On the pavements of the Strand the snow had turned to slush; and from
the river a fog was blowing up, which got into the girl's throat, and
made her cough. She mounted a flight of gloomy stairs, and pulled a
bell. Already her bearing had lost something that had distinguished it
in the summer: something of courage. She rang the bell deprecatingly,
as if ashamed.
The anteroom into which she passed had become painfully familiar to
her, like the faces of many of the occupants. They all wore the same
expression--an air of repressed eagerness, of diffidence striving to
look assured. The walls were covered with theatrical photographs,
and in a corner a pimply youth sat writing at a table. What he wrote
nobody knew or cared. The crowd had but one thought--the door that
communicated with the agent's private office, to which they prayed,
though they were no longer sanguine, that they would gain admission.
It was four o'clock, and at five the office would close. There were
so many of them that it was impossible for Mr. Passmore to interview
everybody. Which of them would be lucky to-day?
Mamie also looked towards the door, and from the door back to
her companions in distress. A little fair woman in a light fawn
costume--terribly unsuitable to the season, but her least shabby--met
her eyes and spoke.
"Have you got an appointment?" she asked in a low voice.
"No."
"Oh, then you won't see him," said the little woman more cheerfully. "I
thought, as you'd come in so late, that you had an appointment. _I've_
been here since twelve."
The door opened, and Mr. Passmore appeared on the threshold. He did not
say "good-afternoon" to his clients; he cast an indifferent gaze round
the room, and signed to a cadaverous man who sat sucking the handle of
his umbrella.
"Here! _You!_" he said, retiring again. The cadaverous man rose
hurriedly, among envious glances, and twenty-five heads that had been
lifted in expectation drooped dejectedly. The men whose watches were
not pawned looked to see the time.
"What's your line?" said the little woman, addressing Mamie once more.
"I beg your pardon? Oh, I'm trying for my first engagement; I haven't
acted yet at all."
The other showed surprise and some contempt.
"A novice, are you! Good Lord, it's no good your coming to the agents,
my dear; they can't find shops for _us_."
"I paid Mr. Passmore the usual fee," said Mamie; "he promised he'd do
what he could."
The little woman smiled, and turned her shoulder to her, declining
further discussion. Another girl rang the bell, but withdrew with a
sigh as she perceived the futility of waiting. The cadaverous man came
out, with "an engagement" writ large upon his features. He stowed a
type-written part into the pocket of his overcoat, and nodded good-bye
to an acquaintance, whose cast of countenance proclaimed him a low
comedian.
"Got anything, dear boy?" inquired the latter in a husky whisper.
"They want me for the _White Slaves_ Company--the Father. Offered four.
Of course I refused point-blank. 'No,' I said, 'six.' 'Oh,' he said,
'impossible!' I wouldn't budge; what do _you_ think! Why, I had eight
with Kavanagh, and she's as good as booked me for her next tour. '_I_
don't mind,' I said; 'I'll go to the Harcourts!' They've been trying to
get me back, and he knows it. 'Don't do that,' he said; 'say five, my
boy!' 'Six!' I said, 'and I only take it then to fill in.' 'Well, they
want you,' he said; 'you're the only man for the part, and I suppose
you've got to have your own terms; but they wouldn't pay it to anybody
else.'" His salary was to be three-pounds-ten, and he could have shed
tears of relief to get it.
"Damn fine, old chap!" said the low comedian, who didn't believe him.
"Is the comedy part open, do you know? I might----"
"Don't think so; fancy they're complete." His manner was already
condescending. "Olive oil!"
"Now, I can't see you people to-day!" exclaimed Mr. Passmore, putting
up his hands impatiently. "No good, Miss Forbes," as a girl made a dart
towards him with a nervous smile that was meant to be ingratiating;
"got nothing for you, it's no use.... What do _you_ want, my dear?"
Another lady, who found it embarrassing to explain her anxiety in
public, faltered "that she had just looked in to hear if Mr. Passmore
could kindly----"
"Nothing doing! perhaps later on. I'll let you know."
"You _will_ bear me in mind, _won't_ you, Mr. Passmore?" she pleaded.
"What?" he said. "Oh, yes, yes; I'll drop you a postcard--I won't
forget you. Good-day." He did not even recollect her name.
