‘Mrs. Nicolas, my wife here,’ said he, calling her to come, ‘is English too, only she won’t admit it because she says the Cornish are not English.’
It was my turn for ecstasy. ‘Cornish!’ I cried, ‘So am I. Where? What part? What was your name?’
When she said that she was a Curno of Lelant I could have fallen on her neck. Lelant! That most Cornish of Cornish villages, with its ‘little grey church on a windy hill’. What with Yorkshire and Cornwall we had so much to say that they suggested my coming to tea with them on the following day. This seemed a good plan and I set off at four o’clock expecting a cup of tea and a long talk. The long talk was certainly provided, but instead of a ‘cup of tea’ there was a substantial meal laid in the tiny room at the back of the shop, and I saw why Mrs. Nicholas had required a day’s interval for preparation. There was an uncut joint of cold beef with tomatoes, ripe raspberries and clotted cream, and the specially Cornish apple-cakes and saffron buns. Both she and her husband were bursting with hospitality and real affection. I promised to go to Lelant on my very first visit to Cornwall on my return, and I was entrusted with a pot of home-made jam to take to her mother. (I may add that all this I faithfully performed, and found old Mrs. Curno as warm-hearted as her daughter.)
Although I had turned my back on England for the time, I was glad enough of these happy links with it. The one thing entirely English that I would most willingly have forgone was the Canadian observance of Sunday. The church, of course, was a new nondescript building, to which I was led as a sheep to the slaughter by Mrs. Kyle, attired in her best bonnet and squeezed into gloves. Together we endured one of the dullest services of my wide experience in this line. When I remarked on it as we came out, and wondered why she didn’t follow her husband’s example and do a bit of meditating in the sun, she replied, ‘I always go; it puts my conscience right and I feel that I have been blessed.’ This sounded hopeful, and I reckoned that perhaps the afternoon would develop into some frivolity. But Mrs. Kyle preserved her pious demeanour, which generated a kind of truculence in her husband, and the afternoon yawned ahead. While she was reading a good book and forbidding her son to do whatever he was doing, Mr. Kyle approached me with an ‘aside’: ‘What about a stroll down to the lake?’ Off we went; he knew his Oakville; there was a hot sun and a stiffish breeze, the little port was alive with yachts, and all the abandoned portion of the village had come down to see what was going on. An expanse of blue water and a cloudless sky were all that nature had contributed to the scene, but Mr. Kyle exclaimed, ‘Now this is a lake! Not like your little duckpond of a Windermere.’ ‘You are quite right,’ I replied. ‘I see no resemblance at all.’ But just at that moment I saw right away on the horizon the foam of Niagara, being tossed up by the breeze, and called his attention to it with, ‘There’s something to boast of, if you like!’
Presently we saw, in addition to the group of idlers admiring a huge catch of bass, a small company of earnest-looking people mustering at the water’s edge. The word went round that they were Baptists about to hold a baptism. I had heard from a Baptist friend of mine that it was their custom to immerse the candidate entirely, and she had shown me the vast marble bath for the purpose in her chapel; but I had never really believed it. So now I watched eagerly to see what sort of compromise they made in actual practice. Two pastors and two candidates got into a rowing-boat and pushed off to a distance of about a hundred yards. They were all in mackintoshes, and sure enough the young people were ducked completely. Whatever of dignity might have conceivably been connected with this ritual under happier conditions was entirely absent in this case. To our disgust several of the local idlers had also got into boats and rowed out to jeer. We could only hope that the Baptists were too much absorbed in religious thoughts to be aware of what was going on around them.
