MANKIND curses bad luck, but seldom blesses good fate. It is comparatively easy to make a reputation once given a start by kindly fate; but extremely difficult to maintain one in any walk of life, and this applies particularly to the stage.
Happening to meet a very pretty girl who had made quite a hit in the provinces and was longing for a London engagement, I asked her what her experience of theatrical agents had been.
“Perfectly horrible,” she replied, “and heart-breaking into the bargain. For three whole months I have been daily to a certain office, and in all this weary time I have only had five interviews with the manager.”
“Is it so difficult to get work?”
“It is almost impossible. When I arrive, the little stuffy office is more or less crowded; there are women seeking engagements for the music halls, fat, common, vulgar women who laugh loud and make coarse jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play lovers’ parts on the legitimate stage, and who, according to the actors’ habit, never take their hats off. It is a strange fact that actors invariably rehearse in hats or caps, and sit in them on all occasions like Jews in synagogues.
“There are children who come alone and wait about daily for an engagement, children who have been employed in the pantomime, and whose parents are more or less dependent on their gains, and there is one girl, she is between thirteen and fourteen, whom I have met there every day for weeks and weeks. Seventy-four days after the pantomime closed she was still without work, and I watched that child get thinner and paler time by time as she told me with tears in her eyes she was the sole support of a sick mother.
“When I go there, the gentleman who has the office makes me shrivel up.
“‘Do you specialise?’ he asks, peeping over the edge of his gold-rimmed spectacles. He jots down my replies on a sheet of paper. ‘Character or juvenile parts?’ he inquires. ‘What salary? Whom have you played with?’ And having made these and other inquiries he looks through a series of books, turns over the pages, says, ‘I am sorry I have nothing for you to-day, you might look in again to-morrow.’ And this same farce or tragedy is repeated every time.”
“But is it worth while going?” I asked.