Opposite Contraries (26 page)

Cod. P.S.est I’ve thought so often of that Indian boy looking at Sophie.

December 23rd, 1941

Dear Ira,

A happy peaceful Christmas day at peace in your own self. Even if the big world yowls we each have a little world of our own in our own hearts to rule over and be happy in.

I am glad you left Jane tonight. I like to have her and I like to know I have not added to your already over-heavy burden by landing that whirligig on you. I always loved naughty kids better than goody-goodies, Martyn (in the biog)
almost
made me quaver with love for him once when the “Elder” had told me I was the Black Sheep of the family and the only one that my mother felt anxiety over on her deathbed. It made me feel bad, but Martyn said, “Well, if you were
the bad one,
you may be sure your mother loved you just a
little
more than the others.” That was such a comfort to me — I’d never thought of such a thing, only of Mother’s being so disappointed in her bad child.

The Biog is my Christmas present to you. Accept as your
very own
with my love. It is far from finished. There is a lot more in London and then back to Canada yet to be done but you told me
not to hurry
it so I have been deliberate and tried to dig. I have written it for Canadian Art and for you. Its first writing was superficial — afraid to let go and show myself. A very dull document. I utterly
ignored
that M.S. in writing this. The only thing I bothered to follow was the headings. I had decided in the first
edition what places and people I was going to write about and I have done so — parts may seem to you superfluous — cut out if so. Parts I may want to rewrite yet again. But I want to get it complete while my wits are clear and before the effort becomes impossible. You know how we
postpone
things. Two sections “St Paul’s” and “Westminster Abbey” you already have. I have made
no
duplicate copies of any of it and am destroying the old original as I write this. Having lost my confounded glasses has prevented my going over it for the 2000th time. There are doubtless many bad things that I can refine and simplify after it is once together. If you ever want to publish it you could “edit” without me. I don’t think there is anything for relations to kick at. The Boultbee woman was very fond of her aunts (except me) and thought them saints. (Me a devil.) But Mrs. Boultbee’s mother had seen enough of the Elder’s domineering and autocratic rule over we younger children to
absolutely forbid
the Elder to lift a finger to her children. The nieces
only saw
her soft side. She was older and kinder then than when we were young.

Don’t give old Biog thought now. You have all the thinking to do your head has room for. It makes me happy to give it into your keeping as done. I’m such a muddle-bag and loser.

God bless you and rest you and give you peaceful quiet in your heart. No matter what may stir itself with 1942. Small says “Give over Emily! I want my Guardian’s eye” so

Love from Emily

Beloved Guardian Ira,

Here’s a hug for Xmas and please “Tossed” is my Xmas present to you. See me in it as you see Emily in Juice. I’ll sing Spring
songs to you out of “Tossed.” Others may not hear them — you will and you’ll try to shut me in the “Book of Small” too, but don’t expect me to stay put in a frame or between the covers. I’m too kicky for that. Fold your arms across your front hard; maybe then I’ll keep still and stay put a few moments.

Always your loving Small

February 15th, 1942
Sunday, 7
P.M
.

Dear Ira,

Oh! Today’s been just that, no more no less. No answers to my ad and Phyllis gone, poor little girl. I was mad with her at 8:30, resigned at 9:30, weepy at noon. Her last job was to (voluntarily) when she was entitled to be beginning [departure] preparations on her own, run for the torch and help me with the intricate job of rewiring and reconstructing my front doorbell. We did it. I turned it inside out with its innards exposed but its ring restored. It will be easier next time as we won’t have to rip its inwardness out. I’ve had an ad in but only a buxom Scotch hussy who expected remuneration according to her size and the family she’d raised and who also had no use for “critters” meaning my menagerie. I did not yearn towards her. A[lice] is so difficult when I am alone; wants to do all the impossibles that she
can’t
do and
won’t heed
the things she can, she is not so deaf but she lets herself slump into a far-offness. Unless you are amusing her, she simply seals up her senses and you could bellow your tongue off its pivot. I finished Mr. Clarke’s bear and have the pictures all crated ready to be called for tomorrow. Did it alone after Phyllis left! Very proud of me I am. Mending doorbells, crating and a long afternoon rest have meant not much
accomplished today. News is not nice today is it. I got tired of the “temporary” business. “Temporarily lost” they always say.

