_A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES_
Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss Florence St.
John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A Fit-up Tour—A Theatre
Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange Landladies—Bills—The Longed-for
Joint—Second-hand Clothes—Buying a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans
of Tea—E. S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for Rooms—A
Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the Dog Saved an Awkward
Predicament.
It is continually being asked: Why do women crowd the stage?
The answer is a simple one—because men fail to provide for them.
If every man, willing and able to maintain a wife, married, there
would still be over a million women left. Many women besides these
“superfluous” ones will never marry—many husbands will die, and leave
their widows penniless, and therefore several millions of women in
Great Britain must work to live. Their parents bring them into the
world, but they do not always give them the means of livelihood.
Marriage with love is entering a heaven with one’s eyes shut, but
marriage without love is entering hell with them open.
What then?
Women must work until men learn to protect and provide for, not only
their wives, but their mothers, daughters, and sisters. All men should
respect the woman toiler who prefers work to starvation, as all must
deplore the necessity that forces her into such a position. Women of
gentle blood are the greatest sufferers; brought up in luxury, they
are often thrust on the world to starve through no fault of their own
what ever. The middle-class father should also be obliged to make some
provision by insurance for every baby girl, which will enable her to
live, and give her at least the necessities of life, so that she may
not be driven to sell herself to a husband, or die of starvation.
The sons can work for themselves, and might have a less expensive
up-bringing, so that the daughters may be provided for by insurance, if
the tragedies of womanhood now enacted on every side are to cease.
It is no good for young men to shriek at the invasion of the labour
market by women: the young men must deny themselves a little and
provide for their women folk if it is to be otherwise. It is no good
grinding down the wages of women workers, for that does harm to men
and women alike, and only benefits the employer. Women must work as
things are, and women do work in spite of physical drawbacks, in spite
of political handicap, in spite—too often—of lack of sound education.
The unfortunate part is that women work for less pay than men, under
far harder conditions, and the very men who abuse them for competing
on their own ground, are the men who do not raise a hand to make
provision for their own women folk, or try in any way to help the
present disastrous condition of affairs.
Men can stop this overcrowding of every profession by women if they
really try, and until they do so they should cease to resent a state of
affairs which they themselves have brought about.
Luckily there is hardly any trade or profession closed to women to-day.
They cannot be soldiers, sailors, firemen, policemen, barristers,
judges, or clergymen in England, but they can be nearly everything
else. Even now, in these so-called enlightened days, men often leave
what money they have to their sons and let chance look after their
daughters. They leave their daughters four alternatives—to starve, to
live on the bitter bread of charity, to marry, or to work. Independent
means is a heritage that seldom falls to the lot of women. There are
too many women on the stage as there are too many women everywhere
else; but on the stage as in authorship, women are at least fairly
treated as regards salary, and can earn, and do earn, just as much as
men.
The provinces are the school of actors and actresses, so let us now
turn to a provincial company, for after all the really hard work of
theatrical life is most severely felt in the provinces. A pathetic
little account of early struggles appeared lately from the pen of Miss
Florence St. John. At fourteen years of age she sang with a Diorama
along the South coast, and a few months after she married. Her parents
were so angry they would have nothing more to do with her, and not
long afterwards her husband’s health failed and he died. Sheer want
pursued her during those years.
“My efforts to secure work seemed almost hopeless.”
That is the _crux_ of so many theatrical lives. Those eight words so
often appear—and yet there are sanguine people who imagine employment
can always be obtained on the stage for the mere asking, which is not
so; but let us now follow the fortunes of a lucky one.
After a play has been sufficiently coached in London, at the last
rehearsal a “call” is put up on the board, which says:
“_Train call._ All artistes are to be at —— Station at —— o’clock on such
and such a date. Train arrives at A—— at —— o’clock.”
When the actors reach the station they find compartments engaged for
them, it being seldom necessary nowadays to charter a private train.
Those compartments are labelled in large lettering with the name of the
play for which they have been secured. The party travel third class,
the manager as a rule reserving first-class compartments for himself
and the stars. Generally the others go in twos and twos according to
their rank in the theatre, that is to say, the first and second lady
travel together, the third and fourth, and so on. Often the men play
cards during the whole journey; generally the women knit, read, or
enliven the hours of weary travel by making tea and talk!
