Mom told me long after that she had had doubts, right from the start, about this helper; engaging her had been, she said, like delving into a book that has no cover. She wore no apron!
In the old days, when Miss Carr was well and strong, the aprons we loved best were the big red oil-cloth ones (made from the old kitchen table covers), which we wore when washing the dogs, or weathering the clay. As both these jobs were done, or started, down in the garden, I was especially fond of them. The dog washing was at times very funny. We never washed the monkey; she kept her own little body clean, and heaven help any unlucky little flea, if he should happen to jump from one of the dogs to her furry little back! But Woo had a lot to do with the bathing of the dogs. Miss Carr had a bottle of liquid soap that came from the veterinary for the express purpose of washing dogs. So, anything at all that came in a bottle, in any room of our house, or from the open window sill of any neighbours, was in jeopardy; but only on the day the dogs were being washed. Woo never seemed to pay the least attention to a bottle, but when the job was started, she always knew exactly where a bottle was. As sure as we became engrossed with our task (and with from twenty to thirty dogs to do, it was easy!), the little monkey would slip off her collar and be away in a flash, in search of the bottle she had in mind. She would try the cork, or screw top, before carrying it back, making sure it would undo for her, then she would do it up again, slip back practically unnoticed, and before you could blink an eye, into the sudsey water along with the dog, would go, maybe a bottle of ink, or ketchup, turpentine, once even part of a bottle of good wine! And she would reach over the edge of the tub and slap their wet little bodies, her eyes screwed up tight! She never did this unless they were soaking wet, then it made resounding little smacks, that really did not hurt them in any way, but which did infuriate them! She would sneak up as close as she dared when they were taken from the water. She had all manner of tricks up her hairy little arm. If the dog gave itself a shake, in time to splatter her, she nearly had a fit!
Yes, there were a lot of different aprons, for all sorts of jobs, but it was the big rubbery wrap-around, tie-on-tight ones that we loved the best.
PILLAR TO POST
WHEN as a child the urge to draw and to paint overtook little Emily, it was so strong that she was not content, as most children are, with a mere paint box and a sheet of paper. Certainly she had her small box of paints, but this had to be kept in a larger box, professionally, and her paper was even then pinned to a board. Her sisters, all older, used to tease her, saying that all real Artists wore black beards!
Miss Carr could never remember, years later, when it was that the urge to draw first “hit” her. It must, she said, “have come built in!”
But you can see that her supply of boards, boxes and so on, would soon become a problem, in a home already full of little people and their equipment. The bedroom Emily shared with her gentle, very feminine sister was not the place for such bulky material, so at the age of eight little Emily was moved to the end of the sewing room. She loved it there, where her beloved Mother’s things were all about, even if her Mother couldn’t always be. Emily, even then, could draw satisfaction and comfort from her surroundings. Her memories of hours spent with her Mother, or in her lily field, were wonderful to hear about. Yet they were absorbed, in a large measure, before she was of school age.
A year or so later, with big sisters very clothes-conscious, more room was needed there, so the little artist was banished to the old pantry. She was past nine now, and well equipped! She was the proud owner of an easel, home-made from the longest pieces of the branches her father had trimmed from one of the garden shrubs. Though Emily and her father had been very close when she was small, she was nine now and even at this tender age she resented her father’s dictatorial methods; her own personality was too strong and she could not be driven! So, she made her own easel, independent even then.
The one window in the pantry was small, and pots of this, and jars of that were always being set there, on her equipment, to cool or to set! Most inconvenient, for an artist of almost ten!
The cow shed loft was all that was left. Emily had been eyeing it for some time, but as she had already been getting in trouble for spending so much time with the cow (who was her best model), she hated to put her want into words; a big No is so final! She used to follow the big bony cow about and draw her from all angles, as she did also the hens, the rabbits, the dog, even the man who helped to look after the animals, though she said, “He was not nearly so much fun, you always knew where and how his ears would be!”
It was after her father had seen some of these drawings that permission was given to use the loft. Many years later, when she was quite grown up, in her late teens, she returned again to this loft. Windows and shelves were then installed; but on this first quest for a studio, it was simply a loft, complete with dust, spiders, mice, and the cow’s hay. But, partly because of the surroundings, it was almost private. So, anything else could be overlooked by an artist of ten. She tidied up, had the things all handily around her, had a room all to herself! She loved the comfortable chewing sounds of the cow, from under her. She was settled at last, as she said, “after years of being shifted about, from pillar to post!” Children hate that feeling; they want to be secure in everything.