How was the lecture last evening? I was with you all the time. Me and Small. Alice had a birthday party for two of her Hennell boys, a very nice dinner, just the four of us. They are very nice lads and
very nice
to her. Heavens she did enough for them in their childhood, but people don’t always remember. You’ve moved. I tuned for Sanctuary, stupid of me to forget change of time, will have to postpone beauty sleep but am so glad it is later not earlier or I should have missed it.

This morning I was reading more of Lawren’s letters. There’s a tremendous pile and they are very fine. I hardly realized what they meant to my work in the transition stage.
How
he helped me. Rereading them gives me further illumination. What he tells me of his what he says of mine. He
is
a fine man. They are such warm friendly help. I was so far off from all the workers so totally on my own and rather bewildered. I had been through a period somewhere around 15 years dormant all the art smashed out of me flat. There are a few letters of Bess’s too, warm loving letters and some from Fred. I am enclosing one about his Walt Whitman book I think may interest you. Of course they (Lawren, Bess and Fred) claimed W.W. was a theosophist pure and simple whether he called himself that or not. I am sorting the letters over. Any that have anything personal any hints which are now clear to me though they were not at the time (as to his personal unhappiness) things I see now but could not then, these I am burning. Nothing really in them but it seems fairer to him. The work letters I shall still keep, they would be of no interest to any one but a worker or a seeker like yourself. They throw light on Lawren’s work and on my own too. I think I shall cash [cache] them in “the box”
when sorted. Someday you might to be interested to read them? Or bored? You could even let Lawren look over them and ask if you might. People who did not understand or love these things would think it stupid stuff and I’d rather they were burned than that. There was a letter, very happy following immediately on the bust-up. It is rather pitiful. I guess both went through a bit of Hell, probably the whole thing was just unavoidable and right, sometimes our judgements are so very petty and small. Oh how little we are! How we splash around pretending we are whales and are really tadpoles.

I found something I had forgotten viz. Lawren tried to persuade me to write a biog. Practically the thing I
am
doing. I remember jeering and saying, “Who’d want to read it?” and “What had
I
to write about?” and dismissed it from my thoughts. Maybe it did not register then; maybe it sowed the idea; I don’t know. I thought it was really because Eric Brown asked me to, said if I wouldn’t someone else would. I was amazed to see in these old letters. It was just the type of thing he suggested. I told you I felt hurt when I suggested a year or two ago. I sent it to him to crit the art part and he did not answer. I felt he was indifferent. If it’s readable when finished suppose you let him read it? In view of those old letters I feel I ought to, if he is interested, of course. As Bess is his now, I s’pose she’d have to be included. Well I so reduced the parts that would make me squirm and feel silly I don’t guess I’d mind. What do you think about it? I don’t think I’ve left myself too naked. I couldn’t bear the whole public and I’d hate the ridicule of
my own
relatives. Only one of my nieces commented on Klee Wyck, her comment (Mrs. Boultbee) “that she’d only read a few pages, it was
too heavy
for her to hold in bed.” She’s always in bed for something, potters in and out of hospitals
like the cuckoo in a clock. Too much money to spend on her fads. A great niece or two have mildly commented on K.W. However, one buxom farm girl, Lillian Nicholles’s daughter wrote me a short
real
letter, warm, badly worded and genuine. Alice sent the Boultbee woman a copy. I did not. When I was poor and starting studio in Vancouver she was a beautiful and popular bride was very beastly to me so I always have given her a wide berth. She adores Alice. She has always been mean and rude over my work (painting) and is a hypocrite like her pa was.

This brings me, Ira, to something I think I should be frank with my trustees in. Neither of you knows how I stand financially. Neither of you likes to ask but in arranging for the trust you wonder. So I’ll try and tell you what my income is though it is a queer precarious affair and I often don’t know myself.