At each of the stations where the train pauses people look into the
carriages in a most unblushing manner, taking a good stare at the
theatrical folk, as if they were wild beasts at the Zoo instead of
human beings. Sometimes also they make personal and uncomplimentary
remarks, such as:
“Well, she ain’t pretty a bit,” or, “My! don’t she look different hoff
and hon!”
Each actress has two supplies of luggage, one of which, namely, a
“_theatrical basket_,” contains her stage dresses, and the other the
personal belongings which she will require at her lodgings. As a rule,
ere leaving London she is given two sets of labels to place on her
effects, so that the baggage-man may know where to take her trunks and
save her all further trouble.
Naturally theatrical folk must travel on Sunday. On a “Fit-Up” tour,
when they arrive at the station of the town in which they are to play,
each woman collects her own private property, and those who can afford
the expense drive off in a cab, while the others—by far the more
numerous—deposit it in the “Left Luggage Office.” After securing a
room, the tired traveller returns to the station and employs a porter
to deliver her belongings.
Sometimes a girl experiences great difficulty in finding a suitable
temporary abode, for, although in large towns a list of lodgings can
be procured, in smaller places no such help is available, and she may
have to trudge from street to street to obtain a decent room at a cheap
rate. By the time what is wanted is found, she generally feels so weary
she is only too thankful to share whatever the landlady may chance to
have in the way of food, instead of going out and procuring the same
for herself.
On a “Theatre Tour” the members of a company nearly always engage
their rooms beforehand and order dinner in advance, because they can
go to recognised theatrical lodgings, a list of which may be procured
by applying to the Actors’ Association, an excellent institution
which helps and protects theatrical folk in many ways. When rooms can
be arranged beforehand, life becomes easier; but this is not always
possible, and then poor wandering mummers meet with disagreeable
experiences, such as finding themselves in undesirable lodgings, or
at the tender mercy of a landlady who is too fond of intoxicants. A
liberal use of insect powder is necessary in smaller towns.
A girl friend who decided to go on the stage has given me some
valuable information gathered during six or seven years’ experience of
provincial theatrical life. Hers are the experiences of the novice, and
bear out Mrs. Kendal’s advice in an earlier chapter. She was not quite
dependent on her profession, having small means, but for which she says
she must have starved many a time during her noviciate.
“One comes across various types of landladies,” she explained, “but
they are nearly always good-natured, otherwise they would never put up
with the erratic hours for meals, and the late return of their lodgers.
Some of them have been actresses themselves in the olden days, but,
having married, they desire to ‘lead a respectable life,’ by which
remark they wish one to understand that the would-be lodger is not
considered ‘respectable’ so long as she remains in the theatrical
profession.
“They are sometimes very amusing, at others the reminiscences of their
own experiences prove a little trying; but after all, even such folk
are better than the type of lodging-house-keeper who has come down
in the world, and is always referring to her ‘better days.’ A great
many of these people do not appear ever to have had better days.
Now and then, however, one finds a genuine case and receives every
possible attention, being made happy with flowers—a real luxury when
on tour—nice table linen, fresh towels, all things done in a civilised
manner, and oh dear! what a joy it is to come across such a home.”
“Are the rooms, then, generally very bare?” I asked.
“One never finds any luxuries. As a rule one has to be content with
horsehair-covered chairs and sofas, woollen antimacassars, wax or bead
flowers under glass cases, often with the addition of a stuffed parrot
brought home by some favourite sailor son. But simplicity does not
matter at all so long as the lodgings do not smell stuffy. The bedroom
furniture generally consists of the barest necessaries, and if one’s
couch have springs or a soft mattress it proves indeed a delightful
surprise.
“There is a terrible type of landlady who rushes one for a large bill
just at the last moment. As a rule the account should be brought up on
Saturday night and settled, but this sort of woman generally manages to
put off producing hers until the last moment on Sunday morning, when
one’s luggage is probably on its way to the station. Then she brings
forth a document which takes all the joy out of life, and sends the
unhappy lodger off without a penny in her pocket. Arguing is not of the
slightest use, and if one happens to be a woman, as in my case, she has
to pay what is demanded rather than risk a scene.”
My friend’s experiences were so practical I asked her many questions,
in reply to some of which she continued:
“I have always managed to share expenses with some one I knew, which
arrangement, besides being less lonely, reduced the cost considerably;
but even then there is a terrible sameness about one’s food. An egg
for breakfast is very general, as some ‘ladies’ even object to cooking
a rasher of bacon. Jam and other delicacies are beyond our means.