The next day, in the evening, I had an attack of home-sickness, and while Mrs. Kyle was busy collecting her son and cajoling him to bed I looked round for some quiet corner to be by myself. The only available refuge, strangely, was the smoking-room. This was a gloomy den of a place, unpatronized by the men of the house, who smoked their vile pipes all over the hotel. Taking a book and the last letter I had received from Arthur I repaired to this little ark. The letter had been written in the Dolgelly Assize Court, where ‘a case had been going on for hours that would have been knocked out in ten minutes up in London’. There were other things in the letter that made my home-sickness no better, so I thrust it back into its envelope and began to reckon how long it would be before I got back to Wales. Just then a man came in and sat down for a smoke. I was relieved to see that it was a cigarette—a rare thing in those surroundings. I was also relieved that he didn’t start the usual immediate conversation, and relapsed into my dreams. After a while I was almost startled when the silence was broken by an Oxford voice:
‘Excuse me, but is that an English stamp I glimpse on your letter?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said I, ‘although it comes from Wales. Would you care to look at it more closely?’ and I handed him the envelope.
‘Thank you,’ said he, ‘that does me good, a real sight for sore eyes, for I’m suffering from a bout of home-sickness.’
When I confessed the same and how glad I was to smell a good cigarette and hear an English voice, we began to compare notes on this and that, and I was soon enjoying full compensation for Mr. Kyle’s sneers at the old country. The stranger was a resident in Toronto, Mr. Arnold Haultain, private secretary to the well-known Goldwin-Smith (and later on his biographer). He said he was destined to be an exile for life, and an occasional visit to London was the utmost he could hope for. He envied me so much that I felt ashamed of making a grievance of my short absence. He was amused at my objection to Canada: its chief drawback, I maintained, was its likeness to England—you kept on expecting it to be English, and finding it only a caricature; whereas the States were original and full-blooded. He promised to send me some of his own literary work, articles on various subjects and poetry, and we agreed to meet in London on his next visit (which we did).
After we had exchanged cards he said, ‘May I know what book you have on your lap? Or will it make me worse?’ ‘Worse, I fear; it’s my pocket Hamlet. I take it everywhere with me as a kind of’
‘Prophylactic?’
At this we both laughed and launched forth into a discussion of our common literary tastes. It grew dark, and he rose to go; pausing at the door, he turned round and said with a courtly bow, ‘For this relief, much thanks’.
§ 2
The time was come for me to rejoin my travelling companion at Toronto, and Mr. Kyle escorted me over the lake in order to show me ‘the finest town in the world’. I fell in with all his opinions, freely admitting that the main street was far larger and grander than Regent Street. In spite of his absurd adulation I found it a beautiful town. We took a five-cent belt-line trip right round it, if the word ‘round’ is correct, for all arrangement in America seems to be square. The special charm to me was the openness of the private gardens. No fences or hedges or walls anywhere. ‘Don’t small boys pick the flowers?’ I asked, and Mr. Kyle explained that no one stole the flowers or trampled the grass plots because every citizen acted as a policeman. I thought how much pleasure our suburban gardens might give to town dwellers if we did away with our excluding barriers, not to mention the ugly iron railings round the London squares.
We had a bit of business to do in the town. Mr. Kyle had insisted that I must go back to England first class, and indeed I was only too willing to be persuaded; so we changed my second cabin ticket for a saloon on the New York. After this effort we had lunch in a style quite new to me; we sat on high stools at a long counter and had a great variety of funny dishes to choose from. Dutiful visits to Dr. Ross’s Normal School and the University, and a row on the lake brought the day to an end with meeting my friend at the Queen’s Hotel, and a farewell to Mr. Kyle.
Our plan was to go to Quebec, and next morning early we took sh
ip in the Spartan, quite appropriately named as it turned out. My imagination had been running riot over the ‘Thousand Isles’. One of my childish dreams of delight had been to live on a little island, with neighbours all around on similar islands, to step into my boat to pay a call or do shopping or just potter about. I understood that the part of the river we were to pass through was dotted with such ideal residences, and that we should see the people pottering about in their boats. To my bitter disappointment it was a day of drenching rain. Not a lift all day. The saloon was not pleasant, so we sat on deck huddled up in rugs and mackintoshes. The ship’s dinner was too spartan to arouse appetite. However, there was still the shooting of the Lachine Rapids to come, and that was better even than the islands. ‘The rapids are near and the daylight’s past’—the words were running in my head when the news went round that the evening was too dark for shooting the rapids! It was the first day that this had happened for the whole season. We were all bundled out at a railway station, but as there was no train, nor hope of one, we were all bundled in again, to be taken to Montreal by the canal. This meant a far longer time, and the Spartfin had no meal provided for the now hungry passengers. This was the last straw in a day of disappointments. But, as it happened, it proved to be one of the merriest of my experiences. A ‘free supper’ was proclaimed, and every morsel of food on board was brought forth, and served round in the saloon with the impartial justice of a survival from shipwreck. Our appetites were no longer nice, everyone was good-tempered, and even the stewards laughed at our gratitude for a bun or a potato that we should have despised earlier in the day. I remember the excellence of an orange that fell to my share.
