“We... never stopped in the old days to turn things over in our minds, and grow grey over counting the chances of what would or what wouldn’t happen. We went slap for everything like the healthy young devils we were.”

And so at Christmas I began to play “The Spirit of Home” in The Cricket on the Hearth at Toole’s Theatre, which was a small place, mostly underground, beside the Charing Cross Hospital. I was very happy; it was all new and exciting, and everyone was very kind to me. Kate Phillips, who played “Dot”, had been ill, and her dressing-room—the dressing-room provided for the leading lady—was underground; she couldn’t stand it, and, as mine was on the roof—or as nearly on the roof as possible—she came up to dress with me. It was in Kate Phillips’s (and my) dressing-room that I first saw Winifred Emery, who came on to Toole’s for tea from the Vaudeville. She was perfectly beautiful, with most lovely hands, and oh, so attractive!

In those days, after a matinÉe, there were only two things to do—either stay in the theatre or go out and walk about in the streets. Your rooms were generally a long way from the theatre, which meant ’bus riding (and every penny had to be considered), and there were no girls’ clubs then. No Three Arts Club, Theatrical Girls’ Club, no A.B.C.’s, no Lyons, nothing of that kind, so you stayed in the theatre.

Another person who was in the cast was George Shelton, the same George Shelton who was in Peter Pan this year—1922—when Jill made her first appearance. I can see no difference in him; after all these years he looks, and is, just the same. The children who went to see Peter Pan—so Mr. Lyn Harding assured us—“found Smee lovable”, as I found him so many years ago. Only then he wasn’t playing Smee!

The run ended, and I was engaged to play in a first piece by Justin Huntly Macarthy, called The Red Rag. I have no very clear recollection of the part, except that I played the girl who made love to a man “over the garden wall,” standing on a flowerpot. It was in this play, The Red Rag, that Decima asked, after noting that only the “top half” of the gentleman appeared over the wall, “As his legs don’t show, does he have to wear trousers? Because, if he doesn’t, it must be such a very cheap costume.” I had a new dress for the part, which is not really so impressive as it sounds, for in those days “Nun’s veiling” (thanks be to Heaven!) was 6½d. a yard, and, as in The Cricket on the Hearth I had been clad in white Nun’s veiling, so now for The Red Rag I wore a blue dress of the same useful material. Of course, I made both of them myself.

However, this play marked a “point in my career”—I began to have “notices” in the Press. The Punch critic of that date said: “If names signify anything, there is a young lady who is likely to remain on the stage a very long time—‘Quoth the Raven, Eva Moore’.” She has, too—a very long time. The People said he should keep his “critical eye on me, in fact both his critical eyes.”

At the end of the spring season, Mr. Toole asked me to go on tour for the summer and autumn, to play “leading lady”—this was a real leap up the ladder—appearing in fifteen plays. I was to receive £3 a week. I accepted (of course I accepted!), and took with me twenty-three dresses. I remember the number, because in order to buy the necessary materials I had to borrow £10 from my brother.

By this time the attitude of my father had changed; he no longer regarded me as “lost”, and no longer looked upon the Stage as the last step in an immoral life; he was, I think, rather proud of what I had done. So far had he relented that, when my sister Jessie decided that she too would go on the Stage, there was no opposition. She left home without any dramatic scenes, and went into the chorus of Dorothy, where she understudied Marie Tempest and Ben Davis’s sister-in-law, Florence Terry, afterwards playing the latter’s part.

I was staying then off the Strand, near the Old Globe Theatre, sharing rooms with the sister of a man—his name does not matter, he has since left the Stage for the Church—to whom I later was engaged. When Jessie came to London we arranged to have rooms together. One day we mounted a ’bus at Piccadilly, and found we could go all the way to Hammersmith for a penny. We were so struck by the cheapness of the journey that we rode the whole length of the pennyworth.

Eventually we found rooms in Abingdon Villas, two furnished rooms for 18s. a week; we took them and “moved in”.

