I TEST MY MARKET VALUE
I HAD to earn my living.
I faced the situation, like a man — or at least like a woman.
Auntie pressed me hard to marry Dudu at once. To this course I saw one fatal objection — Dudu had not asked me. Besides, I could not marry him. I owed John Stodmarsh too much; and I meant to repay him. I would decide on nothing which did not enable me to earn my own livelihood and leave a surplus sufficient to save up for that repayment. Otherwise, it would have been beyond doubt a most suitable match; for we had neither of us a penny.
I turned things over in my mind this way and that during those days at Auntie’s. I was further off from earning money now than in the dim past years when I danced and played on dusty French highways. How the sous rolled in! Day by day it dawned upon me more and more clearly that Miss Westmacott’s “toning down” had been a fatal error. My chance in life lay, not in “toning down,” but in tuning up; I ought to have developed my natural talents (if any) along my natural lines. Nature had endowed me with certain gifts of sprightliness and mimicry which I loved to exercise; John Stodmarsh and Miss Westmacott had conspired to dwarf them.
But they had not wholly succeeded. They tried a task beyond their strength. Turned out at the door, art came back by the window. Clandestinely and surreptitiously I had gone on playing my little plays before the girls and delivering my speeches. Auntie and Dudu had encouraged me in the holidays. I loved dressing up; I loved attitudinising. John did not care for me to go to the theatre; he said it “tended to unsettle me”; like all his kind, John had always a strange dread of that mysterious entity, unsettlement. But Auntie took me to the play from time to time; it was an epoch in my life when first I saw a real Juliet in a real balcony, and beheld a Romeo in trunk hose actually climbing up a real pasteboard wall to embrace her. I went away very much “unsettled.” I pined to play Juliet to crowded houses offhand. For when a girl says she “wants to go on the stage,” she does not mean she wants to begin, as begin she must, in the rôle of walking lady; she means she wants to begin as Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth, or as Sarah Bernhardt in La Tosca.
The theatre was my first love. Had I not evolved it for myself, “antecedently of experience,” as the psychology-books say, from a tattered Shakespeare on the Monti Berici? But I did not now contemplate going on the stage, for all that. I had reasons for this resolve; among them, one was that preparation for the stage costs time and money. Now I wanted to economise time, because I wanted to begin repaying John Stodmarsh what I owed him. And I had no money. So, on various grounds, I rejected the theatre.
But on the very morning after my interview with John, and the decided snapping of that unlucky engagement, I went out by myself — in search of another. I had a scheme in my mind. It may have been a foolish one; but, at any rate, it amused me. To be amused is surely a great point in this dull world, where so many adverse forces — social, religious, pecuniary — seem banded together in one solid phalanx to prevent our enjoying ourselves.
I took a ‘bus into the Strand — or rather, two successive ‘bi, if that is the proper plural — and went to call on a famous music-hall proprietor.
“A music-hall!” you cry. “Oh, this is really too much! The moment she escapes from that excellent Mr. Stodmarsh’s restraining influence, what appalling developments may we not expect from this Bohemian young woman?”
Wait till you hear. ‘T is a lesson this book is bent on impressing upon you.
Mr. Henry Burminster is a very famous man. He has controlled in his time half the music-halls of London. He is short, fat, more than middle-aged, somewhat unctuous. Not red-faced — a worse type, white and flabby, with parboiled cheeks: a sated sensualist. Innumerable crow’s-feet pucker the corners of his deep-set eyes; the eyes themselves twinkle with humour, but convey strange undertones of shrewdness, of worldly wisdom, of hard, business-like cruelty. The sort of man to enjoy a good dinner and run a show which uses up its artistes — that is the accepted word — with ruthless rapidity. Each takes his “turn”; and after a few “turns” his vogue is over. Mr. Burminster uses them up as omnibus companies use horses; and when they are done for, no doubt ships them over to Antwerp to be slaughtered.