Since everything was out of order, there was great confusion on the wharf when we arrived at Montreal, and for some time the gangway couldn’t be got across. We drove to the Quebec-going wharf only to find that our boat had already started. So we took the C.P.R. night train, curled up in a day car, and fell fast asleep. How queer it was to see Quebec written up on a board, as if it were no more than some suburban station. We took a calèche to the Florence Hotel, and spent the day prowling about the strange ups and downs of the old town. The breakneck steps and the curious old shops, where one had to ask for things in French—this was the real Canada that I had wanted to see. Fortunately I was able to go exactly where I liked, for my friend had lost one of her many trunks in the confusions of the previous day and was absorbed in inquiries for it.
The following morning at breakfast, while we were discussing which of the many historical places we should go to see on the one day at our disposal, two Yankees at an adjoining table overheard our remarks, came up to us and said that they too were on a short visit, didn’t know where to go, and would we join them if they hired a carriage and told the man to drive us round to some interesting spots? My friend was obviously suspicious of the arrangement and put up a strong case that she really ought to be making further endeavours to find her missing trunk. ‘Oh, bother your trunk,’ said I, ‘come along and forget it.’ I hustled her off to get ready while the carriage was being ordered. ‘I think we are very unwise,’ said she, ‘to accept a favour from these vulgar men.’ ‘They aren’t vulgar,’ said I, ‘they are just real Yankees come here for a holiday like us. They are obviously well off, and we shall afford them entertainment merely by being so different from themselves; I expect that’s why they asked us.’
Certainly I got immense amusement from watching them on our drive. It was my first close-up acquaintance with the real article of which I had heard and read so much. Their tone of voice was the richest twang I had come across; they had goatee beards, diamond breast-pins, and rings, and addressed one another as Doctor and Colonel. They smoked strong cigars the whole time and, of course, spat freely. As I looked at them I didn’t believe it—it was all too much like the comic papers. I chatted away to them, in order to make up for my friend’s rather reserved manner; but there was no need, for I think they were amply amused and pleased with her, no doubt thinking that they had encountered a genuine specimen of the real standoffish English lady.
The morning excursion was to the Montmorency Falls, where the ‘doctor’ and I ventured to the foot, down steep, slippery wooden steps that had lately given way, and were rather crazy. It was a cloudy morning with some rain, but the good lunch to which we were entertained and a sunny afternoon put us in capital spirits as we drove to the Plains of Abraham. Here we saw one of the most moving monuments in the world, the column with ‘Wolfe’ inscribed on one side, and ‘Montcalm’ on the other. It meant a lot to us, but the Yankees ‘didn’t just remember what battle that was’. Still more interesting to me was to see the cove where Wolfe climbed up so stealthily, but it meant nothing at all to the Yankees. They may not have known much history, but they certainly knew how to be hospitable to strangers, and we parted from them with warm thanks.
We hated having to leave Quebec, but we were due to take ship that evening for Montreal. The St. Lawrence was looking superb in the summer evening light, as we sat on deck admiring the broad expanse of calm water and the wooded banks. A special dinner at the captain’s table was followed by a tour of the vessel, including the engine-room, conducted by the captain himself. Then one of the passengers showed me a copy of Puck, explaining the jokes I didn’t understand and also those I did. I thought it a good name for a comic paper, but didn’t think that its contents lived up to it. I went to my bunk reluctantly, sorry to waste any part of the journey along the St. Lawrence in sleep, and was up early to greet Montreal.
