“We’ve been to a good many places in the last few months, but we’ve had a very pleasant time.”

When we first went out to America together, Harry and I, in 1914, it was my first visit, though not his; he had been over before to produce several of his own plays. We took with us The Dear Fool, which was played in this country in 1914, and Eliza Comes to Stay. Personally, I did not enjoy the visit very much; and, to be quite candid, it was not the success we could have wished. The critics were not too kind, and, though American theatrical criticism may have changed since then, I found their articles such an extraordinary mixture of journalese, slang, and poker terms as to be almost unintelligible—at all events to my British intelligence. These articles may have been very amusing; perhaps if I could have read them “on this side”, I might have found them so, but in New York I admit the kind of writing—of which I give an example here—merely irritated me, as I imagine it must have irritated many other English artists: “After the first act there was a universal call for the water-boy, yet we all stayed; nobody raised the ante, so we all cheerfully drew cards for the second act. Alas, when it was too late, we discovered it was a bum deck. I don’t believe there was anything higher than a seven spot.” That may be very clever. I can almost believe it is very witty; but I still hold that it is not “criticism”.

I give one more example, and also the comment of another American newspaper upon the extract from the first journal. The extract concerns The Dear Fool, and is as follows:—“A pretty severe strain on one’s critical hospitality. Betty at best a cackling marionette made of sawdust. It is but a meaningless jumble of stock phrases and stock situations. Anything more feeble it would be hard to imagine. The ‘Dear Fool’ is one of the worst.” Now mark the pÆan of thanksgiving which this criticism calls forth from another New York journal:—“Not only is this (referring to the extract given above) an accurate and intelligent account of last night’s play—healthy fearlessness which rarely gets into the New York criticisms. Let us have more of this honest and straightforward writing about the current drama.”

That is only the worst—may I say “the worst”, not only from “our” point of view, but also from the point of view of “criticism”—which I still maintain it was not, in any sense of the word. Some weeks ago I read a very admirable series of essays by Mr. Agate, and in writing of critics he says (and he is one of them) that every critic should be a “Jim Hawkins”, looking for treasure. Too often, I can believe, it is a weary search; but surely in every play there is something which calls for approbation, and which may point to possibilities in the author’s work. To find that streak of gold, to incite the author to follow it, and to perhaps point out in what manner he may best do so, coupled with a fair review of his play as a whole, giving faults as they appear and merits where they can be found—that seems to me the justification of criticism.

Another critic wrote with perhaps a less racy pen, but with more understanding:—“There was a literary quality in the writing and a neatness in the construction which were inviting, and there was a mellowness to the story of its middle-aged lovers which had real appeal. Over it all was the unmistakable atmosphere of English life. All these qualities and the fact that the play was extremely well acted, counted strongly in its favour.”

Alan Dale, the critic who was regarded as the critic of America, under whose pen actors and managers quaked in their shoes, wrote:—“It has the gentle, reluctant English atmosphere of other plays by this actor-author, and it is interesting by reason of its lines and its characterisation. After all the ‘shockers’ of to-day, with their red and lurid types, after the insensate struggle for garish effects and horrors, this play gives us a whiff of repose; it is unstagy, its characters are real human beings who talk like human beings; if they haven’t anything startling to say from the theatrical point of view, they are at least human.”

What a good thing it is we don’t all see things through one pair of glasses!

But I am wandering from my story of the visit to America. I look back on it all now, and remember the series of untoward events and mishaps which occurred before our journey began. The week before we left England, a cable came from “C. F.” (Charles Frohman) to say that he had altered the theatre which was to be the scene of our production. Our theatre had been let to a big film company, and we were to be sent to the Garrick. A wretched little place it was, too; as the stage manager there said frankly: “Only fit for a garage.” As a matter of fact, I believe it now is one. Even before we left Liverpool a wave of depression came over me, when our ship met with an accident as she was leaving port. The sun—a wintry, pale sun—was sinking as we began to move, towed out of the river. The order to release was, I suppose, given too soon; on board we felt nothing—the only sign that anything was wrong was that we saw everyone on the landing-stage running for dear life, like frightened rabbits. Then we realised that our big ship was crashing into the landing-stage, crushing like matchwood a big dredger which was lying alongside, and also the iron gangway. All we felt on board was a slight shiver which seemed to run through the ship. We were delayed seven hours while the screws were examined. I am not a superstitious mortal, but the feeling that all this was a bad omen clung to me—and, be it said, proved true.