Everlasting chop or steak with potatoes for dinner. One never sees
a joint; it is not possible unless a slice can be begged from the
landlady, in which case one often has to pay dearly for the luxury.
“We generally have supper after we return from the theatre, from
which we often have to walk home a mile or more after changing. Many
landladies refuse to cook anything hot at night, in which case tinned
tongue or potted meat suffice; but a hot meal, though consisting only
of a little piece of fish or poached eggs, is such a joy when one comes
home tired and worn out, that it is worth a struggle to try to obtain.
“The least a bill ever comes to in a week is fifteen shillings, and
that after studying economy in every way possible. Even though two of
us lived together I never succeeded in reducing my share below that.”
“What is the usual day?”
“One has breakfast as a rule between ten and eleven—earlier, of course,
if a rehearsal has been called for eleven, in which case ten minutes’
grace is given for the difference in local clocks; any one late after
that time gets sharply reprimanded by the management. After rehearsal
on tour a walk till two or three, a little shopping, dinner 4.30, a
rest, a cup of tea at 6.30, after which meal one again proceeds to the
theatre, home about 11.30, supper and bed. Week in, week out it is
pretty much the same.
“For the first four years I only earned a guinea a week, and as it was
necessary for me to find all my own costumes for the different parts
in the companies in which I played, I had to visit second-hand shops
and buy ladies’ cast-off ball dresses and things of that sort, although
cheap materials and my sewing machine managed to supply me with day
garments. It is extraordinary what wonderful effects one can get over
the footlights with a dress which by daylight looks absolutely filthy
and tawdry, provided it be well cut; that is why it is advisable to buy
good second-hand clothes when possible.
“In my own theatre basket I have fourteen complete costumes, and with
these I can go on any ordinary tour. I travelled for some time with a
girl who, though well-born, had out of her miserable guinea a week to
help members of her family at home. She was an excellent needlewoman,
and used to send her sewing-machine with her basket to the theatre,
where she sat nearly all day making clothes or cutting them out for
other members of the company. By these means she earned a few extra
shillings a week, which helped towards the expenses of her kinsfolk.
She was a nice girl, but delicate, and I always felt she ought to have
had all the fresh air possible instead of bending over a sewing-machine
in a stuffy little dressing-room.
“Of course it is necessary for us to take great care of our private
clothes, and in order to save them I generally keep an old skirt for
trudging backwards and forwards through the dust and dirt, and for
rehearsals, since at some of the ill-kept provincial theatres a good
gown would be ruined in a few days; added to which, one often gets
soaked on the way to and from the theatre, for we can rarely afford
cabs, and even if we could, on a wet night the audience take all
available vehicles, so that by the time the performers are ready to
leave, not one is to be procured.”
Perhaps it may be well to say a little more concerning the theatre
basket. It looks like a large washing basket, but being made of
wicker-work is light. It is lined inside with mackintosh, and bears the
name of the company to which it belongs on the outside. It is taken to
the theatre on Sunday when the party arrives in the town, and as a rule
each actress goes first thing on Monday morning for rehearsal and to
unpack. The ordinary provincial company usually comprises about five
men and five women, but in important dramas there are many more, and
sometimes a dozen women and girls will have to dress in one room.
Of course the principal actresses select the best dressing-rooms, and
each chooses according to her rank. Round the wall of the room a table
is fastened, such a table as one might find in a dairy, under which
the dress baskets stand. Those who can afford it, provide their own
looking-glass and toilet-cover to put over their scrap of table, also
sheets to cover the dirty walls, ere hanging up their skirts; but as
every one cannot afford to pay for the washing of such luxuries, many
have to dispense with them.
There is seldom a green-room in the provinces, so as a rule the
actresses sit upon their own baskets during the waits; and as in many
theatres there are no fireplaces in these little dressing-rooms, and
not always artificial heat, there they remain huddled in shawls waiting
their “call.”
“The most interesting form of company,” said my friend, “is the
‘Répertoire,’ for that will probably give three different pieces a
week, which is much more lively than performing in the same play every
night for months.
[Illustration:
_From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._
MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL.]
“If any one falls out of the cast through illness or any other reason,
and a new man or woman join the company, a fortnight is required for
rehearsals, and during that fortnight we unfortunate players have to
give our gratuitous services every day for some hours.”
On asking her whether she thought it wise for a girl to choose the
stage as a profession, she shook her head sadly.
