Chapter VIII

MY PORTUGUESE HOSTS

DID I ever receive the money from him? No, dear reader, I did not. As I walked down the hill from the university I said to myself:

“Put no more trust in that young man. You’ll never see that money.”

No; Dom Sebastian was a handsome flatterer, that is all. That is the best that can be said for him. I am afraid that he was a born adventurer and a swindler. Well, I had learned a little more of the ways of men, and I intended to profit by the experience.

Perhaps some of my readers will smile at this credulity. They will say that a woman on the stage should have her wits about her. Let me say that I do not like to distrust people; it is not my nature. I have told you enough of my life to show that I had a very hard childhood. I don’t think my trials have made me bitter and suspicious of every one that I meet, though they might have had that effect upon me.

And it is a mistake to suppose that because a girl lives a rough-and-tumble life as a performer that she develops cunning, and grows into a designing woman. There are gentle, trusting women “on the boards,” as in other walks of life. Of course, I have known girls who were not at all correct in their conduct if they learned that it paid them to cast aside the strict ideas in which they were brought up. But, as I have said before, and wish to repeat, the typist girl is not less tempted to go astray than the average girl on the stage. If a girl wishes to trade upon her good looks, she has opportunities in any occupation that brings her into association with men.

From Coimbra we went to Evora, an old town to the south of Lisbon. It is an astonishment to the artiste in Spain and Portugal to find a town of this size provided with places of entertainment that are open all the year round and pay the proprietors a good profit. Evora is no bigger than Basingstoke, and not so big as Guildford, yet it had its variety hall.

This delightful town is surrounded by distant mountains, and the scenery is charming. The streets are narrow and quiet, and there are some fine Roman remains of a temple and an aqueduct.

We had a very comfortable engagement at Evora, and I was sorry to leave the place. A rather curious adventure befell us there. Two gentlemen, who lived together in a fine mansion about seven miles from the town, became acquainted with Gamboli. One day they proposed that we should all drive out to their country place and dine with them in the evening. Lily, her little boy, and I rode with one of our hosts in a smart carriage drawn by a fine pair of horses, and Gamboli and the other host rode in another vehicle.

We left Evora at four in the afternoon, and I well remember the beauty of the day as we drove through vineyards and orchards in the bright sunshine. Our hosts were very entertaining and full of high spirits, not to say somewhat boisterous. We left the flat country soon, and the road wound upwards and upwards on a hill-side, with splendid views on every hand.

“There is our house,” said the gentleman who rode in our carriage, pointing to a large white building among some tall trees.

It was a most beautiful country house. The grounds were delightfully laid out, and the wild country stretched all around. There were groves of lemon and orange trees and a lovely rose garden, with a fountain and a pond, in which big fish were swimming. Two peacocks strutted in front of the house. From the wood came the loud note of the golden oriole and the cooing of pigeons. It was like a fairy palace.

Within, the house was finely decorated; the walls and ceilings were painted, and the furniture was sumptuous. There were statues in the hall, and fine oil paintings.

Our hosts were both bachelors, and they shared this delightful residence. There was a small regiment of servants of both sexes to wait upon us. We sat in a veranda overlooking the glowing garden, and the men lit cigars and we all sipped red wine.

After a rest we went to see the horses, and visited the farm, and saw peasants making hay and milking the cows. Everything seemed peaceful and happy, and I envied our hosts’ good fortune in possessing such a charming home in this land of sunshine, roses, and wine.

The dinner was of about ten courses, and very well served. Several kinds of wine were on the table, and I noticed that our hosts frequently motioned to the servants to fill our glasses. Champagne flowed like water. Our hosts began to get more hilarious. They cracked jokes, proposed toasts, and made the house ring with their hearty laughter.

Again and again I refused wine. I even kept my hand over my glass when I saw the bottles and decanters coming.

After dinner Mr Gamboli went with one of our hosts, taking little Henry with him, and Lily and I were left with the other host.

