HARD TIMES IN LONDON
WELL, I was back in London, and I realized that I was at home. I was
perhaps a little disappointed with England. I had hardly a relative
living, and my few friends were scattered.
For three years I had been fortunate. Rarely had I been out of an
engagement for longer than a week. But now my luck turned. My small
savings began to melt. Remember that I had kept myself by hook and by
crook from the age of twelve, and always kept my contracts, and tried
my best to please the public. And yet I came back to England to find
want staring me in the face.
I had now reached a rather tragic period of my career. I was almost in
despair, and matters did not mend till a chance turned up to appear as
a solo dancer in a pantomime. There were still weeks to wait before I
could handle any of my salary; but the prospect of an engagement filled
me with new hope and encouragement.
The pantomime in which I was engaged was “The House that Jack Built.” I
hoped that great things would come of this contract. A solo dancer has
the stage to herself, if only for a few minutes; and she is more “in
the picture” than when performing with a troupe. In Spain and France I
had often danced by myself. I was considered clever enough for Paris,
Madrid, Barcelona, Oporto, and other big Continental towns. “Surely,” I
thought, “I ought to make a hit in a suburban theatre in England.”
During the weeks before the production of the annual pantomimes there
is much excitement and anxiety among the artistes. The “stars” are,
of course, booked for many months, and often years, ahead. But the
less fortunate performers suffer agonies of misgiving and uncertainty
concerning their chances of a good engagement in the pantomime. And,
after all, with the best of good fortune, the minor actor or actress
can only reckon on a run of eight or twelve weeks. A “star” will make
anything from £100 to £300 a week during the pantomime season, and
often earn more in one week than many artistes can earn in a year.
Many of the variety performers owe their success to popularity in
pantomime. A good song will often make an artiste’s fortune. Dancers,
unless they possess pleasant singing voices, stand a small chance of
winning their way to favour in pantomime; and even a good voice counts
for little if the song is not what the audience wants.
Just before the pantomimes the lucky artistes who are “booked” are in
high spirits. It is astonishing how hopeful we are in the profession,
in spite of bad times. On the whole, we complain very little about our
trials, and the public at large think we have an easy time. Six months’
experience of an artiste’s life would teach many people a severe
lesson. The public see only the brightly-lighted side of the picture;
there is another side, and it is often gloomy enough. But of that side
only the artistes know.
We were soon rehearsing “The House that Jack Built.” As I had no lines
in the pantomime, I was not required until it was time to go on the
stage and give my dance. But I attended rehearsals punctually.
A pantomime rehearsal is a rather drab affair. Most theatres look
dingy in the daytime, and on a raw December day a number of actors
and actresses, in their everyday garb, cutting capers, and muttering
their dialogue, do not look particularly interesting or amusing. The
principal boy will look majestic on Boxing Night, clad in her tights
and jewels, but during the rehearsal she seems a very ordinary sort of
young woman.
As for the comedians, they are often disappointing during the
rehearsals. The manager and the stage-manager put their heads together
and whisper: “When is he going to be funny? The show seems fearfully
dull.” But the comedian, whether he plays the baron or the dame, will
be a different man on the opening night. He does not feel the part
until he is dressed for it, and he wants the audience before him to put
him on his mettle.
The public have only a slight idea of the work and anxiety involved in
the production of a Christmas pantomime. For months the scene-painters
are at work, and extra hands are engaged in making the scenery and
accessories. The making of the costumes occupies a small company of
seamstresses, and in some theatres all the dresses are designed and
made on the premises.
This was my first pantomime engagement, and I took a special interest
in everything connected with it. I made friends among the girls in
the dressing-rooms, and found plenty of kindness. But it seemed very
fresh and strange to me, as I had been abroad for so long and had lived
with foreigners. Yet artistes are alike in certain ways all the world
over. They are used to ups and downs, and this induces a feeling of
comradeship.
“The House that Jack Built” was a success. The pantomime went with a
swing, and every one in the company worked hard. After the London run,
the pantomime was booked for the Crewe Theatre and other provincial
towns. But a terrible disaster befell us at Crewe.
