ADVENTURES IN SPAIN
OUR five months at Barcelona were drawing to an end. The time had
flown, for we had been busy and happy. No money affairs had cast a
cloud over our days or caused us restless, anxious nights. But it was
time to move on. We had worked all the variety halls and cafés of
importance, and we had no novel “numbers.” Gamboli thought we ought to
go to the Balearic Islands and try our fortune at Palma, the chief town.
These lovely islands in the Mediterranean Sea are four in number, and
the largest is Majorca, or Mallorca, as the Spaniards call it. They
are not much visited yet by tourists, but they will, no doubt, become
favourite holiday resorts in the future. The scenery is delightful,
both inland and along the coast, and at present the living is very
cheap.
Steamboats travel regularly to Palma from Barcelona, and we took
tickets for the voyage. The passage proved very adventurous and
alarming. Before we started, the weather had been sultry and intensely
hot. Even the nights were breathless and close. I suppose it was the
calm that precedes a storm, for no sooner had we left Barcelona than a
wind arose, and in half an hour it was blowing a perfect hurricane.
Mr Gamboli learned from the captain of the vessel that the storm was
likely to become more violent as we approached the islands. Poor little
Henry was quite terrified; and I must confess that when I saw the
seething expanse of water, and heard the terrifying roar of the wind
and the waves, I felt anxious for our safety.
I was not troubled with sea-sickness, so I could remain on deck and
watch the wild scene of angry water. However, the captain soon ordered
us below, saying that he could not be responsible for any passenger
that stayed on deck. So we were cooped up in a little cabin and left to
the mercy of the weather.
I have never passed through a worse storm at sea. The ship was tossed
about like a mere cockle-shell, and the waves poured continually across
the deck and down into the cabin. Passengers rolled out of their bunks,
and china fell now and again with a crash. The din was tremendous.
Sometimes the ship stood still, though the engines were panting
vigorously. Then the vessel rose on the top of a huge surging wave, and
went down headlong into the trough.
Some of us sat pale and silent. I doubted whether we would ever see
Palma. I saw old and young paralysed with fear. In one corner a priest
knelt, praying for help; and two lovers sat hand in hand, resolved to
die together. When the storm was at the height of its fury some one
declared that the captain had expressed the dread that the ship would
go down presently.
“My friends,” said the priest in a loud, solemn tone, “we are in
fearful danger. Nothing is left but the mercy of God.”
As the priest spoke, a wave, larger than any that had struck the
vessel, swept across the deck and carried away some of the gear. The
engine was thudding with all steam on, but we were not able to make any
way against the hurricane. We heard the captain shout to the crew, but
his voice was drowned in the tremendous howling of the wind and the
noise of the white-capped waves.
A great fear was upon us as we huddled in the cabin. It was awful to
be imprisoned in this way, while we feared that the ship might capsize
at any moment. I felt that I would rather be on deck, in spite of the
danger.
I suppose that the storm was too violent to last long. We had passed
through the worst of the rough water, and soon we were told that the
danger was almost over. We all breathed again freely, and the priest
returned thanks to Providence for delivering us from the cruelty of the
waves. Beyond some damage to the boat there was no other mishap.
We reached the port several hours late, and found a large crowd on the
quay. The people had feared the worst. You may be sure that we were all
glad to step on to firm land. Some of the passengers were prostrated by
sea-sickness, and all had endured terror during our wild crossing.
Palma impressed me as a delightful and picturesque town. We found
quarters in a little fonda, or inn, near the sea. In two days we had an
offer to give our show at the principal place of entertainment. It was
a hall chiefly patronized by men, who were mostly dressed in the quaint
costume of the island.
The people did not, at the first glance, appear to be very strait-laced
or proper; but we soon learned that they were extremely decorous in one
respect. Quite forgetting our experiences at Barcelona, we appeared on
the stage in our ordinary dancing-skirts. There was at first a dead
silence. Then, as we began to dance, a murmur ran through the crowd,
which rose to a roar. Hisses, yells, and hootings were directed upon
us. We continued to dance, hoping that the din would cease presently;
but the noise only increased, and some of the audience stood up in a
threatening manner.
The manager, who seemed much alarmed, called us off the stage. He was
very indignant. Gamboli tried to pacify him, but he threw his arms
about, and declared that we had ruined his reputation. It was useless
to argue with the man.
“I cannot pay you full salary; it is impossible!” he cried.
“But the ladies will wear longer dresses!” exclaimed Gamboli.
“They must certainly do so. At the same time, this affair has done me
harm with the public, and I shall lose money through it. I can’t pay
you the price agreed upon.”
After much discussion the manager decided that we must either accept £5
less on a week’s salary or not perform at all. As we needed the money,
and saw no alternative, we had to accept these reduced terms during the
time that we remained in the island.