By this time both our hosts were exceedingly lively; in fact, the caballero who entertained Lily and myself had taken too much. But he continued to drink and to force liqueurs upon us. Benedictine, Chartreuse, and Crême de Menthe were on the table, and cognac and coffee were brought in.

Our host’s manner now became extremely familiar. The wine had emboldened him.

“Enjoy yourselves, ladies! Drink and be happy,” he invited us, seizing a bottle and filling our glasses.

I refused repeatedly to drink any more, but our host was persistent. It was his idea of a “spree.” Probably there was a sly motive in tempting us in this way. I resolved to keep my head cool.

Where was Mr Gamboli and the boy? Why did they not join us? Our host began to sing uproariously. Presently he leaned across the table to reach a bottle, and in doing so he upset a glass of wine.

“Long live Bacchus!” he cried “Be merry, ladies, be merry!”

I thought it was time to go in search of Mr Gamboli and little Henry, but Lily begged me not to leave her. Our host was now noisy and reckless beyond all bounds. He flourished his wine-glass, and made even wilder speeches, inviting us to join him in another bottle.

Presently Gamboli and the other host appeared, but the boy was not with them. They had been playing at billiards, and the little fellow was in charge of one of the servants. Lily rose in great concern, for we were in such queer company that we feared that something might have befallen her child.

“Why didn’t you keep him with you?” she asked her husband.

“The child is all right,” said the host who had just entered.

“Let us be going,” whispered Lily to her husband. “It must be very late.”

“Don’t be in haste,” said our host. “Come, let us have a bottle of champagne.”

But I for one was anxious to get away, and Lily insisted that she was very tired. So, after a search, little Henry was found in one of the servants’ rooms, and the carriage was ordered for our drive back to Coimbra. The livelier of our two hosts was now in a sort of stupor. He sat blinking in his chair, with a half-smoked cigar in the corner of his mouth.

I shall never forget our drive to Coimbra in the dawn. It was just daybreak as we started, and the golden orioles were piping in the woods. In the distance the mountains shone rosy in the light of the rising sun, and soon the sky was barred and striped with orange and mauve. The air was sweet and fresh, and I breathed it with relief after the hours we had spent in the fumes of wine and cigars. Little Henry dozed, with his head on his mother’s shoulder, and Gamboli was drowsy. But I was wide awake, and I was sorry when we came in sight of the town, for I had never enjoyed the beauties of a summer sunrise so much.

We were now nearing the end of our tour in Spain and Portugal. Our next town was Vigo, one of the chief ports of northern Spain.

From Vigo we went to Santander, and on to the busy town of Bilbao. Here the outlook seemed rather dismal, for although there is a theatre and a circus in the town, there were not, at that time, any singing cafés. It was the first town we had visited in Spain where there was no building in which we could perform.

When things were looking rather serious Gamboli, who was never daunted by difficulties, persuaded the proprietor of a café to erect a little stage, and to introduce a variety show to his patrons. We went on sharing terms, and the scheme turned out a fair success; but we could not make money out of the venture. So at the request of a café proprietor in San Sebastian, we moved on to that town after spending about three months at Bilbao.

San Sebastian was the last town in Spain in which I danced. I often wished afterwards that I had stayed with my good friends, the Gambolis, and gone with them to Switzerland and Italy. But I had been away from England for three years, and I began to yearn for a sight of the old country. More than all, I wanted to see some one to whom I was strongly attached. The temptation was too powerful to be resisted. I was within about sixty hours’ journey of London, and I had saved a little money out of my Spanish tour. So, for good or ill, I determined to return to England.

I was deeply moved when the time came for me to say “Good-bye” to my friends and to leave beautiful, sunny Spain, where I had passed so many happy days.

I was glad when I reached London. But, oh, the greyness of the sky, the dinginess of the streets, and the racket and roar! I thought I should never get used to London life again. And very soon I began to realize how much keener the fight for a living is in this country than in Spain or France. At least, it is so for those who call themselves artistes, and who live by amusing the public. I am not clever enough to explain why this is so, for England is such a rich country, and there is no scarcity of variety halls or theatres.