Chapter IX

HARD TIMES IN LONDON

WELL, I was back in London, and I realized that I was at home. I was perhaps a little disappointed with England. I had hardly a relative living, and my few friends were scattered.

For three years I had been fortunate. Rarely had I been out of an engagement for longer than a week. But now my luck turned. My small savings began to melt. Remember that I had kept myself by hook and by crook from the age of twelve, and always kept my contracts, and tried my best to please the public. And yet I came back to England to find want staring me in the face.

I had now reached a rather tragic period of my career. I was almost in despair, and matters did not mend till a chance turned up to appear as a solo dancer in a pantomime. There were still weeks to wait before I could handle any of my salary; but the prospect of an engagement filled me with new hope and encouragement.

The pantomime in which I was engaged was “The House that Jack Built.” I hoped that great things would come of this contract. A solo dancer has the stage to herself, if only for a few minutes; and she is more “in the picture” than when performing with a troupe. In Spain and France I had often danced by myself. I was considered clever enough for Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Oporto, and other big Continental towns. “Surely,” I thought, “I ought to make a hit in a suburban theatre in England.”

During the weeks before the production of the annual pantomimes there is much excitement and anxiety among the artistes. The “stars” are, of course, booked for many months, and often years, ahead. But the less fortunate performers suffer agonies of misgiving and uncertainty concerning their chances of a good engagement in the pantomime. And, after all, with the best of good fortune, the minor actor or actress can only reckon on a run of eight or twelve weeks. A “star” will make anything from £100 to £300 a week during the pantomime season, and often earn more in one week than many artistes can earn in a year.

Many of the variety performers owe their success to popularity in pantomime. A good song will often make an artiste’s fortune. Dancers, unless they possess pleasant singing voices, stand a small chance of winning their way to favour in pantomime; and even a good voice counts for little if the song is not what the audience wants.

Just before the pantomimes the lucky artistes who are “booked” are in high spirits. It is astonishing how hopeful we are in the profession, in spite of bad times. On the whole, we complain very little about our trials, and the public at large think we have an easy time. Six months’ experience of an artiste’s life would teach many people a severe lesson. The public see only the brightly-lighted side of the picture; there is another side, and it is often gloomy enough. But of that side only the artistes know.

We were soon rehearsing “The House that Jack Built.” As I had no lines in the pantomime, I was not required until it was time to go on the stage and give my dance. But I attended rehearsals punctually.

A pantomime rehearsal is a rather drab affair. Most theatres look dingy in the daytime, and on a raw December day a number of actors and actresses, in their everyday garb, cutting capers, and muttering their dialogue, do not look particularly interesting or amusing. The principal boy will look majestic on Boxing Night, clad in her tights and jewels, but during the rehearsal she seems a very ordinary sort of young woman.

As for the comedians, they are often disappointing during the rehearsals. The manager and the stage-manager put their heads together and whisper: “When is he going to be funny? The show seems fearfully dull.” But the comedian, whether he plays the baron or the dame, will be a different man on the opening night. He does not feel the part until he is dressed for it, and he wants the audience before him to put him on his mettle.

The public have only a slight idea of the work and anxiety involved in the production of a Christmas pantomime. For months the scene-painters are at work, and extra hands are engaged in making the scenery and accessories. The making of the costumes occupies a small company of seamstresses, and in some theatres all the dresses are designed and made on the premises.

This was my first pantomime engagement, and I took a special interest in everything connected with it. I made friends among the girls in the dressing-rooms, and found plenty of kindness. But it seemed very fresh and strange to me, as I had been abroad for so long and had lived with foreigners. Yet artistes are alike in certain ways all the world over. They are used to ups and downs, and this induces a feeling of comradeship.

“The House that Jack Built” was a success. The pantomime went with a swing, and every one in the company worked hard. After the London run, the pantomime was booked for the Crewe Theatre and other provincial towns. But a terrible disaster befell us at Crewe.

