,” he cried. “We’ll engage the piano organ. We’ll have our
orchestra after all.” And he ran out of the café and up the street.
The organ grinder was a Frenchman. He listened to Gamboli’s proposal,
and fell in with it, arranging to play for us for a share of our
evening’s takings. We rejoiced to think that there was at last a way
out of our difficulty.
The casino where we performed was a small one. There was a little
stage, and the hall was furnished with tables and chairs. It was the
chief place of entertainment in the town.
About seven o’clock we were dressed and ready for our performance. Lily
and I were in our dancing-skirts, tights, and pumps. We had rehearsed
two or three dances to the organ accompaniment, and one of them was
a cake-walk. I shall never forget dancing an American cake-walk to a
French waltz air. It was a quaint performance, but the audience were
delighted, and we gained an encore.
We performed for four nights in this little town, and when we left
we had about enough money to pay our fares to Gerona. This is a very
quaint town, with a most beautiful cathedral and some ancient churches.
There is a café in the town that is well patronized in the evenings,
when a sort of variety entertainment is given. Here we pleased the
audience with our statuary groups and dancing.
Lily and I had learned the tambourine dance, which went very well in
Spain, and I performed the favourite sailor’s hornpipe.
Spain is a delightful country, and the people are charming. The scenery
is glorious, and the sun seems always to be shining its brightest.
In a few weeks I began to pick up a little Spanish. I knew a smattering
of French and German, but I was quite unacquainted with the language
of Spain when I entered the country. But when one is travelling it is
necessary to speak the language, and I soon knew enough to get on with
in the shops and restaurants.
At Barcelona we stayed for five months, and I look back on that time as
one of the happiest in my life. Barcelona is the busiest and perhaps
the wealthiest city in Spain, and it is well provided with places of
amusement. There are several variety halls, and I have performed in all
of them.
For our living statuary show we represented the figures of various
public statues in the streets, and these groups were very popular in
every large town of Spain. The idea was Mr Gamboli’s, and it was a
decided success. We studied the statues very carefully, and reproduced
them as truthfully as possible.
In Barcelona I was taken for a Spaniard. I am very dark, and as I wore
a mantilla and a black dress, I passed as a Spanish artiste. But I
am afraid that when I tried to speak the language of the country my
foreign accent was evident.
It was at Barcelona that we offended a _café chantant_ audience. For
the first time in my experience our dancing was greeted with hissing
and hooting almost as soon as Lily and I came on to the stage. We were
quite astounded. The whole house rose, and the din was tremendous. The
orchestra stopped playing, and the manager, who came into the wings,
beckoned us off the stage. We obeyed him, wondering what we had done to
annoy the audience.
“Ladies,” he explained, “I much regret that the people are angry; but
the fact is, in Spain we do not think it decent for women to appear on
the stage in such short skirts as you are wearing. Such a costume will
never be tolerated.”
Lily and I looked at one another in extreme astonishment. The skirts we
were wearing were longer and much more decorous than the short, gauzy
skirts worn by the ballet dancers in England. We had appeared in these
costumes in France and Switzerland, and not a single member of the
audience had ever objected. It was strange that the Spaniards should
disapprove. However, every country has its own customs, and apparently
the short skirt is forbidden on the stage in Barcelona.
As the audience protested so vehemently against our attire, we never
appeared again in the offending dancing-skirts.
This was the only difficulty that we encountered with the audiences in
Barcelona. In all the halls, including the one where we were hissed, we
became one of the most popular “turns” on the programme.
I was very interested in the Spanish dancing, which I often saw in the
variety halls of Barcelona, and I began to practise the Bolero, the
Jota, and other dances. In a month or so I was able to perform the
national dances in public, and, as I stated before, I was often taken
for a Spanish dancer.
Much has been written upon the gallantry of Spanish men. They are
certainly skilful in paying compliments to women, and they are very
ardent lovers. When walking in the street, women of the middle and the
upper classes are usually attended by a duenna or chaperon; but this
rule is not always observed. A woman who goes out alone is certain to
be addressed by men. I do not say that the remarks passed are not of
a seemly kind. The Spanish majo, or “masher,” has quite a store of
compliments which he pays to any pretty woman who takes his fancy.