On board we were a happy party; many of the company had been with us before, and so were old friends. Jack and Jill (who was nearing her fifth birthday) loved their first experience of travelling a long distance; the Esmond family were out to enjoy the trip—and succeeded. The entrance to New York harbour filled me with interest. I still remember and wonder at those eight or nine tiny tugs, veritable cockle-shells they looked, which “nosed” our huge liner into dock. I remember, too, the ghastly business of the Customs! I am not a good sailor, and the moment I stood on solid earth again it seemed to heave up and down, and continued to do so for several days. The hours which we spent, waiting for our baggage to be examined, were absolute torture to me. Socially, we had a perfect time, kindness and hospitality were shown to us in every possible way; but our poor Eliza was abused up hill and down dale.

The first night was the most horrible I can remember. The theatre was boiling hot, and the hot-water pipes continually went off like great guns. I was as cold as ice. After playing Eliza everywhere in England to the accompaniment of roars of laughter, the coldness of the reception at the Garrick in New York was hard to bear.

For some reason, it was said that Eliza was copied from a play then in New York—Peg o’ My Heart—and which was an enormous success. It was stated, with almost unnecessary frankness, that for us to have presented Eliza in New York was an impertinence. Naturally there was not a word of truth in the statement; as a matter of fact, Eliza had been written some years before Peg, and there had been a suggestion (which had not materialised) that it should have been produced in America soon after it was written. We made no reply to these unjust and utterly untrue statements and suggestions; it would have been useless; but I am glad now to take this opportunity of referring to them. Eliza had been the cause of trouble before: it is a long story, but one which I think is worth recording here, and at this particular point.

When we produced Eliza at the Criterion, Miss Mabel Hackney came to see it, bringing with her Miss Simmons, the authoress of a play called Clothes and The Woman. This play had been sent to me to read some time before, and, having been very busy, I had not done so at once. Miss Simmons wrote to me, asking if I would return it, to which I replied that I should be glad to keep it for a little longer, so that I might read it. In all, I suppose the play was in my house for three months. At the end of that time the MS. was returned to Miss Simmons, with a letter in which I stated that I liked the play very much, “up to a point”, but that at the moment I was not producing anything. I read dozens of plays in the course of a year, and, having returned it, dismissed the matter from my mind. Eliza, as I have said, was produced, and a performance witnessed by Miss Simmons, who at once, without approaching Harry or myself, sent a letter to the Authors’ Society, demanding that they should apply for the immediate withdrawal of Harry’s play, on the grounds that it was plagiarism of her comedy, Clothes and The Woman. Harry, on receipt of the letter from the Authors’ Society, at once communicated with Miss Dickens, that efficient lady who has typed so many of his plays. Miss Dickens was able to prove conclusively to the Authors’ Society that Eliza Comes to Stay had been typed by her at least two and a half years before Clothes and The Woman had been sent to me by Miss Simmons. The Society was satisfied, and laid the facts before Miss Simmons, who, I regret to say, did not feel it necessary to offer an apology to Harry for the injustice she had done him.

To use an old joke, which I find the critics are still willing to use whenever Eliza is performed, “she” did not come to stay in New York, and we put on The Dear Fool. This play was as warmly praised as Eliza had been slated, and we both scored a great personal success. We later renamed the play, as Harry discovered that the title, The Dear Fool, means in America a kind of “silly ass”, which was not at all what he intended to convey. In consequence, he called it The Dangerous Age, and under that title it was produced in London.

I am reminded here of a story which Harry told me once when he came home after a trip to America. He had been to see Maud Adams and William Feversham playing Romeo and Juliet. Miss Adams, so he was told, believed that the love between Romeo and Juliet was strictly platonic, and would therefore have no bed in the famous bedroom scene. The two lovers were discovered, as the curtain rose, seated on a sofa reading a book of poems. Harry, in telling me of the play, said he was certain that the book was Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a Wife, a book which is well known in this country to all families—at least those of the last generation.

Our visit to America ended, and we went for three weeks to Canada before returning home to begin our own season at the Vaudeville Theatre in London.

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”.

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:

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:

“England lost both Test Matches. Get Willie (Nigel Bruce) oxygen.”

