Perdita (24 page)

Yesterday Mother sat up in her chair for over an hour, and then, at teatime, Dr. Reid carried her downstairs and she sat briefly in the solarium. I am certain that the warmth and sunshine did her much good, for she seemed content and peaceful. Dr. Reid is very solicitous—and his attentions are never condescending, but so gentle and mildly teasing at the same time. Such suits Mother well; though she cannot speak, her quick, roving eyes indicate that she understands all that is said around her, and Dr. Reid's manner assumes that she does
so.

I am deeply grateful to him, for Mother is improving tremendously under his care. He told me yesterday that he is doubtful that her speech will ever return. He was very gentle about it, but nevertheless direct. I feel as if I can trust him, for he is honest with me and yet there is an unaccountable tenderness in him—or so it seems to me. Perhaps it is my imagination, or perhaps it is his skill as a doctor, but I find myself depending upon his advice and he—he seems so adept and manly about taking charge of his patients that I cannot but admire him for
it.

Allan visited while I was out at the hospital, and I was disappointed to miss him. Indeed I seem to see so little of him despite our proximity. Dr. McTavish told me that he is full of George's art show that is to be held in a few weeks; this is not the grand affair that Caroline has planned for him in New York, but a smaller one to be held at a distinguished gallery near us (whose name I now forget). Nevertheless, there are to be art critics in attendance, and the show will be an important event for
George.

It seems that we shall be kept busy over these next weeks, for in a few days, Dr. McTavish is hosting one of his colloquies—this time quite a large one, he says—and so the house will be filled with “artist types,” as he calls them. And then the following week, he will be giving one of his famous bird performances, but here at his own home and for a small gathering of friends. So far, “small” has meant sixty-two invitations, and he keeps adding more to the list! I am very excited about this performance, as I have heard a great deal about the doctor's performances but have never witnessed one. And then, after that we will attend George's Toronto art
show.

Dr. McT. says we are to be very fancy in our attire. He has asked Aunt Louise to take me to the dressmaker before she leaves, and I am to have a gown of black velvet for his performance—for Dr. McT. says that he has a hankering to see me in such a dress. I am quite delighted by this: I love the thought of wearing velvet skirts as I come down his great staircase. In some unaccountable way I feel that they will swish just as the meadow grass near his lodge does when the wind stirs
it.

I was a little puzzled by Dr. McT. this evening—though we are grown so used to each other, and after Tad I believe that he is the dearest man, but sometimes I do not know what to make of his remarks. He implied that this showing of George's work was very significant, and I asked him why. He looked at me strangely and said that it might decide George's future: not just his future as an artist but his future as a happy man. I cannot imagine what he means by this, and now I am almost fearful to attend the
event!

February 29

My dress is perfectly lovely. I had my first fitting today, and Aunt Louise actually cried when she saw me in it. She says I look like Mother—and yet so like Tad, too. I smiled to see her caught in one of her delightful and not infrequent contradictions. She has become like a second mother to me, or sister perhaps. Sometimes I cannot tell who takes care of whom—for she is wont to caress me and even to slip her arms around my waist as if I am a little girl, and yet to me she seems like a bird nestling up
close.

I told Dr. McT. after dinner this evening that he must wait until his performance to see me in my dress, and he seems quite content with what no doubt is a sudden abundance of feminine activity in his house. At times, I find myself thinking of his poor wife. I have learned from Mrs. Evans that Mrs. McTavish was attentive to her dress and Dr. McTavish took much pleasure in this. I should like to please him, too, on this account, for he has been so kind and generous. And yet—there was one of Aunt Louise's priests admonishing women for their vanity last Sunday. I wonder how many women went home afterward with remorse in their hearts; yet home to husbands who encouraged their sartorial sins and preening with tender glances and even
approbation!

I do not think that I should care so much for my wonderful velvet gown if Dr. McT. had not seemed so gratified at my desire to surprise and please him. This evening after dinner, he left me alone in his library for a short time and then reappeared carrying a small
box.