His Obesity received me at once in a cosy little study, half smoking-room, half office, with just a tinge of boudoir. Its odour vacillated between Turkish cigarettes and patchouli. He had received my card; but I do not think’t was that that secured me admission; the doorkeeper, I fancy, had been pleased to be gracious as to my external fitness for the musical profession. (I call it musical by courtesy, not knowing the appropriate adjective for music-hall.) Mr. Burminster leaned back in a capacious desk-chair, which (at some risk to itself) revolved on a pivot with his bulky person. His waist was convexity; an obtrusive diamond accentuated his fat fingers. He stared at me frankly; but there was nothing rude in his stare: to a great contractor in human flesh and blood a singer or a dancer is just so much stock-in-trade; he examines her points, not as person, but as saleable commodity. “Will she or will she not suit my public?” — that is the question. Of women as women he has seen more than enough; they do not interest him. Mr. Burminster had declined on dinners, wine, and Carlsbad.
I felt as much in the scrutinising glance with which he ran me up and down, and did not resent it.
“In the profession?” he asked at last, in a fat cracked voice, as unctuous as the face of him.
“Not yet. I may be.”
“You may be? So? What qualifications, young lady?”
“Innocence first,” I answered, taking my cue from his style. “That, you see, is a novelty.”
The crow’s-feet puckered still closer; the corners of the mouth twitched with a curious motion. “That — is — true,” His Obesity mused slowly. “So far — good. And next, combined with it?”
“Audacity. A rare combination!”
“Right again. You hit it in one. Anything else?”
“Mimicry.”
The swinging chair swung round. The dispenser of wealth surveyed me once more from hat to shoe with a most purchasing stare. “You put it short,” he commented. “You do not waste words. Most young women who come here on hire bore one with the exuberance of their voluble self-assertion. They have all the virtues — as understood on the music-hall stage — and they expatiate on them like Hamlet soliloquising. — Innocence — audacity — mimicry. Well, well. Experience?”
“None,” I answered. “In its place, freshness, originality, utter freedom from convention.”
“Trained?”
“Self-trained. Taught myself to act, tramping the highroads of France and Italy.”
“So! Educated on the Continent!”
“And at a High School for girls in Hampstead.”
“Aha! A new woman!”
“Do I look like an old one?”
He pursed his lips, set his teeth, or at least his jaws, half closed the sleepy, shifty fat eyes, and once more took stock of me. “My time is valuable,” he said at last, plagiarising Alice. “A hundred pounds a minute.”
“That is why I came to you,” I answered.
“I knew I had it in my power to offer you a good thing; and the man with capital is the man to put a good thing on the market.” I said it with the emphatic, jerky, convinced air of men in the City, whom I had often heard talk about something called Founders’ Shares at Auntie’s and Sir Hugh Tachbrook’s.
“That’s good!” he broke in, waking up. “Any more like it?”
“Plenty more where that cum from,” I answered, transforming myself at once into the person of a ‘bus-conductor. “Now then, old ‘un, git on! — Off side down, Bill!— ’Ere y’ are, mum! Westminster!”
“Ha! quick-change artiste, without the costume,” he exclaimed, catching at it. His crafty eyes gave a twinkle which said as clear as words, “There may be money in her. Investigate, but don’t let her think you think so.” He grew sleepier than ever, and lighted a lazy cigarette. “Let me see what you can do,” he drawled out, glancing at the heavy watch on his desk. “I have ten minutes I can spare. I assign you ten minutes.”
“One thousand pounds’ worth of that valuable time!” I cried. “Can’t you let me have it in money?”
He smiled a restrained smile. “Go on! go on! No tomfoolery!”
I went on, suppressing the tomfoolery as requested. I gave him in quick succession several of my little dramatic impersonations, as I had given them often before with great applause to the girls at school or to Auntie and Dudu. I passed from one sketch to the other hastily, without note or comment Some of my “turns” were monologues; others, battles of repartee between two contrasted speakers. Mr. Burminster leaned back torpid in his chair and pretended to close his eyes; but I knew through the eyelids — for he had no lashes — he was watching me, cat-like. At last His Obesity rose with an effort and opened the door. “Mr. Weldon, come in and hear this young lady.”