"Can I speak to you, Mr. Passmore?" said Mamie, rising.
"You?" he said questioningly. "Oh, I can't do anything for you yet!
Everything's made up--things are very quiet just now.... Here, Miss
Beaumont, I want a word with you."
"Give me a minute," persisted Mamie. "I want an engagement; I don't
care how small the part is. I'll be a servant, I'll be anything, I want
a beginning! I recited to you, if you remember, and----"
"Did you?" he said. "Oh, yes, yes, I remember--very nice. You wanted to
play Juliet!" He laughed.
"I'll be _anything!_" she said again. "I'll give you double the
commission if----"
"Have you got enough voice for chorus?" he asked testily. "How are your
limbs?"
"I want to be an actress," she said, flushing. "I mean to work!"
"Come on, Miss Beaumont!" he cried. And Miss Beaumont swept past her
into the sanctum.
The girl who six months ago had looked forward to playing Juliet made
her way down the dingy staircase drearily. This was but one of many
dramatic agents with whom she had gone through the form of registering
her name. Mr. Passmore's booking-fee had been five shillings; the
booking-fee of most of the others had been five shillings; one had
charged a guinea. All had been affable when she paid her first visit,
and forgotten who she was when she paid her second; all had been
reminded who she was, and failed to recognise her when she called
again. She called on one or another of them every day, and contrived to
gain such an interview as she had just had about once a week. She had
taken in the theatrical papers and replied to shoals of advertisements,
but as she had to state that she was a novice, nobody ever took any
notice of her applications. She had haunted the stage-doors when
she read that a new piece was to be produced, begging in vain to be
allowed to see the manager. She had, in fine, done everything that was
possible; and she was as far from securing an engagement as on the day
that she arrived in England. And she had talent, and she was beautiful,
and was prepared to begin upon the lowest rung of the ladder.
The stage is generally supposed to be the easiest of all callings to
enter. The girl who is unhappy at home, the boy who has been plucked
for the army, the woman whose husband has failed on the Stock Exchange,
all speak of "going on the stage" as calmly as if it were only
necessary to take a stroll to get there. As a matter of fact, unless an
extraordinary piece of luck befalls her, it is almost as difficult for
a girl without influence, or a good deal of money, to become an actress
as it is for her to marry a duke. She may be in earnest, but there are
thousands who are in earnest; she may be pretty, but there are hundreds
of pretty actresses struggling and unrecognised; she may be a genius,
but she has no opportunity to display her gift until the engagement is
obtained. And this is the tremendous obstacle. She can prove nothing;
she can only say, "I feel I should succeed." If she is allowed to
recite--and it is very rarely that she is--a recital is little or no
test of her qualifications for the stage. She may recite cleverly, and
as an actress be very indifferent. She has to beg to be taken on trust,
while a myriad women, eager for the vacant part, can cry, "I can refer
you to so-and-so; I have experience!" Though other artistic professions
may be as hard to rise in, there is probably none other in which it is
quite so difficult to make the first steps. If a girl is able to write,
she can sit alone in her bedroom, and demonstrate her capability; if
she can paint, her canvases speak for her; if she pants to be a prima
donna, she can open her mouth and people hear her sing. The would-be
actress, alone among artists, can do nothing to show her fitness
for the desired vocation until her self-estimate has been blindly
accepted--and she may easily fail to do herself justice then, cast, as
she will be, for minor parts entirely foreign to her bent.
To succeed on the stage requires indomitable energy, callousness to
rebuffs, tact, luck, talent, and facilities for living six or nine
months out of the year without earning a shilling. To get on to the
stage requires valuable introductions or considerable means. If a woman
has neither, the chances are in favour of her seeking an opening vainly
all her life. And as to a young man so situated who seeks it, he is
endeavouring to pass through a brick wall.
