Dara

by AnonYMous

  The tour brought home to me the amazing size of America. What emphasized the dramatic scale of this extraordinary country was the view from the windows of the train as it speedily carried us along the railroads. I became very conscious of a wide open sky and the awesome, endless space spreading across the grassy plains from one horizon to another. The white-painted clapboarding of the houses, stores and taverns of the small towns we passed through was a refreshing change after the dull brown architecture of New York.

  I was highly delighted with the generous hospitality and warm appreciation for our performances in Pennsylvania and Ohio during the first few weeks of the tour. On our way to Boston we stopped off at New York for a day to pick up more costumes for the players. I took the opportunity to call at the Chemical Bank on Broadway to collect the monthly allotment that Father was sending me. Funds now replenished, Dara and I had a sumptuous meal before rejoining our friends for the tour of the states north of New York.

  We were in Baltimore by the middle of July where we put on three different plays in as many nights at Ford's Theatre: The Fool's Revenge, Masks and Faces, and, on the third night, Mrs. Stowe'sUncle Tom's Cabin. Our audience were easily pleased. All they wanted was a play that entertained them with simple emotions, had plenty of pathos and was easily understood. They were most impressed when Little Eva ascended to heaven before their very eyes during our final performance. From there we moved on to another Ford's Theatre in Washington, D.C.

  Some five years later I was to read in an English newspaper the shocking news that President Lincoln had been fatally shot in this theatre while watching a performance.

  Throughout our tour Dara had tackled every part that was given her with enthusiastic exuberance and was often hugged and praised by Jonathan Ede for her performance and stage craft. I wish it were possible for me to say the same about myself. According to Jonathan, I had no insight into the characters assigned to me and seemed incapable of expressing deep emotion. He made it plain that, in his opinion, I would never make a name in the theatre as I wasn't cut out to be an actor.

  I had great respect for his judgement and sagacity. In my heart of hearts I knew he was right although my intellect at the time wouldn't accept the truth of his words. His lack of faith in my acting ability gave me no encouragement to continue my pursuit of a career in the theatre and I was relieved when we arrived back in New York at the end of the tour and could part company with him.

  There was a further shock coming to me when I visited the Chemical Bank to collect my money. The clerk handed over a letter addressed to me saying, 'Your allotment has been cancelled. There will be no money for you to collect in the future.' The letter was from my father, unsigned and consisting of only two sentences: Have just learnt from your mother's cousin that you have deceived me. You are a degenerate, good-for-nothing knave and I have no desire to see your face again.

  We decided to stay on in New York in the hope that some work with another theatrical touring company would come our way. I still had the money we had received from Jonathan Ede and a little left over from my last monthly allotment. Avoiding luxury spending, we could, with care, finance our day-to-day expenses for at least six weeks. Working in theat-'cals is a precarious living at any time especially in the late summer period, and towards the end of September saw us still without work with only ten dollars in the domestic kitty. Dara sold a diamond-encrusted brooch which bought us more time.

  In these impoverished circumstances, it became imperative that we gave some thought for the future. I felt sure that my father, despite his disappointment in me, wouldn't let me starve, but that would mean returning to London. He was my only hope as there was no one in New York I could turn to for help at this juncture in my life. After some discussion we decided to renew our efforts to get work and, if this failed, to book our passage across the Atlantic. I think both of us knew that we were only postponing, for a little while, the day when we would have to leave America.

  Within two weeks our minds were made up. With no prospect of any theatrical engagements and funds getting low, we had no option but to book our passage to Liverpool as soon as possible. The whole of New York was seething with excitement at that time in anticipation of the forthcoming visit of the Prince of Wales who had been touring Canada and the United States during the summer months.

  Dara and I were part of the huge crowd waiting at Emigrants' Wharf when Edward, the Prince of Wales, landed to be received by Mr. Fernando Wood, the Mayor of New York. Under the command of General Sandford, over six-thousand soldiers were lined up in his Highness's honour. He was rather like his mother, the Queen, in looks with his fresh, fair complexion and light brown hair. As he passed near us he gave Dara a wide bright smile when she screamed at the top of her voice, 'God save the Prince of Wales.'