Years later, when Miss Carr had the House of All Sorts built, she had planned and longed for an adequate, useful studio for years. The second storey of the house had been carefully arranged for the big studio and her living quarters. Up in the eaves at the end of the studio was a dear little room which was her own bedroom. As it was her favourite room, and because she was such a generous person, she turned this room over to me, for the seven years I was with her! I loved it too. On the ceiling she had painted huge Indian birds of war; they extended from wall to wall. In the night as the breezes swirled among the leaves of the big tree outside the window, it was as if the huge birds were ruffling their massive feathers. I was eleven when first I stayed with Miss Carr, a night or so a week at that time. When I went to bed, she would say that her big birds would care for and cover me, as the robins had covered with leaves the babes in the wood! The big casement window was low, nearly to the floor, and as I lay in bed I could look out into the tree, and beyond it, out, and out, and out into the stars. They would seem to draw near, to listen, too, to the rustle of our tree and the ruffling of the feathers. You knew then why it was her favourite room! The big tree, with its numerous little nests of secrets, made rippling motions all its own, told its own little story, so well that even the soft air trembled, and added to the whisper and the rustle. The story was so delightful that the end never came, it went on and on. It was not all imagination, because Miss Carr heard it too, when she was there in the room alone. Could it have been her vivid stories of the long wakeful nights there? Some dreams are so lovely they ought to be shared. But how many older people would take the time to phrase them in such a way as to hold the interest of a child? What comfort they would give if they did! Our worlds are largely “make believe,” our souls are full of lonely places. These little “night stories,” as she called them, were no common happening; they were so marvellously precious that if I had no other reason to give prayers of thanks, I will always be thankful that at an early age I was able to know and understand Emily Carr. Love, usually, must be deserved; it must be sought. It makes the giver, as well as the receiver, rich in understanding and wisdom. When I was only twelve, it made me old in emotional responses; now, past forty, it keeps me young in imagination. “Think, Child, think,” she would say to me, when I was being stupid about some lesson that had gone badly. “There are possibilities for greatness hidden in each of us, impulses we are not aware of, qualities that could lift us to great heights. Yours are there somewhere.” I was never quite sure if I should joke at these moments. Her saying, “If at first you do not succeed, try a different receipt,” seemed to fit so well, and I was sure I was the wrong ingredient!
Her gentle, apt sayings, leaving always the feeling I was capable of much better work, her sarcasm, would leave a twinge of guilt and at the same time awaken the urge to compete with the task; it was all that was needed to get the best from any child. Before I left the West, at nearly eighteen, to be married, she said to me, “Always have a pet, Child; a dog can share your dreams, aspirations peculiarly your own; no mortal can comprehend our innermost wants. A pet can save a heart a lot of breaking.” These sayings of hers, they march across my mind, as solemnly as the stars march away as dawn comes, but they are warmed by the feelings she left deep in my heart, as the sun warms the skies for the stars’ returning.
The little room under the eaves! It was no wonder that this was her favourite or, as Miss Carr said, “mostest favourite” room! Yet every time I stayed with her, if only for a night, she would make it up fresh, and insist that I use it. The first two years after I met Miss Carr, she was my teacher, in art and modelling. As our relationship developed, the teaching was only an incident. She was like a fairy Godmother, complete with animals, whom I loved completely, a childish worship if you like, but she returned my love. After the first year, I was her guest from time to time, casually, but after two years she asked me to move right in, and the small room was then known as “Baboo’s eyrie.” She never used it again, after I left the West to be married. “All things come home to roost, Baboo; it will be ready when you come,” she said.
But before this, when I was a casual, once-a-week-or-so guest, when she moved out at once as soon as I received permission from my Mother to stay, it was an honour! The guest room was a dear little room, off the studio, with every comfort and casement windows under more shade trees. What I am trying to say is that when she was so tired of shifting about, how very sweet and generous she was about giving up the room she loved so well, simply because it was so nice! She wanted me always to remember that little room as mine, she said. And I do.
When I would try to thank her, to say how unselfish she was (and children are so poor at finding words for thank-you’s of any kind), she would say, “Unselfishness recognizes change and variety as delightful, Child, remember that.” Then, it was hardly clear to me, now I am glad I can remember her clear, steady eyes, as she said it.
Most young people, if they stop to consider it, have a horror of growing old, I think. When Miss Carr was nearly seventy, after we had been talking of age and ageing, she said to me, as I sat combing her pitifully thin hair, “Baboo, it is a very wonderful thing; you find as you grow older you are not as afraid as you had thought you would be. A sort of peace grows in you with the years; you do not notice, either, till some morning you awake, to find you are old, but the peace is there, all fear is gone.” Miss Carr was, we know, an Artist with her brush but, with phrases like this, was she not also an Artist with her tongue?
Once, after months of illness, when she had been moved to the hospital by ambulance, a “shift” she hated, she wrote me saying a new idea had come for the book which she was writing at the time. Miss Carr said it came, a memory out of the blue, on the trip to the hospital. She was trying to prove to me that age is actually not as great a handicap as is generally believed. “Age,” she said, “does not seem to matter, Baboo; we seem to need only an inner drive, regardless of age; work is a blessing and a relief. I have taken my eyes from the woods, and put them in my heart. Now I write what they see there.” We call it memory! That was when the Book of Small was conceived.