“Marged,” he said somewhat awkwardly, “at one time, I thought that I might give these to…a daughter. And as you have become such to me, I do believe that these are rightfully
yours.”

I was surprised, but I opened the box with a quiet dignity that I felt suited the occasion. Inside the box was a necklace of sapphires. I gasped when I saw it, for I found the stones to be quite beautiful. He fastened it around my neck and drew me to the mirror above the mantel—and though the glass is somewhat mottled, I could see the stones shimmering against my throat. I threw my arms about him, and I felt that I might give him some measure of comfort for the terrible loss of his
wife.

What a dear, dear man he is—never speaking of his own sorrow and yet so attentive to others. I am chastened to think of my seeming indifference to what must be a great, great grief—and yet, perhaps in me, he finds a channel for his great capacities of
affection.

March 1

This evening we hosted the colloquy, and I dearly hope that I have not disgraced myself—though Dr. McT. has assured me I have not and that he wishes more young women had the courage to give Mr. Michael Sparke “the
shove”!

I do not quite know what he means, except that it all happened as a result of his hosting such a large number of distinguished art patrons in the house, in addition to many unusual and rather strange-looking artists. Poor Peter seemed almost offended by the latter, disapproving of their ill-fitting coats and certainly dismayed that many of the men had no hats. Some of the women wore their hair loosened, and a few had bands of beads and feathers. I must admit that I do not care for this style of adornment, for I think that the feathers remind me too much of Mrs. Ross's moldy
birds.

Toward the end of the evening, I met a woman—one of the artists, I am certain—who was also ill disposed toward these feathers. She discoursed with me at length about them, and it became evident that she was vehemently opposed to the usage of animals for female ornamentation. She spoke against furs and the cruelty of eating animal flesh—quite eloquently I might add—so much so that I shall have to think further upon her arguments, for many of her points seemed quite sound. But she was so peculiar, and I could hardly countenance the strange hissing sounds she made when one of the “feathered maidens” passed close to
us.

By and by, I was able to take leave of her, and suddenly I grew tired, as if the stimulation of so many stylish and clever people in conversation with one another taxed me. And so, a little mind-weary, I sought repose in a quiet corner of the room—in a large chair that had been placed against the wall and next to the bookshelf. From there I was almost hidden, but still I could observe the activities of the room. I looked at Dr. McT.'s guests at my leisure and perhaps felt as the books on the shelf did watching a strange and noisy species chattering at—though it appeared rarely listening to—each
other.

I was not left long to enjoy my solitude, for a middle-aged man with a closely cropped beard and cold, gray eyes caught sight of me and directly came over to my nook as if he wished to speak to me. I had exchanged a brief greeting with him earlier in the evening as the guests were arriving, but I had thought nothing of it, and certainly had not sought his attention. He bowed slightly before me and introduced himself so quickly that I did not hear his name or occupation, though I gathered that he was not one of the artists. We remained thus in silence for a few moments, as for some reason I found his company disagreeable, and I did not wish to encourage its prolongation by holding conversation with him. He took this to be some sign of favor, for he soon launched into a withering review of the artists present. I thought perhaps that he had mistaken me for someone else, but I was quite trapped, and it did not seem to make a bit of difference to him that I uttered not a word—for he continued, growing more harsh in his choice of words. I am almost certain that he mistook my silence for approbation, for he grew ever bolder and more
animated.

For a good quarter of an hour, he went on in this manner, and I of course had no idea of whom he was speaking—until he came to “George Stewart.” I am sure that he positively sneered when he uttered George's name, and then he referred to some of his paintings in the most insulting manner. I will not repeat what he said except that he accused George of “prostituting himself to bourgeois tastes,” and at this—though I hardly knew what he meant by it—I was deeply offended. I stood up wishing to divest myself of his presence and barely able to contain my anger, but he would not move
away.

“Sir,” I said, fixing my eyes upon him and doing my best to appear imperious, “would you step away?” But he ignored me, and even had the audacity to push me back into my
chair!