Both these wires were sent when he was very, very ill, when the majority of us would have been too much concerned over the probability of leaving the world to wish in the least to be amusing. I have, too, a packet of letters which he wrote to me. Written in pencil, and often the writing indicating great physical weakness, but still the fun is there in every one of them. Here are some extracts from his letters at that time:

“Holy Pigs, I am getting so fed up with this business.... Mrs. —— sent a note that if I wanted some cheery society would I ring her up, and the doctor would let her see me. I shall tell her my back is too sore! Cheerio to everybody. There’s a lot of fun to be got out of life.”

“... This goes to Toronto. I shall not do much there, I’m afraid. However, it might have been worse (his illness), and it’s given me a nice pair of mutton-chop whiskers anyhow. There is a wonderful monotony about these white walls, day in, day out; one needs the patience of Job not to throw the soap-dish at the Crucifix sometimes.... I daresay I may write a fairy play, and, as Jowett says in one of his letters to Mrs. Asquith, ‘the pursuit of literature requires boundless leisure’.... I don’t think I am a very good patient; there are moments when I seethe with impotent rage against everything and everybody, which is all very foolish; so I have a cup of orange-water, and try and keep my nails clean.... Play all the bridge you can, that you may be the expert at our week-end parties, and support the family at the gaming-table.”

The following is written when he was very ill, for he writes at the bottom, as a kind of postscript, “This took ages to write.” In this letter he enclosed a small tract, which I gave to “Florrie Lumley”, as he suggests. This is the letter:

“Another night and day wiped off—they all count. Love to everybody. Nobody is allowed to see me yet, but, to-day being Sunday, a nice old man pushed the latest news of Jesus through a crack in the door while he thought I was asleep. Perhaps it will do that worldly Florrie Lumley a bit of good.”

In another letter he says: “There is a devil in the next room that has done nothing but groan at the top of his voice all day; if I could get at him with a hat-pin, I’d give him something to groan for.”

The following must have been the first letter he wrote after the worst time was over, for he begins: “No more death-struggles, my dear. But I am still on my back, and it takes two of the nurses to move me. I can see telegraph poles out of the corner of my eye, if I squint; and the dawn rolls up each morning. People are very kind, and my room is full of daffodils—they remind me of little children playing. Bless you!”

So the tour which began so brightly, with us both speaking at huge meetings of the Empire League, with us both enjoying the wonderful new scenes, the trip through the Rockies (for which alone it would have been worth visiting Canada), with us both laughing at the discomforts of the theatres and some of the queer little hotels at which we had to stay, ended with Harry just able to join us before we sailed. Still, he did sail back to England with us.

I was full of thanksgiving, not only for his recovery, but for the care and love that Dr. Lynch, who had had charge of his case, had given him. It was his care that had pulled Harry out of danger; both he and Mrs. Lynch had been so wonderful to him, and treated him as though he were an old friend and not as a chance visitor to their town; no one could have done more than they had done for Harry. Curiously enough, I found out later that Dr. Walker, who had been called in to give a second opinion on Harry’s case, had lived, during the war, close to “Apple Porch”, our house at Maidenhead. He had been at Lady Astor’s, and had attended the Canadian soldiers who were so badly gassed.

I am reminded of so many holidays and small travels we took together—to the sea, to Switzerland, to Ireland, Scotland: holidays which stand out as lovely pictures, as days which were crowded with laughter and sunshine. Were there days when the rain poured down, and the skies were not blue?... I have forgotten them.

I remember one holiday in Scotland, when every evening we used to play bridge, the minister—who, as he expressed it, “just loved a game o’ cairds”—joining us. One Saturday evening he came, and declined to play because the next day was the “Sawbath”, and he did not think it right. He explained this at some length, and then turned to me with a smile: “I’ll just sit by your side, Mrs. Esmond,” he said, “and advise ye.” During that same visit we had with us two dogs—one a real Scotch terrier, the other—just a dog. As a matter of fact, he was the famous “Australian Linger” to which Harry was so devoted, and which has been mentioned elsewhere. One Sunday we all set out for the Kirk, to hear our “minister” friend preach, first locking both dogs in a shed near the hotel. We arrived at the Kirk—Ada (my sister, who has always been with Harry and myself in our joys, helping us in our troubles and often with heavy work, just a tower of strength and understanding); Charles Maitland Hallard, in the full glory of the kilt; and Harry and I. During the service we heard a noise at the door, and one of the party went to investigate. There were our two dogs, guarded by the minister’s own Aberdeen, lying with their three noses pressed against the crack of the door, waiting for the service to end. The Aberdeen, with a proper knowledge of what is right and proper during divine service, had evidently prevented our two dogs from entering. We found, on returning to the hotel, that they had gnawed a large hole in the door of the shed in which they had been locked, thus making their escape. It was on that particular Sunday that poor Charles Hallard had his knees so badly bitten by a horse-fly—or, from their appearance, a host of horse-flies—that the kilt could not be worn again during the holiday.