At first I used to be surprised and amused as a man murmured when I
passed him: “Your eyes are brighter than the stars,” or “The flowers
bow when they see you coming”; but I became accustomed to this sort of
flattery, and I soon learnt that it is empty enough, and often meant as
chaff.
Occasionally presents and letters were left for me at the stage door.
Some of the gifts were gloves, silk scarves, and boxes of chocolates.
As for the missives, they were often written in a very high-flown
language, and were mostly the effusions of young boys who had seen me
on the stage.
I do not wish to appear egotistical and vain; I merely relate what
befalls most girls in my profession, especially in Spain, where the
artistes are very popular among the public. Before I left Barcelona I
received a letter of a more serious kind, in which the writer declared
the profoundest affection for me.
The letter that was handed to me by the manager was addressed in an
elegant handwriting, which I did not recognize. I took it into the
dressing-room, and sat down on my wardrobe basket. When I glanced at
the first page of the letter I saw that it was full of very ardent
protestations of love. The writer was a Spaniard; but he had a little
knowledge of English, and he had been at great pains to write a
poetical and high-flown epistle. I was compared to the rose and the
orange blossom; I was described as “divine,” “exquisitely beautiful,”
and so on.
I could only smile at the fervour of the writer, who was a total
stranger to me. He signed himself José, but he gave no address. I was,
however, implored to “allow him the honour of speaking to me” upon
leaving the hall on the following night.
Naturally, the letter aroused my curiosity. We all like flattery and
compliments, and this admirer certainly excelled all others in the art
of writing sentimental letters. It was the most fervid letter I had
ever received.
I tried to imagine what this José was like. Was he young or old, tall
or short, dark or fair? Was he rich or poor, handsome or plain? The
letter gave me no answer to these questions. But somehow it seemed to
me that the writer was middle-aged.
I cannot say that the letter caused me a sleepless night, or that it
affected my appetite the next morning. Still, I will frankly confess
that I felt very curious about my unknown correspondent. My curiosity
deepened towards evening. When I went on the stage I wondered if he was
among the audience. Could that bald-headed man in the front seats be he?
I changed my dress as quickly as possible after our turn, and then went
into the street. The night was dark and breezeless, for it was August,
and the day had been intensely hot. No one was in sight as I stepped
into the street. Where was my admirer? I walked along feeling somewhat
disappointed. Then suddenly I heard a voice behind me: “Señorita,
Señorita, I implore you!”
I turned round and saw a young fellow about sixteen. He was dark, with
a very faint black moustache, and he wore the usual sombrero or Spanish
hat, which he raised with an elegant sweep of his arm.
Curiosity impelled me to listen to him. I permitted him to walk with me
under the palm trees of a quiet square.
Unfortunately Señor José was unable to converse much in English,
though he could write my language fairly well. He made the most
valiant efforts to please me; but most of his words were pronounced so
curiously that I could not understand them. I have no doubt that the
boy really fancied himself in love, for his tone was most ardent, and
he vowed that he was ready to do anything that I commanded. I was not,
however, able to reciprocate his love on the spot. He was a complete
stranger to me, and though he was handsome I did not feel attracted to
him.
If I gave José any hope, it was only because he appeared in a desperate
state and talked of suicide. For weeks he shadowed me. He insisted
on sending me presents of tea, which is a luxury in Spain. Hearing
that most English women liked tea, he showered pounds of it upon
me, although I protested frequently. But though this episode was at
first rather amusing, it became tragic before long. I hope I was not
heartless; I did not intend to be so; but José persisted in meeting me
after I had told him plainly that I was not in love with him.
It was with José that I saw my first and last bull-fight. José was an
enthusiastic lover of the national recreation, and the bull-fighting
was one of his favourite subjects of conversation. I always protested
that the sport was very cruel to the poor horses that are gored to
death by the bull; but José could not understand such squeamishness. He
argued that the horses were old, and only fit to be killed. And, after
all, what was the death of four or five horses when the amusement gave
such delight to thousands of spectators?