It may surprise some English readers that the Spanish people are so
prudish in this matter. They are certainly not squeamish in many
things, but they will not tolerate short dancing-skirts. In England, as
I have said, such a costume does not arouse comment.
After our visit to Palma we returned to the mainland, and had a
beautifully calm passage. We spent one night in Barcelona, and went
on to Tarragona, a town of about thirty thousand inhabitants. There
are two theatres here and some singing cafés, and we soon found an
engagement.
The place was not very prosperous, but the people seemed to have plenty
of time to enjoy themselves. I liked Tarragona very much, and I was
never tired of sitting on the promenade of Santa Clara, watching the
blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
The weather was tropical. We found our dancing very exhausting in this
excessive heat. While at Tarragona we almost lived on green figs, which
were in season and very plentiful. In such a hot climate one does not
relish meat dishes, and it was a pleasant change to live as vegetarians.
From Tarragona we travelled to Madrid—a long journey in the heat. The
capital of Spain is perhaps the most modern town in the country, and
it reminded me somewhat of Paris and Brussels. It is well paved and
lighted, and there are electric tramways and other modern improvements.
The royal palace is here, and the city has a large number of wealthy
and fashionable residents, who live for amusement.
Our biggest success in Madrid was with a representation in living
statuary of the famous monument of the Dos de Mayo, or Second of May.
This monument is in memory of the soldiers who fought against the
French rulers in the time of Murat, and it has beautiful figures in
groups around a granite sarcophagus. We selected various groups of the
statuary, and presented them one evening to an enthusiastic audience.
The Dos de Mayo groups were a huge success. Managers competed with one
another in offers, and we had no lack of engagements while the novelty
of the show lasted. We made a round of the popular variety halls and
some of the larger cafés, and had a busy time.
A number of English variety performers visit Madrid, and one of the
halls is managed by an Englishman. I was glad to meet some of my own
countrymen, and to hear my own language spoken again. We sometimes met
in one of the cafés to talk “shop.” I had been away from England so
long that it seemed ages since I started out with the Primrose Girls
on the fateful tour. From the English artistes I heard the latest
professional gossip.
In Madrid I made the acquaintance of a lion-tamer at one of the halls.
He was a handsome, daring man, and very successful in his business. His
lions were said to be the fiercest on the road, and they were certainly
the most ferocious I have ever seen.
As I have already said, lions fed on cooked meat are tamer than those
fed upon raw flesh. I know an American tamer who can do anything
with his lions, and he never allows them to taste uncooked food. But
the performer in Madrid always gave his lions raw meat, to keep them
fierce. He also took other measures to make them savage.
One day I was in the hall an hour before the show, talking to the
lion king. Presently he calmly lit a cigarette, and, taking a heavy
whip, with a thick lash and a weighted handle, he entered the cage.
Immediately the lions drew into a corner and began to snarl and to show
their huge teeth. Rating them at the top of his voice, the tamer began
to lay about with the whip, till the lions were leaping about the cage.
His well-directed cuts fell upon their heads and flanks, and he beat
them severely.
I could not bear the sight. I have a love for animals, and it seemed to
me that this flogging was quite unnecessary. He was not correcting the
animals, but merely irritating them. I turned away from the cage.
“Ah,” shouted the trainer, “you don’t like to see them whipped. Let me
tell you, Señorita, I must master them, or they would quickly master
me.” And he continued to lash the beasts with vigour. I shall not be
surprised if this lion king loses his life one of these days, for he is
intensely hated by his lions.
Madrid is a gay city, and people of all nations may be seen in the
places of amusement. The chief theatres are the Royal, the Princess’s,
and the Comedy; and the popular houses are the España, the Lara, the
Apollo, the Zarzuela, and the Eslava. Short shows of about an hour
are given in some of the smaller theatres and variety halls, in which
sketches and one-act plays are acted, followed by various turns, such
as dancing and acrobatics. In the summer a theatre is opened in the
chief public park.
My experience of the Spanish variety performances is that they are,
on the whole, more artistic than those of England and America, and
freer from vulgarity. The variety artiste in Spain works hard at
his business, and takes a pride in it, and in return the public are
grateful to him for amusing them, and do not look upon him as an idler.
The fact is, the people of Spain are all more or less artists at heart,
and they will not tolerate a poor performance, whether it is that of
an actor or of a dancer. They appreciate good work, and expect it, and
they are prepared to pay the artiste well. In dress, music, dancing,
and many other ways, the Spanish show their natural taste for art.
I was not a little proud that I could please Madrid audiences with my
dancing, for Spain is the home of the dance, and even little children
are critics of the art. It pleased the Spanish folk that I could use
the castanets like one of their own countrywomen, and perform the
national dances. But they were perhaps more pleased with the “danse
Inglés,” the sailor’s hornpipe, which they always applauded heartily.