As I write this, my boxes are still standing waiting to be unpacked, for I have just returned from Berlin, where I have spent the past ten weeks. Berlin! What a city! Wonderful, wonderful trees everywhere; a city which one feels is almost too big, too vast! The enormous buildings, the colossal statues, it seems a city built not for men and women but for giants. Gradually you realise that the wide streets, sometimes with four avenues of trees, have a definite purpose; that the city was so planned that the air might reach all who lived within its boundaries. The Tiergarten, which is a joy to behold, until you reach the Sesarsalle, which ruins the beauty with its endless and often ugly statues. Houses, big and beautifully kept, with real lace curtains, spotlessly clean, in almost every window; the whole city planted out with a wealth of flowers, roses by the million, cactus plants, lilac and syringa. Every spare piece of ground planted and laid out to perfection. When I came back to England, and on my way home passed Buckingham Palace, I was struck with the beds laid out there. The three or four hundred geraniums seemed so poor and inadequate after the streets of Berlin! I wondered why some of the money spent on street decoration could not have been paid in “reparation”; for the Germans it would mean fewer flowers, less beauty in their streets, but something towards the payment of their just debts.

Numberless theatres, some very beautiful, others glaringly hideous both in design and colouring. All places of amusement—theatres, picture palaces, concerts, and dance-rooms—are literally packed out at every performance. The interest in music is wonderful, no matter if the performance is operetta, opera, or concert; it is an amazing sight to see the audience surge up to the platform at the end of a performance and storm it, offering applause and congratulation to the artist or artists. After Act 1 at the theatre, the audience rise as one man, and pour out into the vestibule, where they walk round and round, eating heartily of dark-brown bread sandwiches, drinking beer or wine which they buy from the buffet. To one unaccustomed to the country, it is an amusing sight and rather astonishing, but it is a wise practice, as most entertainments begin as early as 7 p.m., and the latest hour for a performance to begin is 7.30.

I, personally, saw no lack of anything. The hotels are full, not only with people who are staying in them, but with casual visitors who come in for 5 o’clock tea; this begins at 3, and continues until about 8 o’clock. The dining-rooms are never closed, and meals seem to go on all day long. “Men with corrugated backs to their necks”, as Sir Philip Gibbs so aptly describes them, sit for hours partaking of sugar cakes, ices, and liquors.

Only once during my stay did I see the slightest hint of poverty, and that was where some wooden houses had been built outside the city during the war for poor people with families. Here the children were of the real gypsy type, played round us as we worked (for I was playing in a film), rolling and tumbling in the sand.

I was taken over The Schloss by a soldier who had served under Hindenburg, and done much fighting in the infantry and later as a gunner. He described vividly to me the Riots, when the Palace was stormed by the sailors, who took possession and lived a life of riotous enjoyment there for a short time, dancing each evening on the wonderful floor of the ballroom where so many crowned heads had gathered in other days. The sailors were finally turned out after forty-eight hours’ heavy fighting. The man who was my guide told me that the rioters managed their firing badly, as they fired from both sides of the Palace, thus wounding many of their own men. He told me also that many soldiers held the belief that the riots had been permitted by the authorities in order to draw attention from the Staff, as the feeling at the time against the Army was so strong. I can only give this as his own opinion, and cannot vouch for its correctness.

One drenching day I visited Potsdam, which seemed to me a perfectly hideous place, both inside and out, so ornate that it hurt. The much-vaunted Mussel Hall, a large room entirely covered with shells, seemed to me ghastly and a place in which no one could bear to remain for long. The one perfect room was the Kabinet, delightful in colour-scheme and construction. The Theatre, a small, beautifully designed place with a delightful stage, seats about four hundred people, and it was here that the Kaiser witnessed the performance of his own works.