My one sure income is a small house in Fairfield I traded my apartment for, rents for $25 per month. I have a few government bonds paying 2 or 2 ½ percent interest (around $10 or $12 a month I s’pose) and (this is a pill) Mrs. Boultbee gives Alice and I, Alice $35 per month, me $15. I hate taking it from her when I feel I don’t trust her. It happened this way:— Her husband left her
very
rich —Braelorn Mines. Well, years back she knew Lizzie and Alice had not very much and she gave them $15 a month each to spend on their gardens and little things. I did not speak to her for years; she told some lies and made trouble for me in Vancouver. Well when Lizzie died she came over to weep and to comfort Alice. I made up with Mrs. B and she asked me to accept as
a goodwill gesture
the $15 per month she used to send Lizzie. I was terribly hard up at the time and to refuse would have upset the whole cart-load of kiss and make up. Money meant nothing to her so I took it, which makes my income round fifty dollars per month. I have
the upkeep and taxes of the Fairfield house, pay $15 per month to Alice for rent and $20 to a maid. But as you know I make a sale now and then, have been very lucky and there is Klee Wyck. These extras go out into the bank to draw from because the $50 won’t stretch when I keep a maid. With my rental for my flat and Una’s and her bonds Alice gets about $50 too. She owns her house. I have very seriously considered withdrawing from Una’s $15 — do you think I should? I expect she has fearful income tax and she spends her life running after cures, in and out of hospital; she hospitals for everything. She is very generous to her family, they are all poor. But if I did she would probably rake up all the old fuss and if I don’t I guess she thinks I’m rolling in wealth now K.W. has sold well. There that’s me and my pocket. Mr. Lawson our guardian was honest as the day but
no investor.
Father left us comfortable and the old estate all clear but the “Elder” never could keep in bounds. Between the two we only got a few hundreds out of the old place after everything was eaten up in taxes. If my sisters hadn’t helped me that long illness in England would have sent Small to the charity orphanage. How mad Lizzie used to be that my art
was not profitable.
I remember Walter Nicholles coming to see my pictures once. He nearly but not quite bought one. Lizzie said “Let him have them for anything, Millie. You’d be well rid of the stuff for even a dollar or two.” (My entire Indian collection.) I felt dreadfully hurt, however, Mr. Nicholles did not want them for even a “dollar or two.” Maybe that is why I love
giving
them away now. When people love them, and
I like
the people I want to give them far more than to sell.

Oh what a letter,

Forgive,
Emily

N.B. Your drawing of a heart is simply shocking. You’ll have to get someone to give you lessons in heart drawing.

April 6th, 1942
218 St. Andrew’s

Dear Ira,

Being all in a moil I write to calm myself. There are times when our sediment is all riled not necessarily dirtying but disturbing us for the moment. Old perplexities, past and present, arguing and shouting across intervening times, feeling disappointments over promises unfulfilled, thoughts that blossomed but didn’t fruit, dreamings that woke too soon, aspirations that sank and have lain in the mud bottom, too water-logged to hoist ever again and others spiralling up with fresh bubbles and new longings for being riled.

I’ve been going over my letters (mostly Lawren’s with the exception of Bess’s occasional one). I find all my hoarded letters are from men. I was supposed to be a man hater!! He, he! I learned more from men, touched them closer, been touched deeper by them than by women. Queer me. I was always called a baby hater too, yet babies always
came
to me, weren’t afraid! It would have hurt me dreadfully if they had been — animals and babies liking me burst me with satisfaction. But the letters. Lawren’s are splendid. I don’t know which I sent you of them. I would send them to no one else but as you know I have his permission. There is warm friendship and love between you two and I believe that both of you love me deeply; and it is because you have taken upon yourselves the care and the burden of the Trust that I feel you as well as Lawren should know what went into its making. I shall, I think,
let you have the letters to browse among. There is repetition, always the insistent kindly push — work, work, always the cheering of my despair and discouragements. The delight that those men over there
believed in me,
had faith in what I was striving for, loved what I loved — Canada and things bigger than just money and glory in Art. Those letters show how weak and faltering I was and how Lawren knew the feel of weakness, the struggle necessary in his own work. Those letters are worth more than my whole Biog. I had hoped to make some quotes from them but there is so much of value, I can’t choose. As you read, take out and mark any you feel of special value to be put in the Biog will you? Value to other seekers. You will see how he harps on the Biog idea. Yet I was quite unaware that probably he put the idea into my noodle originally when I decided to write it.