While I was at Madrid I made friends with a charming Spanish girl of
eighteen named Dolores. She was the daughter of a violinist who had
become paralysed and unable to follow his occupation. His wife had
been dead two years, and the son was in the army. Poor Señor was very
patient, in spite of his terrible malady and the poverty that it had
brought to the home. He lived with his daughter Dolores in one room in
a small street near the church of San Isidro, where I often visited
them. They were a devoted pair, and Dolores was the support of her
father in his infirmity, working early and late as a dressmaker in a
business of her own.
Dolores was a typical Spanish beauty. Her face was oval and refined,
the skin a light olive, slightly tinged with pink on the cheeks, and
her eyes were dark, tender, and lustrous, with a look of thoughtful
sadness in them. She was one of the loveliest girls I have ever met,
and very gentle in disposition.
Among her customers was an Englishwoman, a Miss Ray, whose brother
was connected with the iron export trade at Bilbao. Mr Ray was often
at Madrid on business, when he stayed with his sister in the Calle de
Alcalá. One day George Ray saw Dolores at his sister’s boarding-house.
He fell in love with her at first sight, and, learning her story, he
came to see her father. Mr Ray was very sympathetic, and he wished to
do something for the old man. At the same time, he was deeply in love
with Dolores.
At the end of a week Dolores came to me at the hall one night to seek
my advice. She said that Mr Ray had offered to marry her, and that she
loved him.
“He is so kind and so handsome,” she said with a sigh.
“Why do you sigh, Dolores?” I asked. “It ought to make you happy.”
“Ah, my friend, I sigh because I can’t leave my poor father. He has
been good to me, and he loves me, and I must be a good daughter to him,”
“It is hard for you, Dolores,” I said, kissing her.
“Mr Ray wishes me to leave Spain. He is going to South America, to the
Argentine, and he wants me to marry at once and to go with him. But I
cannot leave my father. Oh, what can I do?”
I was very touched by my friend’s perplexity. Think as I would, I felt
that I could not advise her in this difficult matter. I tried to think
of a plan, but the situation seemed hopeless. If she would not leave
her father, nothing could be done.
Mr Ray continued to press Dolores to go with him. He offered to pay
some one to keep house for the Señor; but Dolores would not hear of
this, for she thought that no one in the world could take care of her
father save herself. I think I was the only person who knew how Dolores
suffered, for she kept her trouble from her father. She was very noble.
At the same time, she was sacrificed, as so many women are, to an idea
of duty.
Mr Ray left Madrid, greatly disappointed that Dolores would not
accompany him. My friend was broken-hearted. I tried to console her,
but she became very depressed, and her health was affected.
Mr Ray wrote one letter to Dolores from Argentina; then he went out of
her life as suddenly as he had come into it. She never heard of him
again, and Miss Ray, his sister, soon left Madrid for Scotland.
This trouble preyed for long on Dolores’ mind. I am afraid that
she will never quite recover from it. Spanish women are capable of
remarkably strong affection, and they do not hide their feelings like
their English sisters. I was struck with the difference between the
Spanish and English women in this respect, and in many others. The
women of Spain are more feminine than English women. They are splendid
wives and affectionate mothers, and if they are backward in education,
they have still much character and intelligence. It is not true that
the Spanish women are treacherous and disloyal, and that they carry
a dagger thrust into their garters. There are many mistakes made by
foreigners about the people of Spain. I can only say that I found them
delightful. They are honest in their dealings, very loyal to friends,
and free from artificiality. Their courtesy is not a thing of pretence,
but based on kindness of heart and consideration for others.
So devoted are the Spanish to their families, that they hate to be
separated from relatives. Family affection keeps many Spaniards from
roaming, and in this matter they are unlike the British or the Germans.
The Spanish dancers and artistes who visit England rarely come without
bringing several relatives with them. An artiste will stipulate that
his mother and sisters shall accompany him before he will sign an
agent’s contract. It is said in the profession in England that if you
engage one Spanish artiste you engage a company.
Affection and sentiment count more to the Spaniard than making money.
This is to me one of the attractive qualities of the Spanish race.
While I was still concerned about Dolores I met another girl in
trouble. She was English, and had been on the variety stage as a singer
and dancer. At Nottingham she met an illusionist who was performing at
the same music-hall, and this artiste exercised a great fascination
over Rose Nevill. To be plain, Rose had thrown in her lot with this man
and had come to Spain with him.
I first met Rose Nevill at a café which was the resort of actors and
variety artistes. She was seated alone reading a letter, and there
were tears in her eyes. Her face was pale and anxious, and she seemed
in deep grief. I did not wish to pry into her private affairs, but it
was evident that she was in trouble; and by her dress and appearance I
recognized that she was one of my countrywomen. Presently our eyes met,
and she smiled faintly. I felt impelled to speak to her. She told me
the strange tale of her career, which I must relate in my next chapter.