Chapter III

LIFE IN THE PROFESSION

WHEN I was carried out of the ring senseless and injured, it was feared that my fall was likely to be fatal. I cannot remember all that immediately followed my accident. When I became conscious I was in the public hospital, and surgeons and nurses were attending to my injuries. I had dislocated my right arm; I was considerably bruised, and had much internal pain. For eight weeks I lay in bed, kindly treated by every one, and it was nearly three weeks more before I was considered fit to return to my work. Meantime, the circus had visited many towns in Germany, and Mademoiselle Elvierra was performing alone.

One day, when I was almost well, a nurse told me that an English young lady wished to see me. She had heard that one of her country-women was ill, and she thought I might be pleased to see her. I was very glad to look again upon an English face and to hear my own language spoken. But I was a little surprised when a fair-haired girl, in the uniform of the Salvation Army, came to my bedside. It seemed strange to encounter a Salvationist in Magdeburg.

“Well, my sister,” said the lieutenant, taking my hand, “I hope you are getting well, and that you are out of pain. I have come to read the Bible to you.”

Then she opened the book and began to read, and after reading a chapter from the Gospels, she inquired into my religious belief. As I have said, I was brought up in the Roman Catholic creed. But to this good soul my religion seemed worse than no religion at all. She was very concerned, too, that a girl of my age should be in the acrobatic profession.

“It is not a proper occupation for a girl,” said my visitor. “You can’t serve God and the world, and your business is full of danger to the soul.”

“But many in the profession are very religious,” I said.

However, the Salvation lass would not agree that a good life can be lived by anyone on the stage. She used rather strong language in describing the immorality of artistes.

And now that I am referring to this question, I will take the opportunity of telling the truth about the alleged wickedness of variety and circus performers. Believe me, my readers, we are not nearly so “immoral” as we are painted. If a girl wishes to live a straight life on the stage it is in her power to do so.

I do not deny that there are certain temptations in the professional life. Is there any calling for women free from temptation? It may seem strange to some of my readers, yet it is a fact that very many dancers and acrobats are quite respectable women; not only so, but many of them are strait-laced and prudish.

It is often said that a woman who wears scanty clothing or tights in public must have lost all sense of modesty. This is an absurd error. A man who wears a handsome uniform does not necessarily become as vain as a peacock. The airy costume of the ballet dancer and the tights of the principal boy in pantomime are conventions, and the artiste looks upon them very much as a soldier or a postman regards his uniform. Many artistes do not admire the popular fashion in these matters, but the managers, the costumiers and the wardrobe mistresses know that the public expect the dancer or the acrobat to wear tights, and the artiste must comply with the public taste. I have seen trapeze performers in frocks, and I certainly think that gymnastic tights are more suitable and decent than skirts.

People who are ready to see evil in the life of the stage and the ring believe any story that is told them about chorus girls and acrobats and their manners and customs. There is a certain amount of Bohemianism and freedom in the profession, but the “vice” has been grossly exaggerated. A gymnast must be a sober liver, or his nerves will soon go to pieces, and, as a matter of fact, most acrobatic artistes indulge quite moderately in alcoholic drinks, while some are strict teetotallers.

One artiste with whom I travelled for six months was undoubtedly a heavy drinker. He ran a troupe, and his wife was a member of it. We did some very daring aerial feats on the trapeze, and I used to make flights while he hung head downwards waiting to grip my hands. I don’t know how I lived through that time of horror. For six months I never flew from the trapeze without dreading an accident, for I knew that this man had been drinking all day, and that he was never quite sober. His wife often declared that my fears were quite foolish. She said that her husband always knew what he was doing in spite of his intemperate habits. But night after night I expected a bad fall, and I never felt confident while I was performing with this troupe.

While defending the profession against the too frequent and ill-founded charges of drunkenness and immorality, I do not wish to go to extremes and pretend that there are no black sheep in the flock. I have, of course, seen instances of girls coming to trouble through folly or vanity, and I have met men on the stage who squander their salaries in drink and gambling. But performers are not all either black or white; there are all sorts of men and women in the world behind the scenes.