After much persuasion, I consented to attend a great bull-fight which
was to be held on a feast day. José met me an hour before the show. He
was dressed foppishly and wore his sombrero a little tilted, while he
smoked a big cigar. He insisted on buying me a fan, saying that every
lady at a bull-fight used a fan. So, with my mantilla and fan, and
looking for all the world like a Spanish doña, I went with José to the
Plaza de Toros.
The seats were thronged with people of all classes, the fashionable
set occupying the seats in the shade. It was a glorious day, and the
scene was most interesting, the seats being packed with Barcelona folk
in their holiday attire. A splendid orchestra played selections from
Italian operas and some inspiriting marches while the place was filling
with spectators. Then the picadors on their horses rode into the
ring, followed by the men who throw the little darts, and four famous
toreros, or swordsmen, who face the infuriated bull singly after he has
been irritated and maddened by the picadors and the dart-throwers.
It was a fine sight, for the costumes were most picturesque and
gorgeous. I was beginning to enjoy the spectacle of the grand entry,
the fine music of the band, and the sight of the gaily-attired
spectators, when the ring was cleared, a door thrown open, and a big
black bull rushed into the ring. The men on horseback trotted in, and
began to worry the beast with their lances. Three times he charged, and
one of the horsemen received him on the point of the weapon. Then the
bull drew back, and stood snorting for a moment or two before a charge.
At the next rush one of his sharp horns entered the side of a wretched
bony horse. It was the first blood. I covered my face with my hands,
and I heard the people shouting excitedly.
“The horse is dying,” said José, “and the picador fell to the ground.
Ah! that is a splendid bull. Why do you not look, Señorita Marion?”
Well, curiosity forced me to look again upon the blood-stained ring,
and I saw the swordsman, called the espada, standing motionless in
front of the bull. Both the animal and the man were as still as
statues. It was a terrible moment. I was horrified, but I gazed on the
scene. Slowly the bull advanced, lashing his flanks with his tail, and
still the man stood facing him, gently fluttering a red cloth. Again
and again I saw the bull charge and the espada step aside. It was a
wonderful performance.
But the death scene quite upset my nerves. I saw the man plunge the
sword, almost to the hilt, into the neck of the bull. I had seen enough
of this bloodshed and cruelty. A sickness came over me; I felt that I
could not look at the ring again.
“I must go out; I’ve seen enough,” I said to my companion.
“Oh, you have seen nothing yet,” he said. “There are five more bulls to
be killed this afternoon. We shall see some fine play, I tell you.”
“No, no; I have seen too much,” I said. “I am quite sickened; I must go
out.”
I am afraid that José was seriously annoyed with me, for he would
insist on coming out of the building.
“Don’t disturb yourself,” I said. “I am an English girl, and we know
how to look after ourselves. I will go straight to my lodgings, so
don’t trouble to come.”
But José would not hear of my going home alone. He said that no
gentleman in Spain would permit a lady friend to leave him in this
manner.
“No, I will certainly accompany you” he said firmly.
It was on our way home from the bull-fight that we passed a dark,
pale-faced girl, with a piercing glance, who looked closely at me,
and halted as though she would speak. I noticed that José turned his
head away, and that he appeared agitated. But I did not ask him any
questions, nor did I attach any importance to the incident. I was
rather puzzled, however, by José’s silence as we walked along. I
thought that he was vexed at losing a greater part of the afternoon’s
entertainment in the Plaza de Toros.
When we came to the door of the house where I was staying with the
Gambolis, Don José raised his hat in his usual gallant fashion, and
paid me a parting compliment.
For three days I saw nothing of José. I began to wonder if he had got
over the infatuation and found another object for his affection. On the
evening of the third day I saw the black-eyed, pale girl in the front
seats when I came on the stage. I recognized her at once. Her eyes were
fixed upon me, and they had an expression of hate and anger that I
shall never forget.
Upon the next night she was there again. She curled her lip when I came
on the stage, and, as before, fastened her black eyes upon me. When I
went to the wings her angry look followed me in a menacing manner.
While I was changing my clothes the thought flashed upon me that this
girl was bent on annoying me. It was already my suspicion that she was
in love with José. Jealousy was preying upon her, and no doubt she
meant mischief.
“I believe she is waiting for me in the street at this moment,” I said
to myself as I put on my mantilla.
