CHAPTER XVII 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.

[Pg 303]

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[Pg 304] 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[Pg 305] 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[Pg 306] 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[Pg 307] 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[Pg 308] ‘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[Pg 309] 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[Pg 310] 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[Pg 311] 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[Pg 312] 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.

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 [Pg 313]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 r?le, 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[Pg 314] 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[Pg 315] 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[Pg 316] 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.

[Pg 317]

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[Pg 318] through Scotland at a ￡1 week, payable in two instalments, namely, 10s. on Wednesday and 10s. 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[Pg 319] 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
?      lb. tea,
?      lb. butter,
1      small loaf,
?      lb. steak or chop for dinner,
2      eggs for breakfast.

“The landlady’s charge as a rule for two lodgers sharing expenses varied from 2s. 6d. to 3s. for a single night, or 5s. 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[Pg 320] 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 versa, 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[Pg 321] 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[Pg 322] 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,[Pg 323] 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.

[Pg 324]

“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.”