He grew intolerable. I am sure that somehow he sensed my discomfort at his critique of George's work, and so he grew bolder and more disrespectful in his discourse. I tried to close my ears to him, but he seemed determined to bait me, and then he insinuated such terrible things about George and the Fergusons that I could not bear
it.

“Will you not stop?” I cried. Again I stood up, and without thinking I thrust him away from me. To be sure, I did not intend to do so with such force, for he reeled back, his face registering great astonishment, and then he fell against a table, overturning it and pulling everything on it down to the floor in a great clatter. The room grew utterly silent, and I was horrified at what I had done! I rushed to assist him, but he shrank back as if I might do him greater harm. George came swiftly from across the room and stopped
me.

“Steady, Marged,” he said under his breath, drawing me away. “What the devil has Sparke done
now?”

I hastily explained, without telling him precisely what the man had said, but George smiled when I recounted my indignation and refusal to be forced to listen to
him.

“Bravo, Marged!” he exclaimed. “There's more than one person present who'd like to give Sparke a good kick, but dare not do
it.”

I asked George who Mr. Sparke was, and my heart sank when he told me that the man was an important art critic who was courted by all the painters. I told George that I should not be seen standing with him, but he laughed at that and said no harm could come of it because Mr. Sparke already thoroughly detested his paintings and had published quite unflattering things about them. I could not regard the man's behavior in so light a manner, and George seemed amused at this. I am sure that my eyes were still flashing irritation and that I bristled with indignation for the rest of the
evening.

As he was departing, George teased me and asked me if I would commit battery against a few of the critics who were bound to attend his show—he would point them out beforehand, of course. I think he wished to assuage my fears that I have done him some irreparable harm, and though my cheeks are burning now, I do not think that I regret pushing that man—though of course I am sure that I wish him no real
injury.

March 4

Earlier today I accompanied Dr. Stone on one of her “house visits,” and truly I did not care for it—I much prefer the clinic. I suppose it might be the small rooms we saw, and so many children. Where they all might sleep I cannot imagine. Yet Dr. Stone seems unperturbed in the presence of such poverty; impervious to the resentment that I detected, though she brings medicines and I am almost positive that the money she sometimes gives is from her own reserves. I left the few coins that I possessed on the windowsill of one family. I could barely look at the children, for they seemed so cold and hungry, and one little girl had terrible bruises upon her arms and neck, as if she were not infrequently beaten. To be sure, some of the families were cheerful and welcoming, but it is remembrance of the poorest ones that stays with
me.

As we left the last of the boardinghouses, we walked along Spadina and came to a large market that was bustling with activity despite the frigid temperature and the late hour. I felt my spirits lift in the open air—though it was very cold and our breaths showed each time we spoke. As we traversed the sidewalk, I noticed great heaps of clothing placed upon the ground and clusters of women at each pile, lifting out garments and examining them. I asked Mary—one of the nurses—what the women were doing, and she explained that every month there was an “old clothes market” and that this was where many of the working families came to purchase their clothing. She said the piles were organized by cost and that the prices corresponded to the quality of the clothing, for everything had been worn before and then discarded. Mary stopped before a foul-smelling mass and explained that this pile was among the cheapest, for the clothing was worn almost to shreds, but that the poorest had no choice but to purchase their garments
here.

I watched a woman draw out piece after piece from the pile while a vendor looked on, his coat open, a watch chain hanging below his vest, and a large mustache hiding his expression. The woman turned frequently to protest his prices, but he watched her silently nevertheless. I expressed my dismay to Mary, and she nodded, quietly remarking that the woman most likely worked as a seamstress but was unable to afford decent clothing for her own
family.

Such sights have depressed my spirits tonight. As I write, I have an image of Auntie A. in my mind, sitting near the stove, the window open behind her and some piece of sewing in her lap. I thought of her staying up to make my gray silk dress—for she has made practically everything that I have ever worn, except what I have acquired in Dr. McT.'s household. Indeed, I take great delight in my new dresses and especially my cape—for it is lined with fur and so warm!—and yet it is strange to think of that woman's hands perhaps stitching such garments, and then her fingers searching through that foul heap of unwashed
clothing.