We started for Crewe in good spirits, taking with us all the scenery
and properties of “The House that Jack Built.”
I was glad to have a peep once more at the fresh green country, for
London seemed a grey and rather dismal place after my long absence
among the beautiful old Moorish towns of Spain, where fogs are unknown
and a dull sky is seldom seen. I was happy and contented, for there was
a chance of the pantomime running for a few more weeks.
No one can understand fate and luck. Why was I in luck for three years
with hardly a break? And why was I now doomed to a spell of hard
misfortune? These things are beyond our control, and they have nothing
to do with one’s ability.
The pantomime went very well at Crewe at the first performance. I felt
well and cheerful, and forgot the hardships of the past months. Then
came a swift and awful calamity.
One night after the show my friend and I dawdled over our dressing
while we chatted. I am always rather slow in changing my costume, and I
think we were amongst the last of the artistes to leave the theatre. We
walked to our lodgings, ate some supper, and went to bed, feeling tired
after the performance.
Just as I began to doze I was conscious of some one calling in the
street. I turned over, and took no notice. But the shouting continued,
and I sat up and listened.
“Girls, girls, get up—fire!” was the cry that reached my sleepy brain.
I could not believe my ears. However, I aroused my friend, who was fast
asleep. And going to the window, and pulling the blind aside, I saw in
the street two men of the pantomime company waving their arms.
“The theatre is on fire!” they shouted loudly.
“Never!” cried my companion, who came to the window, rubbing her eyes.
“It is true,” I said in great consternation, for I saw a fiery glare in
the sky, and heard shouts of alarm in the streets.
“Oh, we shall lose all our things,” said my friend.
“Let us run to the theatre as fast as we can,” said I, beginning to
dress in frantic haste.
In a few minutes we were dressed, and, putting on our hats, we rushed
down the stairs and into the street. Men were running towards the
theatre. A fire-engine dashed along. We followed it, running as quickly
as we could.
I shall never forget the fearful spectacle of that blazing theatre.
About an hour ago we had been in the building. Now the flames were
raging everywhere, and darting fierce tongues through the windows. The
whole town was lit up in the glare.
We shuddered at the thought that some of the theatre staff might
still be in the theatre. But fortunately every one had escaped. The
engines were soon at work, and the firemen directed the hose on to the
neighbouring buildings, which were in danger.
“We shall lose all our costumes and things,” moaned my friend.
“They are ashes by now,” I said.
“And it’s the end of the pantomime, too,” said a member of the company
who had joined us.
I watched the fire with a hopeless sinking in my heart. Yes, it was
the end of my short run of good luck. Bit by bit the theatre was being
devoured, and the firemen, though they worked desperately, utterly
failed to subdue the fierce flames. Myriads of sparks went dancing up
into the blackness of the night, and a dense cloud of smoke floated
above the town.
Tears came into my eyes. My companions were silent. We all realized
that nothing could have been done to save the scenery, properties, and
costumes, for the fire had spread with amazing rapidity throughout the
entire building. All the beautiful dresses were now ashes. For myself,
I possessed hardly anything but the clothes I stood in.
For an hour we waited in the cold, raw air, gazing at the burning
theatre. Then we went our ways, all of us made dumb by the catastrophe.
My friend and I could not sleep that morning. We saw the dawn break,
and with the coming of daylight we seemed to realize more acutely the
difficulty of our position.
“What’s to be done?” I said feebly.
“The show can’t go on; everything is destroyed.”
“I don’t know,” murmured my friend. “It is just awful; too awful for
words!”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve been in an earthquake, I’ve nearly been
shipwrecked, I’ve almost been smashed to pieces in a fall from the
flying rings, and now I’ve just escaped being burned to death. I
wonder what’s coming next. It’s a pretty good record for a woman of
twenty-two.”
“What about our salaries?” asked my friend.
“Yes, what indeed?” I muttered as we turned away from the blackened
ruins of the theatre.