We started for Crewe in good spirits, taking with us all the scenery and properties of “The House that Jack Built.”

I was glad to have a peep once more at the fresh green country, for London seemed a grey and rather dismal place after my long absence among the beautiful old Moorish towns of Spain, where fogs are unknown and a dull sky is seldom seen. I was happy and contented, for there was a chance of the pantomime running for a few more weeks.

No one can understand fate and luck. Why was I in luck for three years with hardly a break? And why was I now doomed to a spell of hard misfortune? These things are beyond our control, and they have nothing to do with one’s ability.

The pantomime went very well at Crewe at the first performance. I felt well and cheerful, and forgot the hardships of the past months. Then came a swift and awful calamity.

One night after the show my friend and I dawdled over our dressing while we chatted. I am always rather slow in changing my costume, and I think we were amongst the last of the artistes to leave the theatre. We walked to our lodgings, ate some supper, and went to bed, feeling tired after the performance.

Just as I began to doze I was conscious of some one calling in the street. I turned over, and took no notice. But the shouting continued, and I sat up and listened.

“Girls, girls, get up—fire!” was the cry that reached my sleepy brain.

I could not believe my ears. However, I aroused my friend, who was fast asleep. And going to the window, and pulling the blind aside, I saw in the street two men of the pantomime company waving their arms.

“The theatre is on fire!” they shouted loudly.

“Never!” cried my companion, who came to the window, rubbing her eyes.

“It is true,” I said in great consternation, for I saw a fiery glare in the sky, and heard shouts of alarm in the streets.

“Oh, we shall lose all our things,” said my friend.

“Let us run to the theatre as fast as we can,” said I, beginning to dress in frantic haste.

In a few minutes we were dressed, and, putting on our hats, we rushed down the stairs and into the street. Men were running towards the theatre. A fire-engine dashed along. We followed it, running as quickly as we could.

I shall never forget the fearful spectacle of that blazing theatre. About an hour ago we had been in the building. Now the flames were raging everywhere, and darting fierce tongues through the windows. The whole town was lit up in the glare.

We shuddered at the thought that some of the theatre staff might still be in the theatre. But fortunately every one had escaped. The engines were soon at work, and the firemen directed the hose on to the neighbouring buildings, which were in danger.

“We shall lose all our costumes and things,” moaned my friend.

“They are ashes by now,” I said.

“And it’s the end of the pantomime, too,” said a member of the company who had joined us.

I watched the fire with a hopeless sinking in my heart. Yes, it was the end of my short run of good luck. Bit by bit the theatre was being devoured, and the firemen, though they worked desperately, utterly failed to subdue the fierce flames. Myriads of sparks went dancing up into the blackness of the night, and a dense cloud of smoke floated above the town.

Tears came into my eyes. My companions were silent. We all realized that nothing could have been done to save the scenery, properties, and costumes, for the fire had spread with amazing rapidity throughout the entire building. All the beautiful dresses were now ashes. For myself, I possessed hardly anything but the clothes I stood in.

For an hour we waited in the cold, raw air, gazing at the burning theatre. Then we went our ways, all of us made dumb by the catastrophe. My friend and I could not sleep that morning. We saw the dawn break, and with the coming of daylight we seemed to realize more acutely the difficulty of our position.

“What’s to be done?” I said feebly.

“The show can’t go on; everything is destroyed.”

“I don’t know,” murmured my friend. “It is just awful; too awful for words!”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve been in an earthquake, I’ve nearly been shipwrecked, I’ve almost been smashed to pieces in a fall from the flying rings, and now I’ve just escaped being burned to death. I wonder what’s coming next. It’s a pretty good record for a woman of twenty-two.”

“What about our salaries?” asked my friend.

“Yes, what indeed?” I muttered as we turned away from the blackened ruins of the theatre.