I must now return to the Salvation Army lieutenant and her visits to me while I was in the hospital at Magdeburg. This kind-hearted but rather narrow-minded girl made me promise that I would attend one of her meetings as soon as I was well enough to walk. I promised to do this, and she seemed pleased, for she had a great desire to make me a convert and to persuade me from continuing in what she called “a sinful life.” Therefore, one day I attended a meeting of the Army, and was given a seat in the front row. I soon learnt that it was a special occasion. A number of the “soldiers” had come in the expectation that I would stand up and make a startling confession and announce that I intended leaving the stage for ever. Prayers were offered up for me, and I was invited by one officer after another to join the Army. But I have my own convictions about religion, and I refused.

The lieutenant pleaded very earnestly with me that evening, using every argument she could to induce me to abandon the profession. Poor young woman, she was very sincere, and I felt grateful for her coming to comfort me in the hospital. But I could not join the Army. For one thing, I was still serving my apprenticeship to Mademoiselle Elvierra.

“You won’t leave the company of sinners, then?” said the girl sadly.

“I shall never forget your kindness,” I said awkwardly.

“Ah, it is terrible to think that you will be lost.”

And with these words the lieutenant pressed my hand, and amid the murmur of voices I went from the barracks.

A few days after this I joined Mademoiselle Elvierra at Hanover.

Travelling with a tenting circus is not unenjoyable during a fine summer; but in wet weather there are many hardships connected with the life. When two performances are given a day, the artiste is worked very hard, and much of his spare time is spent in the train. If his turn is finished at ten o’clock at night, he goes to bed, sleeps for a few hours, and then catches a train for the next town. At midday he may be expected to ride in the “parade” or procession through the streets, and at two o’clock he must begin to dress for the afternoon performance. This means pretty constant work during the twenty-four hours of each week day. How welcome is the Sunday rest! But on the Continent the artiste is expected to work quite as hard on Sundays as on weekdays, and this makes a Continental engagement very trying. At the same time every performer is glad to be in “a shop,” no matter how hard the work, for in the profession every one dreads those terrible and depressing periods when leisure is not a matter of choice but of necessity.

On the whole I enjoyed my circus career, and especially after the termination of my apprenticeship, when I was able to command a fair salary. My trainer is, I believe, still on the road, and the last time I heard of her was in America. Soon after I left her she married an acrobat, and they performed a trapeze act together.

Upon returning to England, after my travels with the circus, I went to see some of my friends. I was especially glad to see my cousin again, the kind woman who had impersonated my mother, and signed the contract for me with Mademoiselle Elvierra. But for her, I might never have obtained work as an acrobat.

For a time I was “resting,” and prospects looked rather gloomy. My lodging bills began to eat up my little savings and my clothes were getting shabby. Oh! those are grey days, when the artiste awakes in the morning with the reflection that the last shilling has been spent, and that the chances of getting into work are very meagre. This is a dark side of the performer’s life, and the public little know how some of us suffer. Even the “star,” who can ask a high salary, has ups and downs, and is sometimes forced to borrow money on his contracts. There is a class of moneylenders who advance money to artistes. The interest is tremendous, as the risk is said to be great; but if the moneylender holds the contract as security, there is not much danger that he will lose his money. I have known performers who have paid as much as sixty per cent interest for loans during bad times. The principal and interest have to be paid as soon as the artiste gets into work again, and this is a fearful drain upon the salary.

The fact is there are too many people in the equestrian and variety professions, and too many regular actors on the regular stage. For acrobats, except a few of the more noted and fortunate, the outlook nowadays is far from cheerful. The days of the circus in England are almost over. The music-halls have practically killed the circus. Many acrobats, and even equestrians, depend nowadays upon the halls, for there are so few circuses on the road.