“I do not think a woman should ever choose the stage as a profession
if she have any person depending upon her, for it is practically
impossible to live on one’s precarious earnings. It is only the lucky
few who can ever hope to make a regular income, and certainly in the
provinces very few of us do even that. Many managers like to engage
husbands and wives for their company, as this means a joint salary and
a saving in consequence. These married couples do not generally get on
well, and certainly fail to impress one with the bliss of professional
wedded life.”
“What are the chances of success?” I inquired.
“The chances of getting on at all on the stage are small in these days,
when advancement means one must either have influence at headquarters,
or be able to bring grist to the manager’s mill. It is heart-breaking
for those who feel they could succeed if they were but given a
chance, to see less talented but more influential sisters pushed into
positions. One gradually loses all hope of true merit finding its own
reward, while it is no uncommon thing for a girl to pay down £20 to
be allowed to play a certain part. She may be utterly unfitted for
the _rôle_, but £20 is not to be scoffed at, and she is therefore
pitchforked into it to succeed or fail. In most cases she fails, and
cannot get another engagement unless she produces a second £20.
“No, I do not consider the stage a good profession for a girl, simply
because there is no authority over her, and few people take enough
interest in the young creature to even warn her of the peril. In the
theatrical profession, and especially on tour, the sexes meet on an
equal footing. No chivalry need be expected, and is certainly rarely
received, because when one is vouchsafed any little attention or
politeness, such as one would naturally claim in society or take for
granted in daily intercourse, it is merely because the man has some
natural instinct which causes him to be polite in spite of adverse
circumstances.
“The majority of men upon the stage to-day are so-called gentlemen,
but there is something in the life which does not conduce to keep
them up to the standard from which they start. They become careless
in their manners, dress, and conversation, and keep their best side
for the audience. As a rule they are kind-hearted and willing to help
women, but men upon the stage get ‘petty.’ I do not know whether it is
the effect of the paint, the powder, and the clothes, or the fact of
their doing nothing all day, but they certainly deteriorate; one sees
the decadence month by month. They begin by being keen on sport, for
instance, but gradually they find even moving their bicycles about an
expense and leave them behind. They have nowhere to go, are not even
temporary members of clubs, so gradually get into the habit of staying
in bed till twelve or even two o’clock for lack of something to
interest them, and finish the rest of the day in a ‘gin crawl,’ which
simply means sitting in public-houses drinking and smoking.
“Unfortunately this love of drink sometimes increases, and as alcohol
can be readily procured by the dresser, men and women too, feeling
exhausted, often take things which had better be avoided. You see their
meals are not sufficiently substantial—how can they be on the salary
paid? Girls live on small rations of bread, butter, and oceans of tea,
and the men on endless sausage rolls and mugs of beer.”
This reminds me of a little chat I had with E. S. Willard. On the
fiftieth night of that excellent play _The Cardinal_, by Louis N.
Parker, at the St. James’s Theatre, a mutual friend came to ask me to
pay a visit behind the stage to the great Mr. Willard.
We arrived in Mr. Alexander’s sitting-room described elsewhere, at
the end of the third act, and a moment later the rustling silk of the
Cardinal’s robe was heard in the passage.
“I’m afraid this is unkind of me,” I said: “after that great scene you
deserve a ‘whisky and soda’ instead of a woman and talk.”
“Not at all,” said this splendid-looking ecclesiastic, seating himself
gaily. “I never take anything of that sort till my work is done.”
“But you must be fearfully exhausted after such a big scene?”
“No. It is the eighth performance this week, and the second to-day;
but I’m not really tired, and love my work, although I do enjoy my
Sunday’s rest.”
Mr. Willard looks handsomer off the stage than on. His strong face
seems to have a kindlier smile, his manner to be even more courtly,
and I was particularly struck with the fact that he wore little or no
make-up.
“You are an Englishman,” I said, “and yet you have deserted your native
land for America?”
“Not so. I’m English, of course, though I love America,” was the reply.
“Seven years ago I went across the Atlantic and was successful, then
I had a terrible illness which lasted three years. When I was better
I did not dare start afresh in England and risk failure, so I began
again in the States, where I was sure of the dollars. They have been
so kind to me over there that I do not now like to leave them. You see
America is so enormous, the constant influx of emigrants so great, one
can go on playing the same piece for years and years, as Jefferson is
still doing in _Rip van Winkle_. Here new plays are constantly wanted,
and even if an actor is an old favourite he cannot drag a poor play to
success. Management in London has become a risky matter. Expenses are
enormous, and a few failures mean ruin.”
