Exits and Entrances

by Eva Moore

Our next visit to Canada was in 1920, when we took with us Eliza—be it said, “by special request”—and The Law Divine. To tell one half of the kindness we received at the hands of the Canadian people would fill a huge book alone, and I must content myself with saying that it was nothing short of “wonderful”—quite, quite wonderful. Everywhere we went, people were anxious to do everything possible to make our visit pleasant, and how well they succeeded!

The Trans-Canada Company, with which we went, had formed a splendid idea, and one which I hope will meet with the success it deserves; this is, to bring from London, British plays with British players, and to visit, as far as is possible, every town in Canada, so that the people of Canada may be in touch with the Mother Country in her ideas and ideals, and so cement the affection between the two countries which has been so splendidly aroused by the Great War. We were delighted to be pioneers, or one of the sections of the pioneers, of the scheme; but in the smaller towns we found that the inhabitants had so long been accustomed to American farces (and “bedroom” farces at that) or the lightest of musical comedies, that an English comedy, spoken by English people with English voices, was almost Greek to them. As someone said to me one day, “Your accent is so difficult to understand”, and one could see that was true, for in the opening scene of The Law Divine, which should be played quickly, we had to decrease the pace to let the audiences get used to our voices. This only applied to the smaller places; in the larger towns the audiences loved the plays; the English home setting, the sailor and the Tommy, in The Law Divine, won all hearts, and the simplicity and directness of the acting astonished those of the audiences who had never seen a London production.

On arriving at Quebec, we were rushed off by a night train to Montreal, in order that we might be present at a big luncheon party, given by Lord and Lady Shaughnessy, to welcome us to Canada. There we met many people who became our warm friends, Sir Frederick and Lady Taylor, Mrs. Drummond (who is so well known in the amateur dramatic world), Mrs. Henry Joseph—to mention only a few of the friends we made in Canada.

That week we started our tour at Halifax (Nova Scotia), and visited 48 towns in four months, travelling right through Canada to Victoria, B.C. It was all tremendously interesting, and the hospitality we received was boundless—luncheons, dinners, suppers, given both by private friends and numerous clubs, such as the Canadian Women’s Club, The Daughters of the Empire, the Men’s Canadian Club, the Rotary, the Kyannias, and the various dramatic clubs.

At Toronto we were asked to speak in the new theatre at Hart Hall, the beautiful college that has been built on the lines of an Oxford College, and given by Deane Massey, Esq. This was the first time that a woman had been asked to speak there, and I believe some little anxiety was felt as to “what I should say”, but my subject was a safe one. I dealt with “Women’s Work during the War, and the Work for Her to do in the Future”. Harry, on this occasion, spoke of “The Drama”. It was an effort—a very real effort—as he hated and was really frightened of public speaking. On such occasions he usually recited, and used to make a tremendous effect with that great poem, The Defence of Lucknow. When I say “a tremendous effect”, I do not mean only from a dramatic point of view, but from the point of view that it was “Empire work”.

I remember at Edmonton, Alberta—the city that is built farthest north of Canada—we were invited to lunch at the big college. There in the big hall we met the students, and sat down with some four hundred men of all ages from 18 to 40—students who, I was interested to learn, were all learning Spanish as well as German in their course. In the middle of the hall hung a huge Union Jack, and under it Harry stood reciting The Defence of Lucknow to four hundred spellbound men and boys. I shall never forget the rousing cheers which went up from those who had listened to him when he ceased speaking. Professor Carr was the head of the College, and both he and his wife were charming to us. There we met Mr. Evans, who has done so much for the city. He and his wife gave a hockey match for us and the members of our company, which resulted in Harry “coming down” very hard on his gold cigarette case and squashing it quite flat.

At Winnipeg—“The Golden Gate to the West”, I believe it is called—we met more delightful people, among them the Hon. “Bob” Rogers, as he is called. At the Barracks, where “Princess Pat.’s Own” were quartered, I met many men who had been friends of Decima’s in France during the war. It was here that I saw what, up to that time, I had only read of—a real dog-sledge. It was a bitter day, with a howling wind off the prairies, and at least 29 degrees below zero. Suddenly I saw dashing up the main street nine dogs, dragging what looked to me like a small boat. Forgetting the biting wind, I stopped to watch. “The boat” stopped, and all the dogs lay down instantly in the snow, all looking as if they were grinning, and wagging their tails with vigour. Then a man got out of “the boat”, and lifted out a dog with a strap attached to it; this he harnessed to the rest of the team, stopping only to cuff one of the resting dogs, which had taken the opportunity to eat some snow. The man got back into the sledge, and they were off again at full tilt. I loved the sight, so strange and picturesque—so strange to English eyes, and yet enacted for me by some unknown man, who was yet “part and parcel” of the Empire, even as I was.

I never got over my feeling of depression when I looked at the prairies. Perhaps I saw them at a bad time, covered with snow—endless flat snow, which seemed limitless, seemed to stretch away to infinity. The only time I ever saw any beauty which brought joy in them, was one day when we had to leave Moose Jaw. We had a long journey to our next town, and left at three in the morning. I remember that through the night some of the company played bridge, the ever-cheerful Florrie Lumley, of course, being one of the players. I went to bed, to snatch what sleep I could after two performances. The morning was the most amazing sunrise I have ever seen; the sky full of rich mauves and pinks, melting into blues and yellows, over the vast expanse of flat ground, is something which I could never hope to describe. I only know that I felt more than repaid for my early rising by the joy, the wonderful colour, the beauty, and the happiness which that sunrise gave to me.

Again I seem to see Calgary, with its crowd of men of all nationalities; here a cowboy in full kit, with rattlesnake stirrups; there an Indian, incongruous with his hair in plaits and yet wearing European clothes, his squaw with him; a Japanese; even an Indian wearing a turban—all making a wonderful picture of East and West. And then, in the midst of all this cosmopolitan crowd, the huge hotel with all the most modern comforts—for all the C.P.R. Hotels are wonderful. It was from the roof garden of this hotel at Calgary that I had my first sight of the Rockies—and, oh! the joy of the Rockies. To me all those days of long journeys, the fatigues, the distress were nothing, were forgotten, in the joy of the sight of the mountains, the delight of feeling that one was actually “in” such beauty, and that the joy of looking at them would go on for days.

We stayed to play at two little towns in the mountains. Kamloops, one of them, made us laugh—as, indeed, did many of our experiences. Fortunately our company was a happy one, all being ready to make light of difficulties. On this occasion we had to dress for the performance under most uncomfortable conditions, for the theatre at Kamloops is just a “frame” or wood hall. Rooms—of sorts—are provided for the artists; for instance, Harry’s room was built on the ground, no floor boarding, just bare earth—and the temperature at 40 degrees below zero; no heating was provided except in one room. The lighting, too, left much to be desired; we all had about two very tiny electric lights to dress by, and, just before the curtain went up, a knock came to the door, and the request was made for “the electric-light globes, as they were wanted for the footlights”. When we did ring up, the seven or eight globes which were to assist the public to see us clearly were all backed by yellow posters, on which was printed “Cyril Maude as ‘Grumpy’”. If we had not all laughed so immoderately, I think the sight, facing us all through our performance, might have made us “Grumpy”.