Sunday morning was an appropriate time to arrive in the ‘city of churches’ and we sampled several of them, including Notre Dame, the Jesuits’ church, the Wesleyan church, and the English cathedral, staying for a part of the service in each. In the cathedral they sang my favourite Te Deum, which had the extra charm of the familiar amid strange surroundings. After this the sermon in the Wesleyan place was a painful drop, and we didn’t stay to hear it through.
In the afternoon we were able to understand the beautiful meaning of the word ‘Montreal’, for we went for a drive up the Royal Mount, and through the Catholic and Protestant cemeteries. It dawned on me then why there were so many churches in the city—doubtless owing to the rivalry between the many sects, even more numerous than at home. But up on the Mount we were above them all, and could see the whole city as I have never seen one before or since. It was a gentle hazy mass of red houses, interspersed with trees and the slender church spires. Beyond was the St. Lawrence. Odd bits of geography lessons, so dull at school, came to my mind. I had learnt that the St. Lawrence carries more water to the sea than any other river, and so might be called the greatest in the world, and I looked on its calm expanse with awe. And what a lovely setting the city had! Beyond the great river with its wooded islands was a richly cultivated plain and in the distance were blue and grey hills. The river was spanned by an unbelievably long bridge (our driver said it was ‘going on for two miles’). Altogether it was a scene to remember for a lifetime. I wished I had taken my sketch-book with me, but had to be content with a rough impression of the city that I managed to get from the window of our St. Lawrence Hall Hotel.
We had only one more day, and I was determined to shoot the Lachine Rapids. I could never go home and say I had missed them in a paltry canal. With difficulty I persuaded my friend to go with me by a Grand Trunk train and return on the steamer. I hoped it would take her mind off the trunk anxiety, which neither the voyage on the St. Lawrence nor the cathedral service nor the view from the Royal Mount had been able to allay. ‘After all,’ said I, ‘it’s only one small trunk that you have lost. Why not enjoy a little life while the poor thing is trying to reach you?’
I wouldn’t have missed that shooting of the rapids for anything. It’s true that I had always pictured the ‘shooting’ in a canoe, with a Red Indian captain, but the steamer was quite exciting enough. It plunged along light-heartedly over appalling places, and several times I was certain that it simply must strike the ro
ck at which it was aiming directly—but no, it glanced off miraculously just at the fateful moment. It may have been inconvenient for navigation that the river took it into its head to narrow in this part, but it provided no end of fun. We now had a closer view of the great tubular bridge, as we slid peacefully under it after the hazards of the rapids. Although it had been built so strong in order to resist the flow of water and the pressure of ice at one season of the year, it looked to me as if it might come down any minute. Indeed, the rapids seemed safer.
‘We haven’t done our duty in the educational line here,’ I said, as we were spending the afternoon in a final stroll round the town. ‘Let’s ask this clergyman to show us something of the kind.’ He was only too pleased, and took us over M’Gill College. It was not term time, but we saw some fine apparatus for scientific experiments in the technological school, and we were supplied with information and papers about the University. As though in reward for our dutiful afternoon we found on return to the hotel that the lost trunk had arrived. At once its owner was all smiles and apologies for the ill-temper she had shown during the period when the little trunk had been off by itself. But, funnily enough, her rejoicing enraged me more than her previous gloom, for it was out of all proportion to the event. I had had enough of her and her trunk. Breaking to her that my passage home had been altered, I told her that I should not travel with her that night, but go by a different route on the following morning. I went to see her off by the C.P.R. and I suppose my cheerfulness broke through, for she said, ‘I believe you are glad that I’m leaving you.’ Knowing that truth is the greatest deceiver I replied gaily, ‘Yes, indeed I am.’ She was a good bit older than I, and consequently was full of compunction at leaving me alone on the continent. ‘Alone on the continent!’ The idea went to my head like wine. I was free. I laughed on my way back to the hotel at the absurdity of having all America to play about in. For a first venture from England this seemed good.
A London Home in the Nineties Page 7