I must go back here to record what might really have been a very tragic business for me. After I had been playing in The Red Rag for about five weeks, Mr. Toole was taken ill, and the theatre was closed for over a month—“no play, no pay”. Providence had ordained that I should have been given the money for a new winter coat; I had the money, and was waiting to buy the garment. The coat had to wait; I had to keep a roof over my head. I paid it over—in a lump—to the landlady, and knew I was safe to have at least a bed in which to sleep until the theatre re-opened.

The tour began; we went to Plymouth, Bath, Scarborough, Dublin, Edinburgh (where, for the first time, I slept in a “concealed bed”), and many other places I have forgotten; but, wherever we went, the audience was the same: Toole had only to walk on the stage and they howled with laughter. I very seldom spoke to him; in those days I was far too frightened to address the “Olympians”; I could only congratulate myself on being in the company at all.

Funnily enough, the position I held was originally offered by Toole to Violet Vanbrugh; I fancy—in fact, I am pretty sure—that I eventually was given it because she wanted “too much money”. She probably asked for £5, or even perhaps rose to the dizzy height of demanding £8, while I “went for £3” (it sounds like little David Copperfield selling his waistcoat!).

I think I enjoyed the tour; it was all new and strange to me. The sea journey to Ireland was distinctly an experience. I remember that a critic in Cork, a true son of Ireland, said of me in his paper, “Critics have been known to become dizzy before such beauty.” How I laughed at and enjoyed that notice! It was at Cork that poor dear Florrie Toole was taken ill. She had joined us some weeks before, to my great delight, for she had always been so very kind to me. It was from Florrie that I received a velvet dress, which was one of the most useful articles in my wardrobe; it was altered and re-altered, and finally retired from active service after having been my “stand-by” in many parts.

During the week we were at Cork, Florrie was ill—not very ill, or so it seemed; at any rate, she was able to travel with us to Edinburgh on the Sunday. There she became rapidly worse, and it was found that she had typhoid fever. We left her in Edinburgh, and heard the following week that she was dead. Such a beautiful life cut short! She was so brilliant, and so very, very lovable.

I shared rooms with Eliza Johnson, a capable but somewhat unrelenting elderly lady. She “dragooned” me effectively; young men who showed any tendency to gather round stage doors, or gaze at one in the street, were sternly discouraged. At Cambridge, I remember, I had a passionate love letter from some “undergrad.”, who said he refrained from signing his name, as his “trust had been broken before”, but, if I returned his affection, would I reply in the “agony” column of the Times to “Fido”! I did nothing of the kind, naturally; but so definite were the feelings of Eliza Johnson on “things of that kind” that she told me she could “not help feeling that I was, in some measure, to blame.”

At Birmingham, on the Friday night, after “treasury,” I left my money in my dressing-room, went on the stage, and returned to find the money gone! I went to the manager and told him, but he protested that he could do nothing. I managed to borrow money to pay for my rooms, and went on to the next town very downcast indeed. Three pounds was a lot of money. The following week I had a letter from Birmingham, telling how the writer, who was employed at the theatre, had stolen the money, but that the sight of my distress had so melted his heart that he had decided to return it to me intact. The £3 was enclosed. I concluded that it was one of the stage hands; it wasn’t, it was Mr. Toole. He had heard of my loss, and, in giving me the money, could not resist playing one of those practical jokes which he loved!

The tour ended and we came back to London, where Toole was going to put on a first piece called The Broken Sixpence before The Don. The cast included Mary Brough, Charles Lowne, the authoress (Mrs. Thompson)—who was a very beautiful woman, but not a strikingly good actress—and, among the “wines and spirits,” me.

My dress was the same that I had worn in The Butler (a play we had done on tour), or, rather, it was part of the dress, for, as I was playing a young girl, with short skirts, I only used the skirt of the dress, merely adding a yoke; in addition, I wore a fair wig.

I have it on good authority that I looked “perfectly adorable”, for it was in this play, though I did not know it for a long time, that Harry Esmond first saw me, and, apparently, approved of me!

Then I began to be ill; too much work, and, looking back, I fancy not too much food, and that probably of the wrong kind for a girl who, after all, was only about 17, and who had been playing in a different play every night for weeks.

I didn’t stop working, though I did feel very ill for some weeks, but finally an incident occurred which took the matter out of my hands and forced me to take a rest.

