Three times she came East. She always said she came to visit me, always continuing her little joke. We had great fun together when she came. Then her heart got worse and she was unable to travel. After 1935, on three occasions she sent me a return ticket, to go and visit her. About that time my health was bad too. I had had several operations and attacks of pneumonia. The fourth time she sent tickets, things were a little better with us, and I returned the ticket to her, but we got others and my husband went West with me. It was his first visit and he loved it.
Each time that I was with her I would rent a “U-drive” car and take her far out into the woods she loved so. When she was too ill to walk we would get a strong man to carry her to the car. These trips were against the doctor’s orders, but she did enjoy them so, and would beg me to take her. When she was out, she would sketch furiously when she was able to; then, at home, her board propped on her knee, she would paint at her leisure. One sketching trip would keep her painting for weeks.
When she was able, we would go off for long walks, Miss Carr in her wheelchair. Her resentment and hatred for the chair were understandable, but it was comical to hear the things she would say about, and to, and at it! Her great love for the outdoors overcame her “chair phobia” as she called it. “Anything is better than nothing,” she would say, “bring on the chair. On James!” She would grin in spite of herself, as we set off.
As we went we carried on what, to others, must have sounded like a very odd conversation. She was always worrying about me, and suggesting stops, so that I could rest, very tactfully of course. Perhaps she would say, “Stop just a minute; the bloom there in the shadow, I must study it a minute.” And again, “Tired, Baboo? Get in for a while, it is your turn now.” We would both laugh; you couldn’t stay tired, pushing her. “What colour is your horse today, my Pet?” she would ask, which meant, of course, where were we going? There are so many steep little hills around Victoria that the number of places that one can journey to in a chair is limited. And the fact that we were both so fond of horses, just to talk about them seemed to give me strength and make the trips easier.
If the weather was good, we would sometimes take a lunch, and she would plan and rewrite the menu as carefully as if it was for a seven course dinner! Being idle after so many active years was harder for her than the nights of pain. She got much more satisfaction out of the thought and planning she put into the lunch than she ever got from the actual eating.
“Baboo,” she said one day, “I had no idea you were so fond of picnics; nearly every day you suggest we have one. I feel badly as I think of all you have missed, but we’ll make up for them.” She meant the days we had spent sketching and painting, when we were loaded down with material and never gave a thought to food, partly, I guess, because we were completely immersed in our work. She was referring to times twenty-odd years before. I was pleased to think she interpreted my suggestion that way! My worry was that she would see through me and the joy would be gone from her planning!
She had me find some stringy crochet cotton, which she had put away years before “in case of an emergency—never thinking I would be the emergency,” she said, with the old twinkle! With this she spent several days, when her strength permitted, crocheting a little string bag, complete with a pocket, that could be tied to the back of the chair. The pocket was for the thermos. She derived no pleasure simply from “making”; there had to be a use, a purpose, in having the article, before she would start it. And her strength had failed so that holding her hands up, with the hook and string or wool, was often too great an effort.
With the lunch that she had so carefully planned packed, away we would go, up the Gorge perhaps. That was a favourite route, through Victoria’s Chinatown, with the quaint little stores, odours (not all little), signs, and little people. Mom was very fond of the Chinese and they, like the Indians, respected, admired, and loved her.
We would often stop at the doorways and she would talk for a minute with this one, and that. “Hello Charlie, today no rainie, today lots sunie,” and they would laugh together while a youngster would be sent into the shop hurriedly for a handful of the paper-shelled, raisiny nuts they always seem to have on hand.
One day a small boy had been playing at the roadside and his parent had failed to notice his dirty hands. As the gift was offered, the dirty little hands were very prominent! “Ho, no good, Boy, no good,” said the father, in reproach, carefully taking them from his son’s hands. He proceeded to spit on each, carefully, then from his large and flowing sleeve produced a linen cloth with which he polished them and, in great pride, handed them over! I stayed directly behind her chair! To have caught her eye then would have been fatal to us both!
A trip up the Gorge meant a trip into the Chinese Gardens, where there were always birds and animals that enjoyed our newly received presents, polished or not!
Miss Carr loved the tall hills, and the deep shade, which made the shadows purple, and the tree tops that shimmered with almost yellow lights. When we had reached a spot with a particularly fine view, I would say, “The old horse needs his girth loosened,” and would sit at her feet, pretending to puff! If I did not seem to need the rest, she hated to ask me to stop. I never could make it clear to her how much I enjoyed our walks until once, only a year or so before she died. The sister, Middle, had been all her life a school teacher, and one day I happened to pick up one of her school books. It was beautifully illustrated, printed on rich paper, but the printing was in German! It was the simile I needed! I put it away, saying nothing at the time about it. But, only a short time after, there was something on at Beacon Hill Park, which she wished to attend. “If only I did not have to rob you of your time, Child,” she said. Quickly, I got the book. She looked at it a minute. “Yes?” she said. “Well, Mom, going places alone is like looking at this book; nice views, rich surroundings, but the meaning is not clear. With you along, the picture is complete to me, the meaning solved and waiting. Don’t ever say any more about it, Mom.” “Bless you, Child,” she said, and kissed me, and gently took the book from me. It was on her table nearly two years later when I went out to see her for the last time.
