MY PORTUGUESE HOSTS
DID I ever receive the money from him? No, dear reader, I did not. As I
walked down the hill from the university I said to myself:
“Put no more trust in that young man. You’ll never see that money.”
No; Dom Sebastian was a handsome flatterer, that is all. That is
the best that can be said for him. I am afraid that he was a born
adventurer and a swindler. Well, I had learned a little more of the
ways of men, and I intended to profit by the experience.
Perhaps some of my readers will smile at this credulity. They will say
that a woman on the stage should have her wits about her. Let me say
that I do not like to distrust people; it is not my nature. I have told
you enough of my life to show that I had a very hard childhood. I don’t
think my trials have made me bitter and suspicious of every one that I
meet, though they might have had that effect upon me.
And it is a mistake to suppose that because a girl lives a
rough-and-tumble life as a performer that she develops cunning, and
grows into a designing woman. There are gentle, trusting women “on
the boards,” as in other walks of life. Of course, I have known girls
who were not at all correct in their conduct if they learned that it
paid them to cast aside the strict ideas in which they were brought
up. But, as I have said before, and wish to repeat, the typist girl is
not less tempted to go astray than the average girl on the stage. If a
girl wishes to trade upon her good looks, she has opportunities in any
occupation that brings her into association with men.
From Coimbra we went to Evora, an old town to the south of Lisbon.
It is an astonishment to the artiste in Spain and Portugal to find a
town of this size provided with places of entertainment that are open
all the year round and pay the proprietors a good profit. Evora is no
bigger than Basingstoke, and not so big as Guildford, yet it had its
variety hall.
This delightful town is surrounded by distant mountains, and the
scenery is charming. The streets are narrow and quiet, and there are
some fine Roman remains of a temple and an aqueduct.
We had a very comfortable engagement at Evora, and I was sorry to leave
the place. A rather curious adventure befell us there. Two gentlemen,
who lived together in a fine mansion about seven miles from the town,
became acquainted with Gamboli. One day they proposed that we should
all drive out to their country place and dine with them in the evening.
Lily, her little boy, and I rode with one of our hosts in a smart
carriage drawn by a fine pair of horses, and Gamboli and the other host
rode in another vehicle.
We left Evora at four in the afternoon, and I well remember the beauty
of the day as we drove through vineyards and orchards in the bright
sunshine. Our hosts were very entertaining and full of high spirits,
not to say somewhat boisterous. We left the flat country soon, and the
road wound upwards and upwards on a hill-side, with splendid views on
every hand.
“There is our house,” said the gentleman who rode in our carriage,
pointing to a large white building among some tall trees.
It was a most beautiful country house. The grounds were delightfully
laid out, and the wild country stretched all around. There were groves
of lemon and orange trees and a lovely rose garden, with a fountain and
a pond, in which big fish were swimming. Two peacocks strutted in front
of the house. From the wood came the loud note of the golden oriole and
the cooing of pigeons. It was like a fairy palace.
Within, the house was finely decorated; the walls and ceilings were
painted, and the furniture was sumptuous. There were statues in the
hall, and fine oil paintings.
Our hosts were both bachelors, and they shared this delightful
residence. There was a small regiment of servants of both sexes to wait
upon us. We sat in a veranda overlooking the glowing garden, and the
men lit cigars and we all sipped red wine.
After a rest we went to see the horses, and visited the farm, and saw
peasants making hay and milking the cows. Everything seemed peaceful
and happy, and I envied our hosts’ good fortune in possessing such a
charming home in this land of sunshine, roses, and wine.
The dinner was of about ten courses, and very well served. Several
kinds of wine were on the table, and I noticed that our hosts
frequently motioned to the servants to fill our glasses. Champagne
flowed like water. Our hosts began to get more hilarious. They cracked
jokes, proposed toasts, and made the house ring with their hearty
laughter.
Again and again I refused wine. I even kept my hand over my glass when
I saw the bottles and decanters coming.
After dinner Mr Gamboli went with one of our hosts, taking little Henry
with him, and Lily and I were left with the other host.