On an April day in June, with sunshine, heavy rain, and lovely clouds, I took a long motor drive down the famous track, which is twenty miles long, with fir trees on either side, past a great lake and many big houses with perfectly kept gardens, to Sans Souci. Perfect, with its lovely Kolonade in a semi-circle, and the Palace which looks down and up a grassy slope to a ruin on the summit, surrounded by trees. The ruin is an artificial one, copied from one in Rome, but the effect is quite charming. I saw the narrow Gallerie, the cedar-and-gold writing-room, which is round in formation, its door concealed by a bookcase, where Fredrick Rex used to sit and write, looking out on to a pergola which is French in design. The reception-room with its perfect green walls and rose-covered furniture—each room seemed more delightful than the last. Lovelier still, the garden, with its six wonderful terraces leading down to the large pond filled with goldfish, many of which are so old that they have become quite white; in the centre of the pond a fountain, which when playing throws a jet as high as the flagstaff, six terraces up. The whole place gave me a feeling of poetry and romance, quite different to anything I had experienced in Berlin. I visited the church where the two coffins of Fredrick the Great and Fredrick Rex lie side by side, covered with flags. The church is a small but impressive building, but spoilt by a huge Iron Cross on one wall, which is made of wood and almost entirely covered with nails: a similar idea to the Hindenburg statue (no longer to be seen) into which people knocked nails, paying money to be allowed to do so.

My guide on this occasion was an ex-soldier who was decorated with the Iron Cross. He told me many interesting facts. He had been in the Crown Prince’s regiment—the King’s Hussars—first on the Western Front, and later at Verdun. He told me that the Crown Prince never left headquarters, nor led his regiment; that this was always done by General Gneiseuan, who refused to allow his name to appear as having led the troops, as he considered it an insult to the Prince. He said that at Verdun in 1917 no less than 366 men were shot dead on the field for refusing to advance.

I listened often to remarks made about the Kaiser by the men who had been his subjects, and never once did I hear one word of pity for him, one word of regret at his downfall. The fact that so many valuable articles, plate, jewels, pictures, were sent by him to Holland is a bitter pill to his people. So valuable were many of the articles that, had he allowed them to be sold, the proceeds might have paid off a considerable amount of the reparation debt. It seemed to me that any love which his people once had for William Hohenzollern was dead.

My mind went back to the time when my own country mourned the loss of a King, a King who had enjoyed as much lifetime as is given to many men, and who was deposed only by that strongest of all monarchs—Death. I saw the picture of the Great Hall at Westminster, with the crowds waiting to pay their last tribute to King Edward VII. I remembered how I stood, with many others, on the steps at the entrance, and, looking down into the hall, saw a solid, slowly moving mass of people, the representatives of a mourning nation. There in the centre stood the coffin, with the signs of temporal power laid upon it, and at each corner a soldier with bowed head, each representing one of Britain’s Colonies. Above the coffin, showing in the pale light of the candles, was a canopy, a cloud which floated over it. The breath of all the hundreds who had passed had gathered and hung there: the very life of his people had gone to make a canopy for the King. I thought how in the hall where the English people had won so much of their liberty, Edward the Seventh had held a last audience with his subjects; how he had lain there that everyone who wished might find him, for the last time, waiting for his people. For “the deposing of a rightful King” I had seen a nation mourn, mourning with a personal sorrow; and here in Germany I listened to the men who had been subjects of “The Peacock of the World”, and who for his passing, his degradation, his loss, had not one word of pity or regret.

The German people? I left Germany wondering, and even hoping. The breaking of the military party, the downfall of the house of Hohenzollern, with its brood of decadent, idle, pleasure-loving princes and the “Tinsel and Cardboard King” may mean ultimate salvation for the German people. Not perhaps in my lifetime, but in the wonderful “someday” when all the world will be wiser and happier than it is now. A country where the very waiters can discuss music, literature, and poetry; a country of beautiful towns, green trees, and great manufactures; a country where, because of the heights to which one realises it might have climbed, its fall is all the greater and more dreadful.

Not the least interesting feature of my visit has been the closer contact with the director of the film, and his wife—Mr. Herbert Wilcox, a short man with a great dignity and immense charm. He was one of the gallant youngsters of 1914, who joined up as a Tommy and later did great work in the Flying Corps. Through Mr. Wilcox I have had my first intimate knowledge of film direction, and it has filled me with great respect for that branch of the theatrical profession, which, because it is still comparatively new, is less well-known and understood.