  We embarked on the thirteenth of October for our voyage to Liverpool. Just before we boarded the vessel, Dara had bought a copy of the 'New York Tribune' and entertained me reading the newspaper's account of a ball at the Academy of Music held in honour of the Prince. Although the Academy on East Fourteenth Street had been built to hold no more than three thousand people, five thousand turned up for the great ball. The Prince arrived at ten o'clock and, before the dancing had begun, a large part of the floor collapsed and everyone, including the Prince, had to stand around waiting for two hours while a small army of carpenters repaired the floor. In the hectic activity of effecting the repairs, a carpenter was nailed in underneath the floorboards, with the result that there was further delay before the dancing could begin while the frightened man was released.

  The voyage was boring and tedious as it was raining most days. We were confined to our cabin for five days in mid-Atlantic while the ship strove to make headway against storming gale force winds that brought the rain down in torrents. The dreadful weather caused wearisome delay and twenty-five days passed before we came into Liverpool harbour. The next day we boarded a train for London and arrived just before dusk at St Pancras station, where we took a cab to 'The Eight Bells' hotel near Covent Garden. It was a modest hotel where I had previously lodged for the night during my forays to London theatres from Oxford and I knew its charges would be reasonable. We had just about enough money to pay for a week's board, but I had high hopes of solving our financial problems by writing theatrical reviews for some of the London magazines.

  None of my reviews were published but in the course of trying to get my work accepted I became acquainted with John Sweetapple, a successful theatrical critic who had ambitions to be an actor manager. He had written a number of plays, all of which had been turned down by a number of theatre managers. Nothing daunted by the rebuffs, Sweetapple was scheming to raise money to produce his own plays. I learnt a great deal from him. We became good friends and his cheer and good humour sustained me through a difficult period. Dara and I spent several evenings at his lodgings listening to his grandiose plans to become an actor manager who would one day astound London with his genius and originality. John Sweetapple did eventually realize his dreams, but not during the short time that I knew him.

  After three weeks with no income I was in such desperate financial straits I began to sell off my personal articles and continued to do so until there was nothing left but the clothes I stood up in. 'The Eight Bells' were now pressing me for money. The day when they threatened me with confinement in the debtors' prison and I was literally down to my last penny, I plucked up my courage and decided to beard the lion in his den. My father always resided at his town house in St. James's Street during the winter months.

  Our butler at Astrel House was somewhat taken aback on seeing me. From his demeanour I judged that he knew something about the reception I was likely to get from Father. Embarrassed, he ushered me into the library, saying, 'I'll enquire if Lord Pulrose is at home.'

  Half an hour passed before my father made an appearance. He stumped his way past me looking like thunder and sat himself down at the reading desk eyeing me nastily for a while. It was cursed
unpleasant and my nervous tension brought on a persistent dry cough.

  Shuffling my feet and coughing, I was getting into a proper tizzy when he suddenly shouted, 'Well? What the devil brings you here, you degenerate pup?'

  My eyes were beseeching him to forgive and let bygones be bygones but all I could get out in a hoarse whisper was, 'Forgive me, Father-I'm deuced sorry for what I've done.'

  'Why? Have you given up your disgusting desires and become a man? Eh?'

  'Yes, Father. When I was in America I slept with an actress nearly every night.'

  He looked at me in astonishment for a moment with an expression of disbelief showing plainly on his face. 'Did I hear you right? Is that the truth?'

  I was about to reply but he raised his hand saying, 'No, don't answer. I can't abide a liar.'

  He bowed his head for a moment muttering, 'If only I could be sure. If only I could believe you. Damme! I dearly want you to be a true son to me. To get married and give me grandchildren. You do see it my way, don't you, my boy?'

  I could only nod my head in agreement. My pederasty of the past weighed heavily on me and I was ready to agree to almost anything he said.