I was walking home from the theatre, with my salary and my savings (seven pounds, which I had gathered together to pay back to my brother for the loan I mentioned before) in my bag. In those days the streets were in the state of semi-darkness to which London grew accustomed in the war—at any rate, in all but the largest streets; some one, who must have known who I was, or at any rate known that I was an actress and that Friday night was “pay night”, sprang out of the darkness, struck me a heavy blow on the head, snatched my bag, and left me lying senseless.

After that, I gave in—I went home, and was very ill for a long time with low fever; not only was I ill, I was hideously depressed. However, I went back to Mr. Toole as soon as I was better, and he told me he was going to Australia, and asked me to go too. The salary was to be £4 a week, and “provide your own clothes”. I declined, though how I had the pluck to decline an engagement in those days passes my comprehension. However, I did, and Irene Vanbrugh went to Australia in my place—though not at my salary; she was more fortunate.

I began to haunt agents’ offices, looking for work, and a dreary business it was! At last I was engaged to go to the Shaftesbury to play in The Middleman with E. S. Willard, and it was here that I first actually met my husband. He was very young, very slim, and looked as young as he was; he was, as is the manner of “the powers that be”, cast for a villain, and, in order to “look the part”, he had his shoulders padded to such an extent that he looked perfectly square. His first words in the play were “More brandy!” I don’t think he was a great success in the part, though, looking through some old press cuttings, I find the following extract from The Musical World: “But a Mr. Esmond shows, I think, very high promise, together with faults that need to be corrected. His attitudes are abominable; his voice and the heart in it could hardly be bettered”—and that in spite of the padding!

I think we were at once great friends—at any rate, I know he had to use a ring in the play, and I lent him mine. In particular I remember one evening, when I was walking down Shaftesbury Avenue with the man to whom I was engaged, and we met Harry wearing my ring; I was most disturbed, lest my own “young man” should notice. However, we broke the engagement soon after—at least I did—and after that it didn’t matter who wore or who did not wear my ring. Then Harry, who lived at Empress Gate, used to take me home after the theatre; and if he didn’t take me home, he took somebody else home, for at that time I think he loved most pretty girls. It was a little later that he wrote in his diary: “Had tea with Agnes (Agnes Verity); took Eva home; she gave me two tomatoes; nice girl. How happy could I be with either!”—which, I think, gives a very fair idea of his general attitude at the time.

The Middleman ran well; it was a good play, with a good cast—E. S. Willard, Annie Hughes, Maude Millet, and William Mackintosh—the latter a really great actor. I understudied Annie Hughes—and played for her. In The Middleman, Willard wore his hair powdered, to give him the necessary look of age, and in one scene I had to comb it. I was most anxious to do well in Annie Hughes’s part, and was so zealous that I combed all the powder out of his hair at the back, to my own confusion and his great dismay.

At the end of the run of The Middleman, I wrote to Mr. (now Sir) A. W. Pinero, and asked for an interview. His play, The Cabinet Minister, was shortly to be produced at the Court Theatre, and I hoped he might give me a part. He granted me the interview, and I remember how frightened I was. I met him some time ago, and he reminded me of it. He told me I struck him as being “such a little thing”. Anyway, he gave me a part. This was the first production in which I had played where the dresses were provided by the management, and very wonderful dresses they were.

It was a great cast—Mrs. John Wood (whose daughter and granddaughter were both with us in Canada in 1920), Allen Aynesworth (a very typical young “man about town”), Rosina Philippi, Weedon Grossmith, and Arthur Cecil.

Mrs. John Wood was a wonderful actress; she got the last ounce out of every part she played. Fred Grove says: “When she had finished with a part, it was like a well-sucked orange; not a bit of good left in it for anyone else.” The first act of The Cabinet Minister was a reception after a drawing-room. We all wore trains of “regulation” length; at rehearsals Mrs. Wood insisted that we should all have long curtains pinned round us, to accustom us to the trains.

Arthur Cecil, who had been in partnership with Mrs. Wood, was a kindly old gentleman who always carried a small black bag; it contained a supply of sandwiches, in case he should suddenly feel the pangs of hunger. “Spy,” of Vanity Fair, did a wonderful drawing of him, complete with bag.