Before becoming so ill, Miss Carr had loved to cook and was a wonderful cook. Curry, spiced dishes of any kind, and sponge cakes were her specialties, I think, but anything turned into a most delightful meal when she was in the kitchen, whether it was yours or her own. When she was painting hard, her meals were scanty, but between pictures each meal was a masterpiece, an event to be remembered by those lucky enough to share it.
The oldest Carr sister, who was Big in Miss Carr’s stories, was really a little bit of a person, weighing, I am sure, not a hundred pounds. She was a trained nurse, with some special degrees, and very efficient. When she became ill herself, she was quite sure that it was nothing serious. All her life she had looked after others, and she resented others trying to care for her. Middle always made the bread for her own use, as well as for Big and Small. Mom, trying to help and knowing junket to be good for people needing extra nourishment, got a supply of tablets and made up one bowl, which she proudly presented. But Big resented the effort, saying she did not care for it just then. While they were discussing it, her doctor called and he was pleased to see the junket. He said how good it would be for her and that she should have a pint of milk made up every day, as well as the rest of her diet. Mom was pleased. Big was cross. At last Big grudgingly said, “Well, leave the tablets here; I know when I feel like it, you don’t. I will use them, I promise. You are very good.” Mom never did forget her resentment, because Big never did make any junket! But every day she took a tablet then drank her pint of milk!
They were wonderful days, all of them. First, receiving the training from Miss Carr, in her home, then having the opportunity of doing it in reverse, and entertaining her in mine.
BUTTERFLIES
EVERY little while there crops up a saying that seems so righ
t for the occasion that you wonder who in the world thought of it first. It seems to fit so perfectly it makes you sorry it was not you who thought of it, but leaves the urge to come to know the composer of it. That is the way with the expression “butterflies in the tummy.” Have you ever had them? Then you will understand fully just how aptly the saying fits!
Miss Carr got them often, various breeds though, that all affected her quite differently. The worst were the black “worries,” which I will tell you about later; the most active were those which were, she said, crossed with lightning bugs! “One of us is always looking for a spot to land!” was her way of explaining them to me. These were active when there was the slightest prospect of an elevator ride. Even the knowledge that there was an elevator in a building she was visiting, she said, caused them to gather!
On one of her visits East, about twenty-five years ago, we were in Eaton’s big store, in Toronto. I was not aware then of this aversion of hers, as she was shy about mentioning it. The fact that we had never entered an elevator when we were out together had not dawned on me. As we were passing a stairway, or escalator, very casually she would suggest we go either up or down, as the case might be, and I had never tumbled that she did this on purpose! In Eaton’s, this day, we had done a great deal of shopping, and were both loaded down with parcels. I was walking ahead, making room for her through the crowd that is always there. We neither of us had very clear vision, as the parcels, though not heavy, were bulky and were piled up on our arms. An elevator going down had just stopped, the people who wanted to had gotten out, the others were well back in the car. When an elevator stops in Eaton’s, no matter how empty it was a second before, people seem to pop up out of the floor in front of it! I followed the crowd into it, and the rest of the crowd followed us. We stopped walking, of course, but Miss Carr evidently thought only that we were held up a minute at some sale counter again! The door closed quietly, we were still carrying on our conversation, all jammed in together, when the elevator started, with a sudden jerk and drop, as they usually did years ago. Up went Miss Carr’s hands; the parcels flew; she squealed, then sat down stiff-legged right where she was! And there was no room! When we were all standing, we fitted nicely, but when a short plump little body suddenly sat, she took up four times as much room; her fat little behind was solid, and she just stayed put! We were all off balance, the poor operator had been knocked away from her switch, and could not get back to it in time. We seemed to hit a huge spring, with quite a thump, and we shot up again, out into the wild blue yonder, or so it seemed! By this time everyone was talking, shouting at once, grabbing at everyone else, in an effort just to stay on their own feet. The poor operator finally got the thing under control, and got it stopped and lined up with a floor! She opened the doors; we practically fell out! The crowd waiting got the shock of their lives as we tumbled out. Such a turmoil, hats off or awry, purses and parcels all about, everyone hanging on to someone else, obviously a stranger; and everyone talking, but not to any one person! When the dazed crowd finally got out, imagine the utter amazement of the waiting passengers, to see, sitting on the floor, feet out at legs’ length, hat over one snapping eye, surrounded by parcels of all sizes, a hot and bothered stout little lady. Certainly not a person in the crowd had a hint that she was Canada’s most famous Artist! Everyone was very good about helping to get her sorted away again. The sales girl from a nearby counter brought a large shopping bag, and smiled as Miss Carr asked if there was one large enough for her to crawl into! You could always count on her to see, and make the most of, the funny side of anything, even if the joke was on her, and in spite of the “butterflies!”
