Before this auspicious occasion I had seen three theatrical performances, and three only. One had been at the Adelphi, when I saw Harbour Lights, and the other two at the Brighton Theatre-Royal; from the upper circle, or the gallery, I had seen Faust, when a really very stout lady played “Marguerite”; and the other a pantomime, Cinderella, when Florence St. John played “Cinders” (and played it most delightfully, too) and Charles Rock played “Baron Hardup”. Even these two delightful events had been somewhat marred by the fact that father insisted that we should “come out before the end, to avoid the crush”—as though anyone minded a crush after a theatre, when you went only twice a year, and were only 14!
But to return to our stage box at the Vaudeville Theatre. The interview with Mr. Toole was fixed for 5.30, but rather than miss a moment of the play, we stayed until the very end, and were thus forced to be recklessly extravagant and take a hansom to Lowdnes Square. It cost eighteen-pence, but we both felt that it was worth it, felt that this was indeed Life—with a very large capital letter.
I do not think that the interview with the great comedian was impressive. Florrie took me in to her father, and said “This is Eva.” He said “How are you?” and murmured vague things about “seeing what we can do” and—that was all.
The matinée came, I played a little chambermaid. As “Herbert” says in Eliza Comes to Stay: “The characters bear no relation to life, sir. The play opens with the butler and the housemaid dusting the drawing-room chairs”—I was the “housemaid”.
I remember the fateful afternoon we first played Partners. I was in the Green Room—there were such things then—Maud Millet was learning her part between all her exits and entrances. During one of my waits, Mr. Scot Buest offered me a glass of champagne; I thought that I had plumbed the depths of depravity! It was Mr. Buest who later asked me to have dinner with him. I did, but felt sure that all London would ring with my immorality. What a little prude I must have been!
That afternoon Mr. Toole was in front, and so saw me play. A few days later I heard from him; he offered me a part in The Cricket on the Hearth, which he was going to produce at his own theatre. I was to receive “£1 a week, and find your own dresses”. Naturally, I accepted, and was then faced with the necessity of telling my father. I took my courage in both hands, and broke the news.
The expected tornado swept the house, the storm broke and the thunder of my father’s wrath rolled over our heads. My mother was held responsible for my wickedness; she was asked to consider what “her child” had done; for, be it said, when any of us did anything which met with my father’s disapproval, we were always “my mother’s children”; when we met with his approval, we were his, and apparently his only.
So my mother wept, and my father washed his hands with much invisible soap, ordering me never to darken his doors again—“To think that any daughter of his”, and much more—oh! very much more—to the same effect.
I remained firm; here was my chance waiting for me in the greatest city in the world, and I was determined to take it. I left Brighton for London—“the world was mine oyster”.