“Another thousand!” I murmured. “You see, I was right. Et pi-ti-ti, et pa-ta-ta! I told you this was money.”
He looked a little annoyed. “Proceed,” he said, waving one fat unimpressive hand. “Weldon, observe her.”
Mr. Weldon, who was a foxy man with thin upright red hair standing off from his forehead at an obtuse angle, did as he was bid and observed me. My devil was well in hand that morning. I put him through his paces, and he positively astonished me by the quickness and variety of his fantastic sallies. He gaped and grinned; he imitated to the life; he made foxy Mr. Weldon laugh aloud in spite of himself.
I grew wild with my own fun. I broke out in full flood like the Adda when it has burst its banks. I finished, flushed. “Whaur’s yer Wullie Shakespeare noo?” I cried out as I ended, striking an attitude of triumph based on a Highland fling.
The manager checked the silent twitching of his mouth. “Very excellent fooling,” he admitted in a tolerant tone.
“Which is the commodity you purvey,” I answered, beaming on him.
Then both principals drew aside for a moment and conferred. I could see Mr. Burminster was for offering me a very small salary to begin with, while Mr. Weldon was for securing me by a larger bribe.
At last, His Obesity came forward with an insinuating look. “These are funny sketches,” he admitted grudgingly. “Very funny. I believe you have talent for the music-hall stage. But in our profession it is impossible to judge beforehand how the public will take anything. You may be a dead loss. Will you go on and try — for six weeks — at five guineas?”
“Five guineas a week?” I asked in a tone of withering contempt.
“Five guineas a week; three turns at three of my halls each evening.”
“Six weeks? Why six weeks for trial? One would surely be enough. I will negotiate for one week. But if you want to bind me down in advance for six, that shows you must think there is something in me.”
He blinked uneasily, then glanced sideways with his crafty eyes at ferret-faced Weldon. “Knows a thing or two,” he muttered. “Innocence? — well, ahem, good imitation, I call it.”
“I am perfectly ready to treat with you,” I went on, in my most business-like voice, “upon the basis of a six weeks’ agreement, if that is what you would like. But I shall understand then that you consider me a sufficiently safe draw to be worth risking your money upon.” He opened the sleepy, shifty fat eyes wide. “What? never been on the stage before?” he cried. “Well, for a new hand, you seem to know a precious lot about it.”
“General knowledge,” I answered carelessly— “and business instinct.”
“You put a name to it. I should say so. Then we will make an agreement for six weeks at five guineas?”
“Oh dear no!” I answered, feeling sure from his manner I was worth more than that. “I said I would treat with you on the basis of a six weeks’ agreement. The term is now fixed. We have next to consider the amount of salary. I had thought twenty guineas.”
“Twenty guineas! An untried hand! Do you want to ruin me?”
I looked His Obesity straight in the unctuous face. “Mr. Burminster,” I said, “you are an old and tried caterer for the public taste. You and your partner have heard me for twenty minutes — more or less — and are anxious to engage me for six weeks certain. Now I am not a fool. I have held private audiences convulsed with laughter. I held your partner just now; I held yourself, though you laughed internally with your mouth hardly wrinkling. You wouldn’t want me so much unless there were money to be made of me. I propose to make some part of that money myself. You have capital and command of houses; I have not You pocket your share; I want mine. I ask twenty guineas. Take it, or leave it.”
He hesitated a moment “I leave it,” he answered.
“Thank you,” I said, rising to go. “That is clear and categorical. I will not detain you. I am sorry to have wasted two thousand pounds’ worth of your valuable time. Good morning!”
He rose hastily in turn and intercepted me with his huge girth on my way to the door. “Look here!” he cried with an amount of eagerness that betrayed him. “Where are you going?”
“To Kettlebury, of course!” He was the rival manager.