  'Suppose I get you a commission in my old regiment, the Grenadier Guards. Two years' service in the army would do you the world of good and make a real man of you, y'know.'

  As he said Grenadier Guards it suddenly came to me like a flash out of the blue-Nicholas Dawney of my schooldays had become a Grenadier. My heart turned over at the thought of being once again with the one person in this world that I loved more than any other.

  'Father,' I said like a dutiful son, 'I've been a fool in the past but from now on I will follow your guidance and do whatever you think is for the best. Now, if you will give me some money, I would like to look up some old friends of my days at Oxford.'

  Immediately I said 'old friends' he looked at me suspiciously. 'No, you don't get round me like that. You will be confined to the house until I take you to Aldershot to take up your commission in the army. I'm not having you getting up to any mischief in London with your debauched friends of the past. You won't be here for more than two or three days. The Commanding Officer of the Grenadier Guards is an old friend. He will be only too pleased to welcome a son of mine into his regiment. Be patient, we will soon have you settled and safe from temptation.'

  Although I was desperately anxious to get back to Dara and settle my account at the hotel, I was between the devil and the deep blue sea. If the old boy learnt that I had married someone of humble origin, an actress at that, and I had been married for over six months without making her pregnant, there would be the very devil to pay, and I would be kicked out into the street without a penny to my name. On the other hand, I had to devise some way of reassuring Dara that I would be keeping in touch with her and would be sending some money within the next two or three days.

  Life can be sheer hell sometimes. The old man never left my side all day and when I went to bed he locked my bedroom door from the outside. I was virtually a prisoner in my own home. By the following evening I could stand the worry about Dara no longer and told my father I owed 'The Eight Bells' hotel for three weeks' board and lodging and it was urgent that I get to Covent Garden and settle the account.

  'Put your mind at ease, James,' he said, 'I'll attend to your little problem,' and left the room before I could think of another excuse for getting out of the house. He was back within a few minutes to tell me he had sent a footman to pay my hotel account.

  The footman returned in a little over half an hour to hand the money back to my father. 'What's all this?' my father asked, looking at the bag of sovereigns. 'Didn't I tell you to pay my son's account at “The Eight Bells”?'

  'There was nothing to pay,' he answered. A young woman had already settled what was owing this afternoon, just before she left the hotel.'

  'Gad! What young woman?' my father asked, turning to me for an answer.

  I was just as surprised as he was and at a loss for words. The footman was smiling at me and, because I was playing for time and confused, I grinned nervously back at him.

  My father gave me a quizzical glance and then, with a big smile on his face, thumped the desk top with his fist. 'You young scoundrel. Why didn't you tell me you had been staying at the hotel with a woman? By jove, you have become a proper ladies' man. You've got the taste for it, what!'

  He stood up guffawing coarsely and slapped me heartily on the back. 'You young rascal,' he said, excited and full of good humour. 'Upon my soul I didn't believe a word of that story about the American actress but I do now.'

  He suddenly went all solemn. Picking up the money the footman had returned, he handed it to me. 'You have made me a very happy man, James. Egad, I'm devilish sorry that I misjudged you. Now off you go and enjoy yourself, for tomorrow we journey to Aldershot.'

  I couldn't get out of the house fast enough. At 'The Eight Bells' none of the staff were able to give me any information as to the whereabouts of Dara so I wandered the streets around Covent Garden until after midnight in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of her. I got very little sleep that night as I tossed and turned in a fever of anxiety as to what could have happened to her. In the weeks that followed I returned time and time again to the vicinity of Covent Garden but none of the enquiries regarding my wife ever came to anything. It seemed she had disappeared for good.

  PART FIVE. THE GOLDEN VIRGIN

  Tired out after our journey from Liverpool, I slept soundly throughout our first night at 'The Eight Bells' hotel. James was still asleep when I got out of bed, curious to see what was causing the continual roar in the street below. It was my first sight of bustling, thriving, noisy London. The street was filled with vehicles of every kind, costermongers' carts, lumbering market wagons filled to overflowing with vegetables. Their screeching iron-rimmed wheels on the cobbled surface added to the confusion and tumult of the bells of the barrow boys, the raucous shouting of men and women selling gingerbread, hot meat pies and other cooked food, whelks, watercress and a variety of wares. The pavements were strewn with cabbage leaves and litter of every description.