Her eyes would be looking at me, into me, and through me, as after a walk I sat and visited with her. The things I had seen would be taking shape in her mind’s eye, as I made word pictures in detail, trying to describe them. Even the shading in the green of the ivy, as it clutched the wall, was of interest to her. Each little question, as searching as an early robin looking for worms, picked out all the details. My throat would tighten up, and I would have to stop sometimes, only because she did love it so. Her whole soul would be there in her eyes, full of the longing, and the missing of the green growing things. But the gratitude would be there too, in those great expressive eyes, deeper than any she could put in words. Those eyes affected me deeply. My emotions would become so intense, I would fill up with a loving that couldn’t be thought.
After a pause, while I tied my shoe, or sipped some water, or scared a fly that wasn’t there, I would continue the story. And the little bud would become two buds, for her benefit, so that the story would be nicer for her and I could enjoy those eyes, happy again with their green memories.
Sometimes I would have lovely stories planned for her. There was the time the neighbour she did not see eye to eye with had washed, and hung out to dry, a huge pair of fleece-lined bloomers. There they swung on the clothes-line, as out of place in Victoria as a sun suit at the North Pole! The birds, too, were amazed; one sparrow worked all through the lunch period, pulling bits of the cotton fleece off and taking them away gleefully, to line a nest, no doubt.
She would be waiting, wanting to hear of the outside “growings,” both animal and vegetable. But often unable to ask. So, turning my gaze to the open window (her window was always open), to shut out the misery there before me, and picturing in my mind’s eye those eyes as they used to be, I would start.
Gradually, slowly, those eyes would close, her fingers gently loosen their grip, and she would be sleeping, often the first real sleep in a long time, brought on by the memories the stories of green growing awakened, which filled her with a comfort not found in pills. If she wakened before the nurse shooed me out, hours later, she would smile and say, “Thanks, Baboo, you do me more good than doctors, Child.” The lump would be in my throat again, this time from gratitude, that she really did seem to be better. But I would grin and say, “Now, Mom, don’t call me a pill!”—and those ill eyes would light up a minute with a reflection of the old time sparkle.
My memories of Emily Carr are like a big, deep pool. The least stir or breeze sets off rippling motions, remembering to remember dozens of little things, that till that particular ripple was started had been unenjoyed for years. Here is an expression of hers that perhaps does not fit here at all, but which I have always loved. You have heard, no doubt, people say, “as cool as a cucumber?” Well, Miss Carr’s was, “as cool as a pine tree.”
There were so many little sayings, so full of meaning, that if you took time to think about them, you would wonder what incident in her life had caused thinking deep enough to put them in such careful wording. We know that her problems were puzzles that had to be solved. “Often, we learn our songs when it is too late to sing.” This one has always upset me; she was so successful in so many ways, yet what was the ambition, or tune, that was missed?
LETTERS
“ANY mail today?” We have said that many times, sometimes almost unconsciously as we hear the postman’s rap or rattle. It can be an ordeal, just waiting for a letter that does not come. There can be such a difference in letters; some in only half a page can ease your heart, put your mind at rest; others go on and on, and you know no more when you are finished than you did before it came.
Emily Carr wrote lovely letters. They were generally short, to the point, and as personal as if you were there talking to her. You would never guess, by reading the letters, that they were often written when she was in severe pain.
Each would start off, as letters usually do; if it was written on a nice day, it would waken in her the old longing for the woods again. Even when she had been in her bed for years, she wrote me in the spring: “Old and useless though I be, the old longing still sweeps over me, to gather my brushes, and go off to the woods. To go in, and in, and in. The wind was blowing the papers on my dresser; I turned to gather them, and there was a wrinkled old woman, looking at me from my mirror. Old, Baboo, too old, all old but the longing. Baboo, love, memories, and longings do not age.” Do you wonder that I kept the letters? And that I read them over and over? Certainly my longings, my memories, a
nd my love will not age, will never die.
Her news of the West would be all mixed up with her love for it. She was the spirit of the West personified; even without her paint brush, she could describe it to you with all its mystery, passion, its elusive charm! Many of my friends from the East, who were lucky enough to share the letters, or parts of them, grew to love the West, from her clear word pictures of it. As she told me of the changes that had taken place since my leaving, she would speak of the woods, cliffs, beaches, and mountains, as we describe special friends.
Tit-for-tat! Miss Carr loved to get nice newsy letters too, but she was very fair about them. If I had been pressed for time, and had sent her a short letter, her reply would arrive promptly, and to the point! “Your note just came, a mere crust! Guess my last was no cookie, I shouldn’t expect to toss my crumbs on the waters, and get cake in return—but I do!” Then added in the margin later, very often, “I’m spoilt, Baboo, you spoilt me.” And what kind of letter would you write after that, knowing she was ill, with time going so slowly, her pets gone, but not the missing of them, aching with the want of painting? I worked harder dunking up interesting letters for her, than I did at looking after my family of boys, my house, and the horses. She was in my mind all the time. I would be thinking of a way to tell her effectively of the new colt, even while I was riding, breaking another.
Emily Carr As I Knew Her Page 11