I remember Rosina Philippi, then as thin as a lamp-post, having a terrific row one day with Weedon Grossmith—what about, I cannot remember. He was playing “Mr. Lebanon”, a Jew, and “built up” his nose to meet the requirements of the part. In the heat of the argument, Rosina knocked off his nose; he was so angry. The more angry he got, the more she laughed!

I think it was before the run of The Cabinet Minister that I became engaged to Harry. I know that during the run Harry was playing at the Royalty in Sweet Nancy, and was apparently rather vague and casual about the duties of an engaged young man. I remember he used often to send his best friend to call for me and bring me home from the theatre. If he had not been such a very attractive young man himself, one might have thought this habit showed a lack of wisdom. He was very attractive, but very thin; I found out, to my horror, that he wore nothing under his stiff white shirts! Imagine how cold, riding on the top of ’buses—anyway, it struck me as dreadful, and my first gift to him was a complete set of underwear. He protested that it would “tickle”, but I know he wore them, with apparently no grave discomfort.

I went to Terry’s to play in Culprits—a tragic play so far as I was concerned. I really, for the first time, “let myself go” over my dresses. I spent £40. (Imagine the months of savings represented by that sum!) We rehearsed for five weeks, and the play ran three.

By this time my sister Jessie had gone on tour, first with Dr. Dee, by Cotsford Dick, later with D’Oyley Carte’s Company. Decima and I were sharing rooms which Jessie had taken with me. Decima had been at Blackheath at the College of Music, where she had gained a scholarship. On her own initiative she came up to the Savoy Theatre, for a voice trial, and was promptly engaged for the part of “Casilda” in the forthcoming production of The Gondoliers. I remember the first night of the opera occurred when I was still playing in The Middleman. Not being in the last act, I was able to go down to the Savoy. I was fearfully excited, and filled with pride and joy; it was a great night. After the performance, Decima cried bitterly all the way home, so convinced was she that her performance could not have been successful. It was not until the following morning, when she was able to read the notices in the morning papers, that she was reassured and finally comforted. Far from ruining her performance, she had made a big success.

During the time we shared rooms we were both taken ill with Russian influenza—and very ill we both were. Geraldine Ulmar came to see us, and brought, later, Dr. Mayer Collier, who proved “a very present help in trouble”. He rose high in his profession, and never ceased to be our very good friend, nor failed in his goodness to us all.

On October 31st, 1891, I find the following Press cutting appeared: “Mr. Esmond will shortly marry Miss Eva Moore, the younger sister (this, I may say, was, and still is, incorrect) of pretty Miss Decima Moore of the Savoy”. I was then playing in The Late Lamented, a play in which Mr. Ackerman May, the well-known agent, played a part. Herbert Standing was in the cast, though I remember very little about what he—or, for the matter of that, anyone else—played, except that he was supposed to be recovering from fever, and appeared with a copper blancmange mould on his head, wrapped in a blanket. It would seem that the humour was not of a subtle order.

We were married on November 19th, 1891, on the winnings of Harry and myself on a race. We backed a horse called “Common,” which ran, I imagine, in either the Liverpool Cup or the Manchester November Handicap. Where we got the tip from, I don’t know; anyway, it won at 40 to 1, and we were rich! Adding £50, borrowed from my sister Ada, to our winnings, we felt we could face the world, and we did.

The wedding was to be very quiet, but somehow ever so many people drifted into the Savoy Chapel on the morning of November 19th, among them Edward Terry, who signed the register.

As Harry was “on his way to the altar”, as the Victorian novelists would say, his best man, Patrick Rose, discovered that the buttons of his morning coat had—to say the least of it—seen better days. The material had worn away, leaving the metal foundation showing. He rushed into Terry’s Theatre, and covered each button with black grease paint!

We both played at our respective theatres in the evening, and certainly the best laugh—for that night, at least—was when Harry, in The Times, said: “I’m sick of ’umbug and deception. I’m a married gentleman! Let the world know it; I’m a young married English gentleman”.