The hall was in a quarter of narrow alleys, and they were not well
lighted. I came out, and walked along the street in the direction of my
lodgings. At the third turning I saw a woman standing in a doorway. As
I drew near I recognized my supposed rival.
A word with you, Englishwoman,” said the girl, flashing her eyes upon
me, and speaking between her teeth.
“What do you want?” I said.
“You have robbed me of the love of Jose Torso,” she cried vehemently.
“No, you are mistaken. I do not love him; I am merely his friend————”
She would not allow me to finish. I had observed that her right hand
was held behind her. Suddenly she brought her hand in front of her, and
I saw the flash of steel. She grasped a navaja, a long Spanish knife.
There was no one in sight. I do not pretend that I was not alarmed, for
there was murder in her eyes.
“Thank Heaven I am strong and a gymnast!” was the thought that darted
into my mind.
The girl with the knife drew back a step and lowered the blade. I
knew that in Spain the dagger was used with an upward thrust, the
object being to tear the flesh of an opponent. Had I moved, she would
have plunged the knife into my back. I stood glaring into her eyes.
It seemed minutes, but it was only brief seconds. With a leap, she
advanced. I stepped aside and grasped her right shoulder, and we
struggled. A sharp pain shot in my left arm, but I held my assailant
and secured both her wrists.
With all my strength I twisted her arm. I saw her wince with pain. We
struggled up and down the side walk. Presently, to my surprise, she
gave a cry and implored me to loose her wrists. I did so, and the knife
fell on the ground. In a couple of seconds she was round the corner.
Then I realized why she had suddenly flown. A civil guard was pacing
slowly towards me. I thrust the dagger out of sight within my bodice,
hoping that he had not seen the struggle, for I dreaded a police case.
Fortunately, the officer had not noticed us grappling. The street was
ill-lighted, and we were in the shadow of a tall building. I returned
his good-night, and hurried away, feeling glad when I reached a wide,
brightly-lighted thoroughfare.
My heart was beating at an alarming pace. I had narrowly escaped a
horrible wound, if not death itself. As it was, my left arm was cut,
and the blood soaked through my sleeve.
I reached home quite nerve-shaken. The wound on my arm was not
serious, and I washed it carefully and bound it tip with a couple of
handkerchiefs.
The dagger that I had captured was a terrible weapon; the blade was
over a foot long, and very pointed and keen, and the handle was of horn
inlaid with brass. I put it in a drawer among other mementoes of Spain,
such as photographs, ribbons, a couple of painted fans, and a Manila
shawl.
I sank into a chair and began to take myself to task for allowing Don
José to pay me attentions. Yet, after all, I had told him from the
beginning that I did not love him. Was I to blame? Anyway, I felt
very much upset by this affair. I had unwittingly aroused a murderous
jealousy in another woman.
All night I lay awake thinking of this black-haired, pale girl, and
the ferocious gleam of her eyes when she flourished the navaja before
me. I was afraid that I might have a fearful nightmare if I slept. For
several nights after this adventure I was troubled with dreams in which
José and the girl figured.
What had become of José? He had not been to the hall for eight days.
Was he also in fear of the girl’s wild jealousy? I did not know where
he lived, for he had always kept this a secret. I soon learnt why he
had not divulged his private affairs beyond telling me that he had
plenty of money and was the son of an important man in Barcelona.
One day I went into a draper’s shop in the Calle de Fernando Septimo.
A young man in a dim corner came forward to serve me. It was Jose. I
shall never forget his embarrassment. He stammered and stuttered for
two or three minutes, and I could hardly keep from laughing.
“Ah,” he said, “you will be astonished, no doubt. I am, indeed, as
I told you, the son of a grandee; but suddenly we have lost all our
wealth, and for three days I have been in this business. I have meant
to write to you and to explain all.”
Poor José. He coloured up to his eyebrows and looked extremely
ridiculous. I was really sorry for him. No doubt he had been through
much trouble with the girl who tried to stab me. He was so terribly
nervous and ashamed that I soon hurried from the shop.
Once again I saw José. One Sunday, while strolling on the beautiful
Rambla under the palm trees, I saw him with the black-haired girl
seated at a table outside a café. They were drinking syrup and water,
and seemed quite happy.