Could any outlook seem worse? We were stranded, or, in other words, “on
the rocks.” Our manager was a heavy loser, and we were all sufferers
together, from the principals down to the humblest member of the
company. For some of the girls the situation was terrible, for they
had been out of engagements for some time, and were hoping to recover
their losses and pay their debts. We could only console one another by
repeating:
“Well, we’re all in the same boat.”
We knew, of course, that this was the end of the provincial tour of
“The House that Jack Built.” Not a trace of that pantomime survived.
And it was too late in the season to start afresh. We were all suddenly
thrown out of employment in the worst time of year. There was no chance
of any more pantomime engagements.
Some of us had not the price of our fares back to London. It was a
miserable predicament, and we wondered how we were going to wriggle out
of it.
The public are, as a rule, kind to artistes. A number of the
influential people of Crewe were very sympathetic, and they came to
the rescue of the unfortunate company of “The House that Jack Built.”
To relieve our distress, a benefit performance was to be given at the
Town Hall. The town was billed, and we hoped that the proceeds of the
entertainment would repay us for the dresses that we had lost in the
fire.
Our company was a large one, and though the Town Hall was fairly
filled, there was not much to divide amongst us.
I came back to London with several members of the company. I went into
lodgings with some friends, and began to look up advertisements and to
call regularly on my agent. Every effort that I made to obtain work was
fruitless. No troupe of dancers were needed at this time of the year.
The pantomime season was drawing to an end, and there seemed to be no
vacancies on the halls.
Day after day I tramped about the theatrical quarter, meeting artistes
who, like myself, were “waiting for dates.” The army of the unemployed
acrobats, dancers, and actors increased when the pantomimes came to an
end. Everywhere I met acquaintances down on their luck. Heaven knows
how some of us live in the long periods of “resting.” Yet if an artiste
is shabby and down-at-heel his fate is written plainly; he will receive
coldness wherever he calls.
I have found London a terribly cruel place for a young girl. But I will
not exaggerate, for I have met with kindness in unexpected quarters.
Certainly, the wage-earning class are exceedingly brotherly towards one
another.
I found that during my absence from England I had lost touch of the
acrobatic folk, and my efforts to trace friends were unsuccessful. How
was I to live? This question gnawed at my brain every hour of the day
and often by night.
I have reached the most painful stage in my journey since the day when
I ran away. How much I had learned since that time nearly eleven years
ago. At all events, during my apprenticeship I always had food enough,
but now I could see nothing before me but want.
How could I turn my hand to some other employment than the stage? I had
never experienced what is known as home life. Most of the eleven years
had been spent in lodgings and in hotels, and in travelling from town
to town. I stood no chance of competing for a business post, for I knew
nothing of business.
A little gleam of hope came when a man, of whom I had never heard,
applied to the dancing school for an artiste who could dance in
the Spanish style. I was to call upon this man, who would give me
particulars.
I arrived early at his office. He had not arrived. When he came in he
asked me if I knew the bolero, the jota, and the Sevilliana. I replied
that I knew the first two dances very well, but not the last.
“You look Spanish,” he said.
“I am not Spanish, but I have lived for three years in Spain, and
danced at Madrid, Barcelona, San Sebastian, and other towns,” was my
reply.
“Well, that accounts for the way you wear your hair,” he said. “You
certainly have a Spanish appearance. Now, I want you to see an Italian
gentleman, a leader of an orchestra, who requires a dancer in the
Spanish style. He lives here.” And he wrote down the address on a piece
of paper, and handed it to me.
The Italian leader of the orchestra lived in Bayswater, and I went
to his house, carrying my dancing costume and some music. He was a
polite, vivacious gentleman, and he began to tell me of a scheme for
introducing a _café chantant_ entertainment in London.
“I require a dancer, one who can dance in the Spanish style, play the
castanets, and sing a few songs. The salary will be two pounds ten a
week, and the hours seven to eleven each night.”
As I was anxious to get work, I gladly accepted the terms offered.
“Now, I have tried to find a good dancer, but I have failed. The
English girls are able to dance, but it is dancing without feeling,
without passion.