Could any outlook seem worse? We were stranded, or, in other words, “on the rocks.” Our manager was a heavy loser, and we were all sufferers together, from the principals down to the humblest member of the company. For some of the girls the situation was terrible, for they had been out of engagements for some time, and were hoping to recover their losses and pay their debts. We could only console one another by repeating:

“Well, we’re all in the same boat.”

We knew, of course, that this was the end of the provincial tour of “The House that Jack Built.” Not a trace of that pantomime survived. And it was too late in the season to start afresh. We were all suddenly thrown out of employment in the worst time of year. There was no chance of any more pantomime engagements.

Some of us had not the price of our fares back to London. It was a miserable predicament, and we wondered how we were going to wriggle out of it.

The public are, as a rule, kind to artistes. A number of the influential people of Crewe were very sympathetic, and they came to the rescue of the unfortunate company of “The House that Jack Built.” To relieve our distress, a benefit performance was to be given at the Town Hall. The town was billed, and we hoped that the proceeds of the entertainment would repay us for the dresses that we had lost in the fire.

Our company was a large one, and though the Town Hall was fairly filled, there was not much to divide amongst us.

I came back to London with several members of the company. I went into lodgings with some friends, and began to look up advertisements and to call regularly on my agent. Every effort that I made to obtain work was fruitless. No troupe of dancers were needed at this time of the year. The pantomime season was drawing to an end, and there seemed to be no vacancies on the halls.

Day after day I tramped about the theatrical quarter, meeting artistes who, like myself, were “waiting for dates.” The army of the unemployed acrobats, dancers, and actors increased when the pantomimes came to an end. Everywhere I met acquaintances down on their luck. Heaven knows how some of us live in the long periods of “resting.” Yet if an artiste is shabby and down-at-heel his fate is written plainly; he will receive coldness wherever he calls.

I have found London a terribly cruel place for a young girl. But I will not exaggerate, for I have met with kindness in unexpected quarters. Certainly, the wage-earning class are exceedingly brotherly towards one another.

I found that during my absence from England I had lost touch of the acrobatic folk, and my efforts to trace friends were unsuccessful. How was I to live? This question gnawed at my brain every hour of the day and often by night.

I have reached the most painful stage in my journey since the day when I ran away. How much I had learned since that time nearly eleven years ago. At all events, during my apprenticeship I always had food enough, but now I could see nothing before me but want.

How could I turn my hand to some other employment than the stage? I had never experienced what is known as home life. Most of the eleven years had been spent in lodgings and in hotels, and in travelling from town to town. I stood no chance of competing for a business post, for I knew nothing of business.

A little gleam of hope came when a man, of whom I had never heard, applied to the dancing school for an artiste who could dance in the Spanish style. I was to call upon this man, who would give me particulars.

I arrived early at his office. He had not arrived. When he came in he asked me if I knew the bolero, the jota, and the Sevilliana. I replied that I knew the first two dances very well, but not the last.

“You look Spanish,” he said.

“I am not Spanish, but I have lived for three years in Spain, and danced at Madrid, Barcelona, San Sebastian, and other towns,” was my reply.

“Well, that accounts for the way you wear your hair,” he said. “You certainly have a Spanish appearance. Now, I want you to see an Italian gentleman, a leader of an orchestra, who requires a dancer in the Spanish style. He lives here.” And he wrote down the address on a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

The Italian leader of the orchestra lived in Bayswater, and I went to his house, carrying my dancing costume and some music. He was a polite, vivacious gentleman, and he began to tell me of a scheme for introducing a café chantant entertainment in London.

“I require a dancer, one who can dance in the Spanish style, play the castanets, and sing a few songs. The salary will be two pounds ten a week, and the hours seven to eleven each night.”

As I was anxious to get work, I gladly accepted the terms offered.

“Now, I have tried to find a good dancer, but I have failed. The English girls are able to dance, but it is dancing without feeling, without passion.