By this time both our hosts were exceedingly lively; in fact, the
caballero who entertained Lily and myself had taken too much. But
he continued to drink and to force liqueurs upon us. Benedictine,
Chartreuse, and Crême de Menthe were on the table, and cognac and
coffee were brought in.
Our host’s manner now became extremely familiar. The wine had
emboldened him.
“Enjoy yourselves, ladies! Drink and be happy,” he invited us, seizing
a bottle and filling our glasses.
I refused repeatedly to drink any more, but our host was persistent. It
was his idea of a “spree.” Probably there was a sly motive in tempting
us in this way. I resolved to keep my head cool.
Where was Mr Gamboli and the boy? Why did they not join us? Our host
began to sing uproariously. Presently he leaned across the table to
reach a bottle, and in doing so he upset a glass of wine.
“Long live Bacchus!” he cried “Be merry, ladies, be merry!”
I thought it was time to go in search of Mr Gamboli and little Henry,
but Lily begged me not to leave her. Our host was now noisy and
reckless beyond all bounds. He flourished his wine-glass, and made even
wilder speeches, inviting us to join him in another bottle.
Presently Gamboli and the other host appeared, but the boy was not with
them. They had been playing at billiards, and the little fellow was in
charge of one of the servants. Lily rose in great concern, for we were
in such queer company that we feared that something might have befallen
her child.
“Why didn’t you keep him with you?” she asked her husband.
“The child is all right,” said the host who had just entered.
“Let us be going,” whispered Lily to her husband. “It must be very
late.”
“Don’t be in haste,” said our host. “Come, let us have a bottle of
champagne.”
But I for one was anxious to get away, and Lily insisted that she was
very tired. So, after a search, little Henry was found in one of the
servants’ rooms, and the carriage was ordered for our drive back to
Coimbra. The livelier of our two hosts was now in a sort of stupor. He
sat blinking in his chair, with a half-smoked cigar in the corner of
his mouth.
I shall never forget our drive to Coimbra in the dawn. It was just
daybreak as we started, and the golden orioles were piping in the
woods. In the distance the mountains shone rosy in the light of the
rising sun, and soon the sky was barred and striped with orange and
mauve. The air was sweet and fresh, and I breathed it with relief after
the hours we had spent in the fumes of wine and cigars. Little Henry
dozed, with his head on his mother’s shoulder, and Gamboli was drowsy.
But I was wide awake, and I was sorry when we came in sight of the
town, for I had never enjoyed the beauties of a summer sunrise so much.
We were now nearing the end of our tour in Spain and Portugal. Our next
town was Vigo, one of the chief ports of northern Spain.
From Vigo we went to Santander, and on to the busy town of Bilbao. Here
the outlook seemed rather dismal, for although there is a theatre and a
circus in the town, there were not, at that time, any singing cafés. It
was the first town we had visited in Spain where there was no building
in which we could perform.
When things were looking rather serious Gamboli, who was never daunted
by difficulties, persuaded the proprietor of a café to erect a little
stage, and to introduce a variety show to his patrons. We went on
sharing terms, and the scheme turned out a fair success; but we
could not make money out of the venture. So at the request of a café
proprietor in San Sebastian, we moved on to that town after spending
about three months at Bilbao.
San Sebastian was the last town in Spain in which I danced. I often
wished afterwards that I had stayed with my good friends, the Gambolis,
and gone with them to Switzerland and Italy. But I had been away from
England for three years, and I began to yearn for a sight of the old
country. More than all, I wanted to see some one to whom I was strongly
attached. The temptation was too powerful to be resisted. I was within
about sixty hours’ journey of London, and I had saved a little money
out of my Spanish tour. So, for good or ill, I determined to return to
England.
I was deeply moved when the time came for me to say “Good-bye” to my
friends and to leave beautiful, sunny Spain, where I had passed so many
happy days.
I was glad when I reached London. But, oh, the greyness of the sky, the
dinginess of the streets, and the racket and roar! I thought I should
never get used to London life again. And very soon I began to realize
how much keener the fight for a living is in this country than in Spain
or France. At least, it is so for those who call themselves artistes,
and who live by amusing the public. I am not clever enough to explain
why this is so, for England is such a rich country, and there is no
scarcity of variety halls or theatres.