What has become of the clown who used to delight audiences in the manufacturing towns and the country villages in the days of the travelling circus? The number grows fewer every year, and some of the survivors are now doing their business on the variety halls.

It may be said that with the enormous increase of the number of music-halls there ought to be plenty of openings for artistes of all kinds. There are splendid chances, no doubt, for brilliant comedians and comic singers, and for all sorts of novel turns; but without striking originality, the beginner must prepare himself for a life of continual disappointment. Although there are ten times as many “variety palaces,” “empires” and “hippodromes” as there were in the days of my apprenticeship, it is still difficult to get regular employment. The public hear that a performer is earning £10 a week, and they think it is a noble salary for about two hours’ work each evening. Thousands of girls employed in shops and factories think that the life of the gymnast or the dancer is a very easy one, and that the pay is splendid compared with their own earnings.

The artiste’s salary would be fairly good if it was regular. But it is very rarely regular. At least fifty out of every hundred performers are unable to get engagements for more than six months in the year. A large proportion of artistes only work for a month or two in the year. This is not always because they are incompetent, but because the profession is overcrowded. There is no trouble nowadays for the manager who wishes to get a variety company together. He can command fair talent for very little money.

Have you ever seen the crowd of anxious-looking women and girls waiting at the stage door of a theatre when the management has advertised for chorus ladies, or for show ladies to “walk on” in musical comedies or dramas? Have you ever seen a throng of expectant girls before the rehearsals of pantomimes, standing in the cold and rain at the dingy doors of the suburban or East-end theatres? More than once have I been in one of those crowds. One by one the aspirants for stage glory go before the bluff stage-manager, who is often too harassed and busy to appear polite or sympathetic. “Let me try your voice. Where’s your music?”

The trembling girl begins to sing at the piano. Perhaps by the end of the first verse the manager holds up his hand, and says, “Thanks; that will do. I’m afraid you can’t sing well enough. Next one, please.”

With an aching heart and tears in her eyes, the poor rejected chorus girl goes into the street, longing to hide her face from every one.

What an ordeal, too, is a “trial show” at one of the big music-halls. Your agent has arranged that you shall give your performance before the managing directors of the hall at some time between eleven and one o’clock in the morning, It is a big and important hall, and if you pass the trial you may get booked for this show and for all the halls belonging to the syndicate. You are full of hope, but terribly nervous. The night before the trial performance you cannot sleep. You keep repeating over and over in your mind: “I wonder if I shall be right?”

The morning finds you anxious and excited. You cannot eat your breakfast, and as you walk to the hall your heart beats fast. If you have an elaborate wardrobe and “props” you have to pay for a cab.

When you enter the theatre you find a crowd of artistes of all sorts on the stage. Some are already dressed and made up to go on. Every one looks nervous. There is no joking or laughter; the performers talk in low tones in corners. In the dressing-room a number of girls and women are making up their faces. There is a faded woman, with dyed hair, trying to impart to her worn cheeks the bloom and attraction of youth with the aid of rouge, eyebrow pencils, and powder. There are young girls who have never appeared on the stage. Some of these are in an agony of nervous fear, while others are absurdly confident of success. The room is overcrowded and close. There is a smell of grease paints and powder. One girl has forgotten her rouge; another has to run out and buy safety pins. A shy amateur, with stage aspirations, feels very out of place here, and looks exceedingly uncomfortable in her costume. The “old hands” are soon ready for the turn, and they go on the dark stage, and sit on any box or seat that is lying about the place. Meanwhile the stage-manager is writing down names:

“Miss Nicely—are you there?”

The young lady, clad in the tights and jewels of the “principal boy,” comes forward, smiling.

“You go on third, remember,” says the stage-manager. “Where are the Brothers Sleight?”