“To Kettlebury? That will never do. Stop, Miss! Wait a moment!”
“No, thank you,” I answered. “You were clear — and categorical.”
He blocked the doorway. “Oh, but I say, this is forcing a man’s hand. Not Kettlebury, if you please. Is Kettlebury the sort of person to whom a lady who respects herself—”
“Mr. Kettlebury saw me a year ago at a children’s entertainment in the East End got up by my aunt, and it was his encouragement—”
“What, Kettlebury has seen you?”
I bowed acquiescence.
“Just sit down there again! We will discuss this matter.”
“You let Cissie Lloyd slip through your fingers,” ferret-faced Mr. Weldon remarked aside, with a warning look, running one freckled hand through his foxy hair. “Don’t you do it again!” Cissie Lloyd was an ingénue who had burst like a meteor on the music-hall horizon, and blazed for a season — and Kettlebury had secured her.
The manager took up a pen. “What is your name, young lady? Oh, here, on your card. I didn’t even look at it. Lupari — Lupari? Any relation to the Lupari?”
“In a way. Her sister.”
“So ho! And the name ready made! — Weldon, how’s that? — Well, now let us be business-like—”
“I was business-like before.”
“Perhaps. But I wasn’t. We will be more explicit” He leaned back in his chair, and folded his fat hands, thumbs, and fingers together. “Young lady, you have talent.”
I dropped a saucy curtsey.
“Do that again,” he cried, starting. I did it again. He bit his pen and watched me.
“Talent. Yes, talent. I do not know its money value, trust me, believe me, I really do not But I think it may be great. In our profession that is the most one can ever say. It is wild to plunge. We depend upon the public. And the public is a Hass. That is the bane of music-hall managership.”
“The bane agrees with you,” I murmured. “You seem to thrive upon it I think you must have tastes in common with the public.” He eyed me craftily, sideways, like a parrot It was such an oblique compliment But after deliberation he decided to put the best construction upon it. “Yes, that is true,” he answered. “I have an eye, I admit it. You satisfy my eye. Therefore — it is possible you may satisfy the public.”
We discussed the case at some length — occupying I dare not say how many thousands of pounds’ worth of that priceless commodity, Mr. Burminster’s time; and in the end we arrived at a temporary agreement. Mr. Burminster, protesting much, and eager to escape ruin, contracted at last to engage me, if I chose to go on the stage, for six weeks certain, at a salary of twenty guineas a week—” though ‘t is gambling, gambling.” At the end of that six weeks, should the gamble succeed, he was to have an option of re-engaging me for another six weeks at a salary of fifty guineas. I insisted on the fifty; I believed I would be worth it He fought hard for thirty; I turned the Kettlebury screw once more: it succeeded. After that again he equally insisted on a clause that if any other manager made me an offer of a still higher salary, he was to have the option of equalling it and retaining my services. All this was conditional upon my going on the music-hall stage at all. And for this I had a reason. On my side, I bargained that if I went on the stage, it would be under Mr. Burminster’s management, and on these conditions. That was all we both wanted. Mr. Burminster desired to secure me against that man Kettlebury. I desired an agreement on paper guaranteeing me these terms — for a particular purpose.
Valuable consideration passed — a crisp five-pound note. I crumpled it in my hand as if it were waste-paper.
His Obesity went down to the door with me in person. He saw me out deferentially. “Shall I send for a hansom?” he asked, his fat fingers dwelling on the door-handle.
“Oh no, thank you,” I answered, with one of Mariana’s sweet smiles. “I’m not going far. Only to Somerset House.”
“Somerset House! What for?”
“Why, to get your agreement stamped, of course.” And I gave him the confiding glance of a four-year-old child.
He opened the sleepy, shifty fat eyes as wide as possible. “Innocence! Innocence!” he murmured with bitter sarcasm. “And she looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth! A playful schoolgirl!— ‘Somerset House to get your agreement stamped’ — with a bland and childlike smile. Ought to bring the house down! Innocence, quotha, innocence!”