  After breakfast James set off to call on some magazine editors and I sallied forth to explore the Covent Garden market. Stepping into the street I unwittingly became the cause of a dispute when two women, carrying baskets, converged on me.

  One of them, an Irish woman, smoking a short clay pipe, shoved her basket at me, 'Gingerbread, lady? The best in London.'

  The other woman, wearing a stiff gown tucked up with a large quilted petticoat, pushed Irish to one side with strong, brawny arms and thrust her red, bloated face towards mine. “Ere y'are, lady. Buy me spiced gingerbread, smo-o-king 'ot, fresh out'a the oven,' she demanded in a coarse cracked voice.

  Irish, outraged at this intrusion, forced her basket into me and cursed the other woman with some Celtic oaths.

  First one basket and then the other pushed me backwards towards the hotel entrance as they argued and screamed abuse at each other. I could see that it wouldn't be long before they would be coming to blows. Potboys and ragged dirty-faced children, attracted by the screams of anger, gathered around us, eager to see a fight. As I extracted two pennies from my purse, a pot-boy shouted encouragement to Irish: 'Put the kye-bosh on her, Mary.'

  Dropping a penny in each of their baskets, I fled across the congested street, negotiating my way through a higgledy-piggledy confusion of vendors of fried fish, hot pies, muffins, caged linnets, almond toffee and costermongers' barrows loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables. The pandemonium and cries of 'Hi-i-i! Carrots, penny a bunch; pahnd o' grapes for thrupence; hot chestnuts; cherry ripe, round and sahnd, fivepence a pahnd; fish alive-O,' vibrated through my head and filled me with an excitement that was a welcome change after weeks of boredom on board ship.

  Resisting the tempting smell of hot coffee wafting out of an eating house on the corner, I turned into Mart Street where, although the thoroughfare was narrow, my movements were less re
stricted because the traders' vehicles were confined to one side of the street. I hadn't got very far when a voice, rising above the other street cries, clammered for my attention.

  'Oy! Oy! Oy! Hi there, lady. Turn abaht and look at these 'ere apples. Rosy red and juicy.'

  It was a young man about my own age. He was dressed in the usual costermonger's clothing, a long cord waistcoat with shining brass buttons and trousers tightly fitting over the knees and billowing out over highly polished boots. Beneath a cloth cap pulled jauntily down to one side, his mischievous eyes invited me to examine a large apple that he held in a hand outstretched in my direction.

  Eve tempted Adam with an apple. On this occasion it was Adam tempting a woman with the same fruit. For that was indeed his name as I was soon to find out. The apple was all he said it would be: tasty and juicy. Little did I know as my teeth crunched into Eve's fruit that Adam Sutton's friendly face would be my introduction to the foul obscenity of London's underworld.

  There was always a hearty welcome for me when I purchased fruit at Adam's barrow. In the first half of the week he was not to be seen in Mart Street as those were the days he pushed his barrow into other parts of the city. Our acquaintanceship ripened very quickly into a flirtatious friendship that kept me amused for hours as I stood chattering with him and his customers. It didn't take me long to learn the prices of the fruit and vegetables on his barrow and I often helped out when he was very busy with a crowd of housewives demanding quick service.

  There was nothing else for me to do as James was out nearly every day and attending theatrical performances most evenings. He struck up a friendship with John Sweetapple, a theatre critic, who was more successful than James at getting his work published in the magazines that were in circulation in those days. I spent two or three boring evenings with James at John's lodgings listening to him reading out loud extracts from some of the plays he had written. Try as I may, I couldn't arouse any interest in his plays and he obviously wasn't concerned about me as he addressed most of his conversation to James.