Alexandra's bad luck held.
The only engagements she was offered she could not accept. One was in
provincial pantomime and therefore not immediate, another a "walk-on" at
a London theater, for which a premium of L10 was asked. Suggestions
were made to her by doubtful-looking touring managers which besides
being only tentative were also unwholesome. One agent made it
impossible for her to go and see him again.
The soul-sickening chase after employment continued for several weeks.
By husbanding the money she had saved while on tour with Mrs. Lambert
she was able to keep out of debt; but time was against her. Soon she
would be unable to do without a fire in her room. Coals at six-pence a
scuttle sounded to her like extravagance and were therefore prohibitive.
She did not think it likely she would be able to find a cheaper lodging,
or at any rate one where the landlady was as honest as Mrs. Bell. In
Sidey Street she could at least make sure that if half a herring was
left over at breakfast the other half would be available at supper time.
Mrs. Bell was also "particular" about sheets and cleanliness generally.
She took an open pride in having a lodger who indulged in a daily bath.
The blush of modesty often came to Alexandra's face as she heard the
fact being exultantly advertised on the stairs to some new or would-be
tenant. Her landlady used it as a testimonial. Once a week, too, the
little room with the cistern was "done out," which meant that Mrs. Bell
used a duster for a motor-veil and threw the furniture out on the
landing. For these reasons 109 Sidey Street was tolerable. The lodgers
there were respectable. True, the shunter from King's Cross Station had
the room overhead, but as he did not import his boisterous occupation
into domestic life Alexandra found him unobjectionable.
She saw a good deal of Maggy, but Maggy was only able to offer advice
and the use of her purse, neither of which Alexandra would accept. It
hurt her to refuse. The advice she could not reconcile with her
conscience: the money, being Woolf's, seemed tainted. All this while
her one attempt at literature had kept returning to her with hopeless
monotony. A month had elapsed since she had last seen it. She had all
but forgotten it when a letter unexpectedly reached her, nebulously
signed "The Editor," requesting her to call at the offices of his paper.
She went there full of a natural excitement at the prospect of hearing
that her article was to be printed. To her chagrin the Editor,
otherwise quite a pleasant person, disillusioned her on this point.
"It's quite all right," he told her; "but I can't use it."
"Then why did you send for me?" asked poor Alexandra helplessly.
"For one reason, because I saw you knew your subject, and it struck me
you might put your knowledge to a more commercial use. My dear young
lady, there isn't a paper in England that would print this as it
stands."
Alexandra had nothing to say.
"It's quite simple," he went on. "Papers live by advertisement. The
stage is one of their sources of revenue. Besides, it doesn't pay to
vilify the stage. It's too popular. We have to butter it up. Look at
this," he flicked over the pages of his popular weekly. "Full of photos
of stage beauties, with a eulogistic paragraph to each. Many of them
paid for. Well, we can't publish a picture of, say, Miss Tottie Fluff
on one page and an indictment of her morals on the next. Now can we?"
"I--I suppose not," said Alexandra, vastly impressed by this amiable
frankness.
"If you'll be guided by me you'll leave the question of stage morality
alone. The press, the public and the profession all unite in a
conspiracy of silence about it. You're on the stage, I suppose?"
"Generally off," said Alexandra.
"Doing anything now?"
"No, I wish I were."
"Well, look here: why not write something in a chatty way about
theatrical matters? Take the exact opposite view to what you have here.
Treat the stage sympathetically. Point out its elevating influence on
the masses. Sugar it all up. And, I say, not twelve pages: a thousand
words or so. I'll give you thirty shillings for it."
Alexandra went back to Sidey Street and sat down to try and write
fulsome untruths about the stage. She thought and thought. The ink
dried on her pen. Presently an idea came. She commenced to write
swiftly. When she had covered two pages she stopped and read them over,
realizing what she was doing. For the paltry sum of thirty shillings
she, who recoiled from sacrificing her body, was prostituting her pen.
She put it down and deliberately tore the sheets into fragments, so
small that she would not be tempted to piece them together again.
Not for thirty pieces of silver!