Two knockabout comedians, in red wigs and quaint attire, answer to the name. Then the gas is turned on and the footlights glitter, and, peeping from the wings, you see the directors taking their places in the stalls. They are a very ordinary collection of English gentlemen, well-dressed and mostly elderly; but they appear awfully imposing, like a row of stern judges. Sometimes there is no orchestra present, and the singers are accompanied by a pianist. The first turn is perhaps a conjurer; he is followed by a comic singer, and then I go on with three other girls, and we give our acrobatic “number.” It is a terrible time. There is no applause, not a sign of approval from the keen-eyed gentlemen in the stalls. We come off, hot and panting, wondering whether we have satisfied the directors. I peep from the wings, and see the gentlemen talking about us. How I long to know our fate! But we may not hear for a few days, and meanwhile we are on tenterhooks of anxiety.

These trial shows are trials in more senses than one. Sometimes there are thirty turns on the list, and as the time is limited, the unfortunate artistes are told, as they go on the stage, “Only two minutes for your turn,” or “Only one song, please.”

The artiste is bewildered. He expected that he would be allowed five minutes at least. He almost forgets his words, and when he begins to sing, he may realize that he is out of time, and that his nervousness is evident. Even a good artiste may appear to great disadvantage at one of these trial performances. I would rather face any audience than go before a board of directors at a trial show.

At a certain music-hall, the custom of giving a performer a “raspberry” was not uncommon, and this custom prevails in some of the halls in the North of England. A “raspberry” may be a jeering noise when an artiste is singing or dancing, a cat-call, a cuckoo-cry, or a shrill derisive whistling. Sometimes the artistes are treated to such comments as this: “Sing up, old ginger-hair,” “Give it a lift,” “My word, he nearly burst his wind-pipe with that note!” and so on. If the artiste shows annoyance or anger he will get more “raspberries,” and possibly a “bird” into the bargain. “Getting the bird” is the worst that can happen to a performer at a trial or any other show. In plain English. “getting the bird” means being hissed. I suppose that term comes from the hissing noise that some birds, such as geese, make when they are angry. It may be said that the “bird” is sometimes deserved by the artiste. But whether it is merited or not, it means very often that the artiste is doomed, for no manager can stand hissing from an audience.

Ordinary chaff among the audience may do an artiste good, if he keeps his temper and tries to return it. I once saw Chirgwin, the White-eyed Kaffir, “guyed” by some young gentlemen in a box at the London Pavilion. Chirgwin let them amuse themselves for a time, then he pointed to the box and said: “What! Only one bottle of ginger ale among three of you, and yet you’re so merry!” The roar that came from the audience quite disconcerted the young men in the box, and they ceased their attempts at giving “raspberries.”

At one hall in the East of London, where public trial performances are given on one afternoon a week, the audience is a very lively one, and quick to detect any point that gives the opportunity for chaff. So rough is the banter here that many artistes dread the hall, and it is said that only by luck can one escape a “raspberry” or “the bird.”

My career as an aerial acrobat was full of trials and dangers, but I do not regret that I served my time as an apprentice to this calling. The constant physical exercise was good for my health while I was growing, and my trapeze work taught me agility, quickness, and “nerve.” I am sure that my gymnastics have been of use to me as a dancer.

But I did not wish to remain always the member of an acrobatic troupe, I began to grow more and more interested in stage dancing during my first Continental tour, and soon the desire to become a dancer was very strong. I think dancing is far more graceful and pretty than acrobatics. Some of the gymnastic contortions that the public seem to admire are to my mind far from pleasing. There is no grace in the tricks of a “bender” or “contortionist,” but in the case of a skilful dancer every movement may be delightful to the eye of the spectators.

I am now coming to that period of my life when I resolved to learn stage dancing. I did not abandon gymnastics altogether. There have been times when I have returned for a while to the old business on the trapeze, flying rings, and horizontal bars; but I do not now describe myself as a gymnastic artiste.

In the next chapter I shall relate a few experiences of the acrobat’s life, and then begin to write the story of my early dancing days in all parts of Europe.