Mamie descended the dingy staircase, and at the foot she saw the girl
who had been addressed as "Miss Forbes." She was standing on the
doorstep, gathering up her skirts. It had begun to snow again, and
she contemplated the dark, damp street shrinkingly. An impulse seized
Mamie to speak as she passed. From such trifles great things sometimes
followed, she remembered. She was at the age when the possibility of
the happy accident recurs to the mind constantly--a will-o'-the-wisp
that lightens the gloom. The reflection takes marvellous forms, and at
twenty-one the famous actor--of the aspirant's imagination--who goes
about the world crying, "A genius! you must come to me!" may be met in
any omnibus. The famous actor of the aspirant's imagination is like the
editor as conceived by the general public: he spends his life in quest
of obscure ability.
"If we're going the same way, I can offer you a share of my umbrella,"
she said.
"Oh, thanks!" said the girl in a slightly surprised voice; "I'm going
to Charing Cross."
"And _I'm_ going to Victoria, so our road is the same," said Mamie.
A feeling of passionate pleasure suffused her as she moved away by
the girl's side through the yellow fog. The roar of the Strand had
momentarily the music of her dreams while she yearned in Duluth; the
greatness of the city--the London of theatres, art, and books--throbbed
in her veins. She was walking with an actress!
"Isn't it beastly?" said the girl. "I suppose you've got to train it?"
"Yes; I'm living at Wandsworth. Have _you_ far to go?"
"Notting Hill. I take the bus. Passmore hadn't got anything for you,
had he?"
Mamie shook her head. "We were both unlucky; but perhaps it doesn't
matter so much to you?"
"Doesn't it!... Have you been on his books long, Miss----?"
"Miss Cheriton--Mamie Cheriton."
"That's a good name; it sounds like a character in a play--as if she'd
have a love-scene under the apple blossom! Where were you last?"
"At Mr. Faulkner's; but he didn't know of any vacancy either."
"I don't mean that," said Miss Forbes; "I mean, how long have you been
out?"
"Oh," answered Mamie, "I left home at one o'clock; that's the worst of
living such a long way off!"
The other stared.
"Don't you understand?" she exclaimed. "I mean, what company were you
in last, and when did it finish?"
"Oh, I see," stammered Mamie. "I'm sorry to say I've everything in
front of me! I've never had a part yet at all. I'm that awful thing--a
novice."
"Crumbs!" said Miss Forbes.
"I guess you actresses look down on novices rather?"
"Well, the profession is full enough already, goodness knows! Still, I
suppose we've all got a right to begin. I don't mind a novice who goes
to the agents in the snow; it shows she means business anyhow. It's the
amateurs who go to the managers in hansoms that I hate. But it's an
awful struggle, my dear, take my word for it; you'd better stop at home
if you can afford to. And Passmore will never be any use to you. Look
at _me!_ I've been going to him for four months; and I played Prince
Arthur on tour with Sullivan when I was nine."
"I _am_ looking at you," said Mamie, smiling, "and envying you till I'm
ill. You say Passmore is no use: let me into a secret. What _can_ I do
to get an engagement?"
"Blest if _I_ know, if you haven't got any friends to pull the strings!
I'd like to know the secret myself. Well," she broke off, "perhaps we
shall meet again. I must say 'good evening' here; there's my bus."
"Don't go yet!" begged Mamie. "Won't you come and have some tea first?"
Miss Forbes hesitated eloquently.
"I shall get tea when I reach home," she murmured, "and I'm rather
late."
"Oh, let me invite an actress to tea! Do, please! It will be the next
best thing to getting a part."
"You're very kind. I don't mind, I'm sure. There's a place close by
where they give you a pot for two for fourpence. You're American,
aren't you?"
"I've lived in America; I'm English really."
They were soon seated at a table. Mamie ordered a pot of tea, and
muffins.
"It's nice and warm in here," she said.
"Isn't it! I noticed you in the office. My name is Mabel Forbes; but I
daresay you heard Passmore speak to me?"
"Yes; he didn't speak very nicely, did he?"
"They never do; they're all alike. They know we can't do without them,
and they treat us like dirt. I tell you, it's awful; you don't know
what you're letting yourself in for, my dear."
"To succeed I'd bear anything, all the snubs and drudgery imaginable. I
do know; I know it's not to be avoided. I've read the biographies of so
many great actresses. I should think of the future--the reward. I'd set
my teeth and _live_ for that time; and I'd work for it morning, noon,
and night."
