English fiction -- 19th century; London (England) -- Fiction; Poor -- Fiction; Poverty -- Fiction
‘I’m not going to try and match you in insulting language; I dare say
you’d beat me at that. If you take my advice, you’ll go home and take
care of yourself; you look ill enough to be in bed. I don’t care what
you or anyone else thinks of me; what you said just now was a lie, but
it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the part, and I’ll take good care that I
keep it. You talk about us being friends; I should have thought you
knew by this time that there’s no such thing as friendship or
generosity or feeling for women who have to make their way in the
world. You’ve had your hard times as well as I, and what’s the use of
pretending what you don’t believe? You wouldn’t give up a chance for
me; I’m sure I should never expect you to. We have to fight, to fight
for everything, and the weak get beaten. That’s what life has taught
me.’
‘You’re right,’ was the other’s reply, given with a strangely sudden
calmness. ‘And we’ll see who wins.’
Clara gave no thought to the words, nor to the look of deadly enmity
that accompanied them. Alone again, she speedily became absorbed in a
vision of the triumph which she never doubted was near at hand. A long,
long time it seemed since she had sold herself to degradation: with
this one hope. You see that she had formulated her philosophy of life
since then; a child of the nether world whom fate had endowed with
intellect, she gave articulate utterance to what is seething in the
brains of thousands who fight and perish in the obscure depths. The
bitter bargain was issuing to her profit at last; she would yet attain
that end which had shone through all her misery—to be known as a
successful actress by those she had abandoned, whose faces were growing
dim to her memory, but of whom, in truth, she still thought more than
of all the multitudinous unknown public. A great success during the
remainder of this tour, and she might hope for an engagement in London.
Her portraits would at length be in the windows; some would recognise
her.
Yet she was not so pitiless as she boasted. The next morning, when she
met Grace, there came a pain at her heart in seeing the ghastly,
bloodless countenance which refused to turn towards her. Would Grace be
able to act at all at the next town? Yes, one more scene.
They reached Bolton. In the afternoon the rehearsal took place, but the
first representation was not until to-morrow. Clara saw her name
attached to the leading female character on bills rapidly printed and
distributed through the town. She went about in a dream, rather a
delirium. Mr. Peel used his most affable manner to her; his compliments
after the rehearsal were an augury of great things. And the eventful
evening approached.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account