At Vancouver we were very gay. Our visit was all too short, and accordingly many different societies joined forces, and by this means we succeeded in meeting as many people as possible in the short time we were able to spend in the city. I think I have never felt more nervous in my life than I did at the luncheon given to us by the Canadian Men’s Club at the vast Vancouver Hotel, the largest hotel I have ever seen. About five hundred men were present, and I was the only woman. My entrance was almost a royal one; I was led by the President of the Club down a big flight of stairs into the hall; all the men rose to their feet and gave us a tremendous reception; I found myself, half tearfully, saying, “Oh, thank you, thank you so much.” It was a wonderful feeling, to be so far away from home, and yet to find such a lovely welcome from people who were not only glad to see you, but told you so. Miss M. Stewart, the daughter of Mrs. and General Stewart, who did such great work in France, laughingly constituted herself my chauffeuse, and drove me everywhere. I look forward to seeing Vancouver again one day.
At Medicine Hat we played only one night, and, as I was walking down the main street, a frail little woman came up to me and asked, “Are you Eva Moore?” When I answered her, she said “I’m your cousin.” She had come countless miles from her prairie farm, which she ran with her son, to see me play. I had never seen her before; had not known, even, that I had a cousin in that part of the world!
It was at Revelstoke, again in the Rockies—a place that had once been very flourishing, but owing to vast forest fires had almost ceased to be a working town—that I had an amusing experience. At every theatre God Save the King had always been played at the end of each performance. Here, to my astonishment, not a note was played. I asked the reason, and was told that the gentleman who played the piano—the only instrument in the orchestra—was a German. I was furious, and, knowing that the following week the famous “Dumbells” were coming with their latest revue, Biff Bang, I wrote to the Major who was their manager, telling him what had happened, and asking him to see that the matter was put right. I knew I was safe in making the request, as the “Dumbells”, who had won all hearts on their tour through Canada, were all ex-Service men, all men who had served in the trenches. I also wrote to the Canadian Women’s Club, who had presented me with a bouquet, and to the manager of the theatre. All this had to be done very quickly, as we were only a few hours in the place. I never heard anything in reply until, by good fortune, the week we said “Good-bye” to Canada the “Dumbells” came to Montreal and I went to see them play, and after the performance went round to speak to the actors. It was then that their manager told me that, on receiving my letter, which was awaiting him, he had at once sent round to the stage to tell “the boys” that God Save the King would be sung twice before the play started and twice after the performance. He said, “Of course, the boys thought I was mad, but they did as I asked.” He went on to tell me that after the performance he went on to the stage and read them my letter, which was greeted with cheers. The next morning he went out and met the chief townsman, the butcher, who remarked how disgraceful it was that, though we called ourselves British, we had not had the Anthem played at the end of our performance. The Major again produced my letter and read it to him, asking that he would make its contents known in the town, which he promised to do. I hope he did, for it impressed me very much everywhere to see the staff of the theatres standing, hat in hand, while the Anthem was played, and I should hate any Canadian to think that we were less loyal than they.
Going west through the Rockies, we missed seeing the first part, as the train went through that section at night; but coming back, by staying one night at a town, we were able to do the whole of the journey by day—and this Harry and I determined to do. During the night more snow had fallen, and we woke to a spotless, glistening world of white; the eighteen inches of snow which had fallen during the night, on the top of what had already fallen during the long winter, made the country look beautiful. As we sledged to the wee station, right in the midst of vast white mountains, under a sky of sapphire blue, the ground seemed to be set with millions of diamonds. I shall never forget that day; it gave me the most wonderful joy. Later I sat on a chair outside the observation car, drinking in the beauty, until my feet became so cold that the pain was real agony, and I could bear it no longer. I went inside to thaw them on the hot-water pipes, sitting even then with my face glued to the window, so that nothing of the beauty might escape me. I did this all day. Harry did at last persuade me to lunch, but the moment it was over I went back to my chair. Later, as the sun went down, a huge moon, like a harvest moon, rose with its cold, clear light, picking out fresh peaks, showing up snow-covered mountains in a new light. I refused to move, and Harry had to dine alone, while I froze outwardly, but inwardly was all glowing with excitement at the beauty and joy of what I saw. Now I can close my eyes and think that I see it all again: the canvas tents where the men working on the C.P.R. live; the pathetic, lonely little graves; the Indians; the squaws on the frozen rivers, sitting by holes in the ice, fishing; then Kicking Horse Valley, the climb from Field, that marvellous engineering feat when the train goes twice through the mountain in a figure-eight to enable it to mount the height. You lose all sense of direction as you go up and up, for one moment you see the moon on one side of the train, a moment later you see her on the other. I am not sure that this part of the journey is not the best, and yet I don’t know; it is hard to say.
The Great Divide! All my life I had read and heard of it, and now at last I saw it. We got out at Banff and sledged to the hotel, where we stayed the night; next morning we wandered about until it was time to get the train. Perhaps we had seen too much beauty, seen too many wonders, and had become capricious, but I found Banff disappointing; the ice-run and the ice-castle seemed poor and out of place in their vast surroundings. The last stage of our journey was through the Park, where we saw herds of buffaloes, peacefully browsing in the snow, and an elk, too. We saw also the “Three Sisters” Canmore, and bade adieu to the snow mountains. I hope it’s only adieu. I have books of photographs which were taken there; one photograph is of the inveterate “punster”, Fred Grove, who was in Canada at the time, with Sir John Martin Harvey’s Company. He had it taken standing under a poster of Eliza, in which he had played “Uncle Alexander” so many times. On the back of it he wrote “Fred Grove at Regina—how he wishes he could re-jine ’er.”
Another picture illustrates what was a curious coincidence. Harry and I were taken standing under a poster of The Law Divine. There had been a heavy snowstorm, and the whole of the poster was obliterated except the two letters, “D ... V”. Soon after, Harry was taken ill at Saskatoon with pneumonia. I had to go on with the company, and play every evening a comedy! knowing that any moment might bring me the news I dreaded. But, “D.V.”—and I say it with all reverence—Harry pulled through, and joined us in time to return to England.
He was an amazing patient. Left there alone, very, very ill, his wonderful sense of humour never failed him. I remember one evening a wire came through for me, from Harry. It was a quotation over which we had often laughed, written by the late Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, at the time when King Edward lay ill with appendicitis. It ran:
“Across the wires the hurried message came—
He is no better, he is much the same.”
With us in the company was Nigel Bruce, who regards a Test Match as one of the really important things of life, and who would, I believe, infinitely rather “play for England” in one of the Test Matches than be Prime Minister. One evening Harry wired to me: