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 rôle, 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 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 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.”