"It would do me good to live with you, if we were on tour together,"
said Miss Forbes cheerfully; "you'd keep my pecker up, I think. I
loathe sharing diggings with another girl, as a rule--one always
quarrels with her, and, with the same bedroom, one has nowhere to go
and cry. After they've been in the profession a few years they don't
talk like you. Not that there's really much in it," she added with a
sigh. "To set your teeth and work morning, noon, and night sounds very
fine, but what does it amount to? It means you'd get two-ten a week,
and study leading business on the quiet till you thought you were as
good as Ellen Terry. But if nobody made you an offer, what then?"
"You mean it's possible to be really clever, and yet not to come to the
front?" asked Mamie earnestly.
"How can you come to the front if no one gives you the opportunity?
You may be liked where you are--in what you're doing--but you can't
play lead in London unless a London manager offers you an engagement to
play lead, can you? You can't make him! Do you suppose the only clever
actresses alive are those who're known? Besides, if leading business is
what you are thinking of, I don't believe you've the physique for it;
you don't look strong enough. I should have thought light comedy was
more your line."
"It isn't. If I'm meant for anything, it's for drama, and--and tragedy.
But I'd begin in the smallest way and be grateful. The ideas I had when
I came to London have been knocked out of me--and they were moderate
enough, too! I'd begin by saying that the 'dinner was ready.' Surely it
can't be so difficult to get an opening like that, if one knows how to
set about it?"
"Well, look here, my dear. I played Prince Arthur with Sullivan when I
was nine, as I tell you, and I've been in the profession ever since.
But I've been out of an engagement for four months now; all I could
save out of my last screw has gone in bus fares and stamps--and my
people haven't got any more money than they know how to spend. If an
engagement to announce the dinner had been offered _me_ to-day, I'd
have taken it and I'd be going back to Notting Hill happy."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Mamie sympathetically. "Shall we have another
muffin?"
"No, I don't want any more, thanks. But you've no idea what a business
it is! I've got talent and experience, and I'm not bad-looking, and yet
you see how I've got to struggle. One is always too late everywhere. I
was at the Queen's this morning. There are always any number of small
parts in the Queen's things, you know, and I thought there might be a
chance for _The Pride of the Troop_. They'd got everybody except the
extra ladies. By the way, you might try to get on at the Queen's as an
extra, if you like. With your appearance you'd have a very good chance,
I should say."
Mamie felt her heart stirring feverishly. "Do you mean it?" she asked.
"What are 'extras'--you don't mean 'supers'?"
"Oh, they're better than supers--different class, you know. Of
course they've nothing to say, except in chorus. They come on in the
race-course scene and the ball-room and look nice. They wear swagger
frocks--the management finds their dresses--and are supposed to murmur,
and laugh, and act in dumb-show in the background. _You_ know! They're
frightful fools--a girl who _could_ act a bit would stand out among
extra ladies like a Bernhardt at the Ladbroke Hall."
"If they'd take me," said Mamie, clasping her hands; "if they'd only
take me! Do you really think they will?"
"It couldn't hurt to try. Ask for Mr. Casey and tell him you want to
'walk on.' There, I've given you a hint, after all!" she exclaimed, as
she got up; "one can't think of everything right off. It might prove
a start for you; who knows? If Casey sees you're intelligent, he may
give you a line or two to speak. You go up to one of the principals,
and say, 'Lord Tomnoddy, where's that bracelet you promised to send me
when I saw you at Kempton Park?' Then the low-comedy merchant--it's
generally the low-comedy merchant you speak to--says something that
gets a laugh, and bustles up the stage, and you run after him angrily.
But don't be sanguine, even of getting on as an extra! There's always a
crowd of women besieging the Queen's at every production--you won't be
the only pretty one. Well, I must be going, my dear. I wish you luck."
"And luck to _you!_" said Mamie, squeezing her hand gratefully; "and
many, many thanks. I look forward to telling you the result. I suppose
we're sure to see each other at Mr. Passmore's?"
"Oh, we're bound to run against each other somewhere before long,"
returned Miss Forbes cordially. "Yes, I shall be curious to hear what
you do; I've enjoyed our chat very much. Take care of yourself!"
She hurried towards her bus, waving au revoir, and Mamie crossed the
road. London widened between the girls--and their paths in it never met
again.