Alas! at that moment the wretched little bell which heralds a new act
rang forth, and I barely had time to reach the box before Mr. Willard
was once more upon the stage, continuing his masterly performance. He
is an actor of strong personality, and can ill be spared from England’s
shores.
But to return to the provinces, and the experiences of the pretty
little actress.
“The familiarity which necessarily exists between the sexes,” continued
she, “both in acting together at night, and rehearsing together by day,
is in itself a danger to some girls who are unfortunate enough to be
thrown into close companionship with unprincipled men, and have not
sufficient worldly wisdom or instinct to guard against their advances.
“The idea of the stage door being besieged by admirers is far from true
in the provinces. With musical comedies of rather a low order there may
be a certain amount of hanging about after the performance, but in the
case of an ordinary company this rarely happens. The real danger in the
provinces does not come from outside.
“Life on tour for a single man is anything but agreeable. He has no one
to look after his clothes, for, needless to say, no landlady will do
that, and therefore both his theatre outfit and his private garments
are always getting torn and worn. As a rule, however, there are capable
women in the company who are willing to sew on buttons, mend, or
darn, and if it were not for their good nature, many men would find
themselves in sorry plight.”
She was an intelligent, clever girl, and I asked her how she got on the
stage.
“After having been trained under a well-known manager for six months
and paying him thirty guineas for his services, I was offered an
engagement in one of his companies then starting for a ‘Fit-Up’
tour through Scotland at a £1 week, payable in two instalments,
namely, 10_s._ on Wednesday and 10_s._ on Saturday. Fortunately,
being a costume play, dresses were provided, but I had to buy tights,
grease-paint, sandals, and various ornaments, give two weeks’
rehearsals in London free, play for three nights and live for three
days in Scotland before I received even the first ten shillings.
“Happily I was the proud possessor of small means, and shared my rooms
and everything with a girl friend who had trained at the same time as
myself, consequently we managed with great care to make both ends meet;
but it was hard work for us even with my little extra money, and what
girls do who have to live entirely on their pay, and put by something
for the time when they are out of an engagement, a time which often
comes, I do not pretend to know.
“A ‘Fit-Up’ tour is admittedly the most expensive kind of work for
actors, because it means that three nights is the longest period one
ever remains in any town, most of the time being booked for ‘one-night
places’ only. On this particular tour of sixteen weeks there were no
less than sixty ‘one-night places,’ and my total salary amounted to £16.
“It may sound ridiculous to travel with a dog, but mine proved of the
greatest use to me on more than one occasion. Our first hunt was always
for rooms; the term sounds grand, for the ‘rooms’ generally consisted
of one chamber with a bed sunk into the wall, as they are to-day at a
great public school like Harrow. To get to this abode we sometimes had
to pass through the family apartments, a most embarrassing proceeding,
as the members had generally retired to rest before our return from the
theatre; but still, ‘beggars cannot be choosers,’ and in some ways we
often felt ourselves in that position.
“Supposing we arrived at a one-night place, we would sally forth and buy
¼ lb. tea,
¼ lb. butter,
1 small loaf,
½ lb. steak or chop for dinner,
2 eggs for breakfast.
“The landlady’s charge as a rule for two lodgers sharing expenses
varied from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 3_s._ for a single night, or 5_s._ for three
nights, so that the one-night business was terribly extravagant.
“Being our first tour we were greatly interested by the novelty of
everything; it was this novelty and excitement which carried us
through. We really needed to be sharp and quick, for in that particular
play we had to change our apparel no less than six times. We were Roman
ladies, slaves, and Christians intermittently during the evening,
being among those massacred in the second act, and resuscitated to be
eaten by lions at the end of the play; therefore, while the audience
were moved to tears picturing us being devoured by roaring beasts, we
were ourselves roaring in the wings in imitation of those bloodthirsty
animals.
“A ‘Fit-Up’ carries all its own scenery, and nearly always goes to
small towns which have no theatre, only a Town Hall or Corn Exchange,
while the dressing-rooms, especially in the latter, are often extremely
funny, being like little stalls in a stable, where we sometimes found
corn on the floor, and could look over at each other like horses in
their stalls.
“The ‘Fit-Up’ takes its own carpenter, who generally plays two or three
parts during the evening. He has to make the stage fit the scenery or
_vice versâ_, and get everything into working order for the evening
performance.