“I want a lively dancer,” he continued, “and she must sing to the
violin, mandoline, and guitar. Will you let me see you dance?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Will you have a Spanish dance?”
“Yes, that will do,” returned the conductor, taking up my music and
sitting down at the piano.
Well, I performed several dances. My heart jumped when he praised my
performance of the bolero. Was my bad luck going to turn? I danced
in several styles, and he watched me critically while he played the
accompaniment. Then he tried my voice in one or two songs. But he
did not like my songs. He seemed difficult to please, and I began to
surmise that nothing would come of the interview. My guess was correct.
Luck was against me, and I went away terribly disappointed.
At the Marble Arch I turned into the park, and wandered, hardly knowing
where I went. I was tired, hungry, and sad, and bitter thoughts rose
in my brain as I watched the well-dressed, over-fed daughters of the
fashionable world driving by. It seemed to me that they surveyed their
poorer brothers and sisters with scorn.
I felt unwanted in the world as I sank to a seat in the Row. My life
had proved a strange one since I entered the variety profession, and
just now I could only dwell on the darker side of it. I yearned for a
friend, an adviser, a sympathizer. Here in England I was more lonely
than I had ever felt in Spain or France.
After sitting for some time in the park I made my way to the Surrey
side, pursued by gloomy anticipations, and much depressed by the result
of my interview with the Italian musician. I had promised that I would
let the gentleman who had given me the introduction hear the result of
my interview. Accordingly I called upon him on the following day.
Mr ———— was a sympathetic man, and he told me afterwards that he knew
directly I returned to the room that I had not been successful.
“You’re on the rocks, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered; “I have had a long run of bad luck.”
He thought for a moment, and then said:
“I may still be able to help you. Take this as an advance on any
engagement that I may obtain for you.”
And he put some money into my hand. I did not like to accept this loan,
and I told him that I was in debt. He encouraged me to talk, and it
was a relief to me to speak of my difficulties and disappointments. He
listened very attentively.
“I am an author,” he said, and he pointed to a row of books that he had
written. “Why don’t you write your life? It would interest many people,
as it has interested me.”
The idea of writing a book had never entered my head.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t write my life,” I said humbly.
“Yes you could if you tried,” he returned in a most encouraging tone.
“You have all the material for an entertaining history of stage life.
We have had plenty of biographies of people on the stage who have
reached the top of the ladder, but there would be freshness and novelty
in a story of your career from the time that you ran away from home.
Now try to write the story, naturally and simply, as you have told it
to me, and I think I can get it published for you.”
He gave me a few suggestions about this story, and then he asked me to
have lunch with him. I was greatly cheered. I felt that things were not
quite hopeless after all.
In the meantime I happened to meet an old friend in the acrobatic
profession, who told me that he was finding artistes for a series of
gala performances in Wales.
The open-air gala was to be held at Swansea, in South Wales, in the
centre of an iron and coal district. The organizers hoped that the
performances would draw for several days, and I was cheered that the
engagement might last for two or three weeks, for it was suggested,
that galas should be given in other manufacturing centres of South
Wales.
I arranged to give a horizontal-bar turn, which was to last eight
minutes. The performances were to be given twice a day, in the
afternoon and the evening. Almost all the turns were of a sensational
acrobatic character. I was acquainted with two or three of the artistes
engaged, and I agreed to travel down with them on the Saturday
preceding Bank Holiday.
But although this chance had come in my way as a pleasant surprise, I
was now faced by a serious difficulty. The third-class fare to Swansea
is sixteen shillings and sixpence-halfpenny. I was able to borrow nine
shillings from the friends with whom I lived, but this was all that I
could get. On the Friday morning I had only raised nine shillings.
I was nearly desperate when I sat down and wrote to Mr ————, the author
whom I have mentioned, asking him if he would lend me enough money to
make up my fare, and promising to repay him on my return from South
Wales.
The letter reached its destination about five o’clock in the afternoon.
At six o’clock I received this telegram: “Certainly. Meet me Trafalgar
Square at 7.30.” My heart gave a great bound of surprise and joy.