But, as we made our way home, she did say, as she chuckled, “Well, Baboo, I am glad Lizzie did not see me then!” Lizzie was the sister referred to as Big in Emily Carr’s books, the older sister who took it upon herself to discipline Small, and continued to try to do so all through Miss Carr’s life.
The little yellow butterflies were not so bad, she said. They were the heavy little fellows that weighed on her mind, from the time she spied a new bird’s nest. Because of the number of lovely big shade trees in her garden, there were naturally a number of nests, each of which, if occupied, was as much on her mind, I am sure, as on the mind of the new little mother. Miss Carr could tell at a glance what breed of bird had built the nest, by the construction, as we tell trees by the leaves! She always spoke of her awareness of the nests, and their hidden treasures, as her yellow butterflies. Every time she discovered a new nest, especially a new type of nest, she seemed so pleased, I am quite sure she rather loved even the little yellow butterflies, and that she hugged them close! When a love is big enough, it can easily support an added worry!
When the butterflies came, she said, they could quite easily be classified. Miss Carr had her own name for each of her worries. The big black ones with the spots, were, she said, the bad ones, that would some day develop ulcers in her middle! They were the ones that moved in when the kiln had to be lit, and fired for from three to five days, depending on the type of pottery. It took several days of steady firing and heat for the oven to reach the desired temperature, after the kiln was lit; the heat had to come up so slowly, then when a white heat was reached, it had to be held steady for a given time, then gradually reduced again. If either rise or fall was too sudden, the clay would crack. The kiln was, of course, specially built, and heavily insulated; the danger was always that a spark might start trouble. She had had several small fires, even when every precaution had been taken, so that she was always on guard and really had reason to worry. The weeks of work, gathering the clay, weathering and washing it, and moulding it into the various shapes, all these represented a lot of slow, tedious work, and the outcome depended wholly on the firing process. The fire had to be attended to every two hours, all night, as well as all day. The broken sleep, added to the worry, was the cause of the remarks of Middle, the sister who was the school teacher. “The butterflies that Emily had at these times were very bad tempered ones; they might even have been bats!” she would say, when speaking about it later. They were very fond of each other, but they were outspoken!
The butterflies that gathered before one of her exhibitions were more like moths, the way they fluttered about, softly, but around and around. The long nights, after a show, were almost brittle, like everlasting flowers. And the way the nights dragged on, the air seemed brittle too. And that would be the morning the paper boy was late! With the daylight the moths had changed to butterflies, of course, very active, jittery ones, that made breakfast impossible, so the time it normally took to eat it had to be added to the waiting! Still there would be a joke all ready! She said she had it all figured out, why she felt so uncomfortable, because, you see, her butterflies had been crossed with rabbits! That was why they jumped so high, and the reason they multiplied so quickly!
You know the funny sensation you get when someone, in all seriousness, tells you something, using perhaps a wrong word, quite unaware they have done so? Then, you nearly choke, trying to keep your voice calm, your face straight, and trying hardest of all to place it away in a corner of your mind, to bring out and enjoy later. Miss Carr called this funny feeling her grasshoppers. We might all be talking together, several customers, Miss Carr, and myself that is. One of them might say something of this kind. I would busy myself with my back to Miss Carr for a minute, then, as I faced her again, all composed, she would be very apt to say to me, “Did you notice that grasshopper, Baboo?” There would be a wicked gleam in her eye, but of course those present would not notice anything strange in our conversation! Once a reporter called to interview Miss Carr. She was from the States, very nicely dressed. The maid at the time was always using big words, trying to impress everyone. As she returned from showing the visitor out, the maid turned to Miss Carr and said, “Well, she sure was extinguished!” Miss Carr remarked later, “I had no idea I was so obvious about it!” We had no trouble at all finding things to keep
us laughing. They just happened!
This same maid had come from the prairie after she had finished school, to find work. She had been in a small restaurant for a while, but was too clumsy with the dishes to last long there.
Miss Carr had only been back from the hospital a short time and was not at all well. To explain why she seemed uninterested at times she said, “Forgive me for seeming so stupid, but you see I have been drugged.” The girl’s eyes fairly popped! “You have?” She seemed so completely thunderstruck, Miss Carr said, “Yes, I just came home from the hospital.” The girl said no more about it then, but she was very kind and tried to be more helpful than she had before. A day or so later, the topic came up again and the maid said, “I was drugged once, I was darn near killed.” Of course Miss Carr asked what had been wrong that they had drugged a young person like her. “Gee, Ma’am, where I come from, it’s mostly the young ones that gets it! My horse shied, and my school-bag caught on the horn of the saddle, and I sure was drugged. What happened to you?” Poor Mom! As she said, “Give me time, I get them all.”
People who spend a lot of time alone understand their feelings and emotions better than the rest of us. Some dreams are so lovely, they ought to be shared; Emily Carr’s were. She would paint a picture, with her soul there for you to see. “There are lonely places in every soul, Child; they are the soul’s greatest strength,” she said to me when I asked how she was able to put the deep feeling on canvas that she did. My soul was not old enough, then, to share its lonely places, she said.
Emily Carr As I Knew Her Page 9