“On one occasion we arrived at a little town in Scotland and started
off on our usual hunt for rooms. We were growing tired and depressed;
time was creeping on, and if we did not obtain a meal and rooms soon,
we knew we should have to go to the theatre hungry, and spend that
night in the wings. Matters were really getting desperate when we met
two other members of the company in similar plight. One of them was
boldly courageous, however, and when we saw a clergyman coming towards
us, suggested she should ask him if he knew of any likely place. She
did so, and he very kindly told her to mention his name at an inn where
he was sure they would, if possible, put her and her friend up, but
he added, ‘There is only one room.’ This, of course, did not help my
friend and myself, so after the two had started off we stood wondering
what was to become of us.
“‘Can you not tell us of any other place?’ we asked. No, he could not,
but at this moment a lady appeared on the scene who asked what we
wanted. We explained the difficulty of our situation, and she pondered
and thought, but intimated there was no lodging she could recommend,
whereupon we proceeded disconsolately on our way, not in the least
knowing what we were to do.
“A moment or two afterwards we heard some one running behind. It was
the clergyman. Taking off his hat and almost breathless, he exclaimed,
‘My wife wishes to speak to you,’ and lo and behold that dear wife
hurried after him to say she felt so sorry for the position in which we
were placed that she would be very glad if my friend and I would give
her the pleasure of our company and stay at her house for the night.
“We went. She sent from the vicarage to the station for our belongings,
and we could not have been more kindly treated if we had been her
dearest friends. She had a fire lighted in our bedroom, and there were
lovely flowers on the table when we returned from the theatre. They
took us for a charming expedition to some old ruins on the following
morning, invited friends to meet us at luncheon, and although they did
not go to the theatre themselves at night, they sat up for us and had a
delightful little supper prepared against our return.
“I shall never forget the great kindness they showed us. I am sure
there are very few people who would be tempted to proffer such courtesy
and hospitality to two wandering actresses; and yet if they only knew
how warmly their goodness was appreciated and how beneficent its
influence proved, they would feel well repaid.
“In the afternoon when it was time to leave, rain was pouring down,
but that fact did not deter the clergyman from accompanying us to the
station, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other, while
his little son followed with a great bunch of flowers.
“As if to take us down after such luxurious quarters, we fell upon evil
days at the very next town, where we were told it was difficult to get
accommodation at all, and therefore made up our minds to take the first
we met. It did not look inviting, but the woman said that by the time
we had done our shopping she would have everything clean and straight.
We bought our little necessaries, and as the door was opened by a small
boy handed them in to him, saying we were going for a walk but would
be back in less than an hour for tea. On our return we were admitted,
but saw no signs of tea, so rang the bell. No one came. We waited ten
minutes and rang again. A pause. Suddenly the door was burst open and
in reeled the landlady, who banged down a jug of boiling water on the
table and departed. We gazed at each other in utter consternation,
feeling very much frightened, for we both realised she was drunk.
“We rang again after a time, but as no one attempted to answer our
summons, and it being impossible to make a meal off hot water, I crept
forth to reconnoitre. There was not a soul to be seen, not even the
little boy, but I ventured into the kitchen to try if I could not find
the bread, butter, and tea, so that we might prepare something to eat
for ourselves. While so engaged a sonorous sound made me turn round,
and there upon the floor with her head resting upon a chair in the
corner of the room lay our landlady, dead drunk. It was an appalling
sight. We gathered our things together as quickly as we could and
determined to leave, put a shilling on the table to appease the good
woman’s wrath when she awoke, and were glad to shake the dust of her
home from our feet.
“Not far off was a Temperance Hotel, the sight of which after our
recent experience we hailed with delight, and where we engaged a
bedroom, to which we repaired, when our evening’s work was finished.
“My dog, who always lay at the foot of my bed, woke us in the middle of
the night by his low growls. He seemed much perturbed, so we lay and
listened. The cause of his anxiety soon became clear; _some one was
trying to turn the handle of the door_, while the voices of two men
could be heard distinctly, one of which said:
“‘Only two actresses, go on,’ and then the door handle turned again
and his friend was pushed in. It was all dark, but at that moment my
dog’s growls and barks became so furious and angry as he sprang from
the bed that the man precipitately departed, and we were left in peace,
although too nervous to sleep.
“Of course we complained next morning, but equally of course the
landlady knew nothing about the matter. These were our best and worst
experiences during my first tour.”