“I want a lively dancer,” he continued, “and she must sing to the violin, mandoline, and guitar. Will you let me see you dance?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Will you have a Spanish dance?”

“Yes, that will do,” returned the conductor, taking up my music and sitting down at the piano.

Well, I performed several dances. My heart jumped when he praised my performance of the bolero. Was my bad luck going to turn? I danced in several styles, and he watched me critically while he played the accompaniment. Then he tried my voice in one or two songs. But he did not like my songs. He seemed difficult to please, and I began to surmise that nothing would come of the interview. My guess was correct. Luck was against me, and I went away terribly disappointed.

At the Marble Arch I turned into the park, and wandered, hardly knowing where I went. I was tired, hungry, and sad, and bitter thoughts rose in my brain as I watched the well-dressed, over-fed daughters of the fashionable world driving by. It seemed to me that they surveyed their poorer brothers and sisters with scorn.

I felt unwanted in the world as I sank to a seat in the Row. My life had proved a strange one since I entered the variety profession, and just now I could only dwell on the darker side of it. I yearned for a friend, an adviser, a sympathizer. Here in England I was more lonely than I had ever felt in Spain or France.

After sitting for some time in the park I made my way to the Surrey side, pursued by gloomy anticipations, and much depressed by the result of my interview with the Italian musician. I had promised that I would let the gentleman who had given me the introduction hear the result of my interview. Accordingly I called upon him on the following day.

Mr —— was a sympathetic man, and he told me afterwards that he knew directly I returned to the room that I had not been successful.

“You’re on the rocks, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered; “I have had a long run of bad luck.”

He thought for a moment, and then said:

“I may still be able to help you. Take this as an advance on any engagement that I may obtain for you.”

And he put some money into my hand. I did not like to accept this loan, and I told him that I was in debt. He encouraged me to talk, and it was a relief to me to speak of my difficulties and disappointments. He listened very attentively.

“I am an author,” he said, and he pointed to a row of books that he had written. “Why don’t you write your life? It would interest many people, as it has interested me.”

The idea of writing a book had never entered my head.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t write my life,” I said humbly.

“Yes you could if you tried,” he returned in a most encouraging tone. “You have all the material for an entertaining history of stage life. We have had plenty of biographies of people on the stage who have reached the top of the ladder, but there would be freshness and novelty in a story of your career from the time that you ran away from home. Now try to write the story, naturally and simply, as you have told it to me, and I think I can get it published for you.”

He gave me a few suggestions about this story, and then he asked me to have lunch with him. I was greatly cheered. I felt that things were not quite hopeless after all.

In the meantime I happened to meet an old friend in the acrobatic profession, who told me that he was finding artistes for a series of gala performances in Wales.

The open-air gala was to be held at Swansea, in South Wales, in the centre of an iron and coal district. The organizers hoped that the performances would draw for several days, and I was cheered that the engagement might last for two or three weeks, for it was suggested, that galas should be given in other manufacturing centres of South Wales.

I arranged to give a horizontal-bar turn, which was to last eight minutes. The performances were to be given twice a day, in the afternoon and the evening. Almost all the turns were of a sensational acrobatic character. I was acquainted with two or three of the artistes engaged, and I agreed to travel down with them on the Saturday preceding Bank Holiday.

But although this chance had come in my way as a pleasant surprise, I was now faced by a serious difficulty. The third-class fare to Swansea is sixteen shillings and sixpence-halfpenny. I was able to borrow nine shillings from the friends with whom I lived, but this was all that I could get. On the Friday morning I had only raised nine shillings.

I was nearly desperate when I sat down and wrote to Mr ——, the author whom I have mentioned, asking him if he would lend me enough money to make up my fare, and promising to repay him on my return from South Wales.

The letter reached its destination about five o’clock in the afternoon. At six o’clock I received this telegram: “Certainly. Meet me Trafalgar Square at 7.30.” My heart gave a great bound of surprise and joy.