by Shelley Wood
“But the girls wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Dr. Dafoe.” I’d spoken with a quaver, which irked me. I tried to steady my words. “He’s the one who saved them and he’s the one who’s managed to keep them safe all along, through all of this.” I gestured around the office at the filing cabinets and papers, the framed photos and paintings of the girls with Palmolive soap, Life Savers, and cod-liver oil. The same brands, no doubt, that the Dionnes were selling at the souvenir shop across the street. “Without Dr. Dafoe’s protection, who knows what harms could have come to them,” I added. Even as I said it my thoughts strayed to Dr. Blatz and his awful book, and my voice faltered so that my last words were almost a whisper. “They belong every bit as much to Dr. Dafoe and this hospital as they do to anyone else, in any place.”
“I beg your pardon?”
George was still hovering above me, there was no chance he hadn’t heard.
I tried again. “It’s just, at this point, after all he’s done for them, they think of him as their father.”
George gaped at me. “You can’t possibly believe that, Emma.”
When I didn’t answer, he stared at me a moment longer, then shook his shaggy head and stepped away, yanking at his chair. It stuttered backward with a squeak so that his cup, on the desk, trilled in its saucer.
“Thanks for bringing the tea and biscuits,” he said, sitting. He pulled out his pocket watch, then looked up at me. “I’m afraid I have some work to get back to.”
I opened my mouth to say more, closed it, then opened and shut it a second time. I must have looked like a guppy bubbling mutely in my bowl. Just then, of course, Marguerite barged in, high-bosomed and smelling of onions, fussing with the tea things and warbling about whether George would stay for supper. There was nothing for me to do but take my spinning head and go.
March 3, 1938
MISS NORAH ROUSSELLE arrived today. She’s Nurse Noël’s replacement, but in fact she’s a teacher, not a nurse. Our healthy girls need only two nurses now, it seems. Miss Beaulieu will also be leaving us soon, Dr. Dafoe has told us. I can detect a slight accent when Miss Rousselle speaks French with the girls, but they of course don’t notice. They have their own funny accents anyhow.
March 10, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
I trust you are surviving the Canadian winter. I myself am relocating to Florida for two months next week so wanted to make sure you got these back before I left.
Enclosed are the last sketches you sent me of the babies. The children, I should say, because they really are shooting up, aren’t they? I have very little in the way of feedback. I’m starting to feel you’ve already surpassed my talents. There is something in these portraits that elevates them above mere drawings, and I struggle to put my finger on it, other than to say that the expressions you’ve managed to capture are extraordinarily complex. Those of us who only know the quintuplets through their daily photos in the paper assume that they live a blessed life, wanting for nothing. They are plump and shiny little girls, new outfits and new toys in every photo, not a care in the world. Your sketches, if I may say so, particularly the close-up sketches you did in pencil, hint at something far more nuanced: anxiety, uncertainty, or worse. In any case, they are lovely and you should be extremely proud.
Now, my news. I will no longer be painting the girls. My understanding is that the guardians have commissioned another artist now that they are getting a bit older. Indeed, my passion and perhaps my talent are best suited to infants and toddlers. I do hope you will keep at it, whomever they hire. I believe you have a rare talent and would strongly urge you to consider following it as far as it will take you.
Yours truly,
Maud Tousey Fangel
145 East 72nd
New York, NY
March 17, 1938
Ever since I received Mrs. Fangel’s letter I’ve been trying to find a spare minute to speak privately with Dr. Dafoe and ask about the new artist for the girls. The doctor has been under a great deal of stress, written plain as day on his features. Today, however, he called me to his office and asked George to give us some privacy.
The upshot: the guardians have not found another artist to paint the girls. They would like to offer me the opportunity. At the moment, the Corn Products Refining Company of New York and Chicago has commissioned a series of advertisements for their Karo brand corn syrup and would prefer paintings to photographs of the girls. And I’d hoped I’d heard the last of corn syrup!
We did not discuss a specific payment, but Dr. Dafoe muttered that the compensation “will be generous.” That kind of talk makes me uncomfortable, as Dr. Dafoe could clearly see. He gave a sigh and reached as he always does for his pipe and tobacco.
“Remember, Emma,” he said. “As much as we may disagree with the commercial side of things, every little bit benefits the girls. Their trust fund continues to grow, but I fear it is a long ways from reaching the point where we can be sure they will want for nothing, their whole lives long.” He jabbed the pipe in his mouth and took several seconds to light it, his eyes crossing as he brought the match to the bowl. “You are aware, of course, of the increased pressure being brought by the Dionnes. Publicly, it is important that we portray unity and shared purpose, but my dearest wish is that we will be able to continue to manage the girls’ finances such that they will not be forced to move back into the farmhouse with the rest of the family.”
The farmhouse! Was this what George was getting at when we’d had that strange exchange about Dr. Dafoe being removed as guardian?
“Surely that’s not a possibility?” I blurted out. I couldn’t imagine how the family of six children plus the parents were managing in those cramped quarters, let alone how the five girls could be accommodated among them.
Dr. Dafoe shrugged and puffed on his pipe.
“These are the kinds of things M. Dionne’s lawyer is requesting,” he said. “I see it as my duty to protect the girls in every way I can.” He paused and lifted the pipe momentarily from his lips. “I hope you see things the same way.”
I would like to have a word with Fred about what kind of commission I should be paid by the American corn syrup company. He comes in only a few days a week now and rarely stays at the nursery long enough for us to speak. Perhaps George might give me some advice. He might know what Mrs. Fangel was paid, although of course I couldn’t be paid at the same rate. Perhaps I’ll write to Ivy.
March 25, 1938
FINALLY SOME LAUGHTER again in the nursery. The Star newspaper has provided all the props and costumes for a special series of photos of the girls in which they act out scenes from Mother Goose. Today they dressed up for “Sing a Song of Sixpence” and thought it was wonderful fun.
They scarcely stayed in one character long enough for Fred to get his pictures before tearing off their robes and dresses and climbing into something else. Yvonne played the king while Marie had the choice role of queen, managing to devour the bread and corn syrup before Fred could even duck behind his camera. I was tickled at the idea of Émilie as the maid, hanging laundry on the line and not a clue as to what she was supposed to be doing. Nurse Ulrichson has been painstakingly teaching them the rhyme, explaining each English word, and they have been singing it at top volume, although their accents make them almost unintelligible. They love the end the best, piling on Yvonne, captive under her thick robes, and trying to clamp their sticky mouths over her poor nose.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king!
The king was in his counting house, counting out his money.
The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,
Down came a blackbir
d and nipped off her nose!
March 26, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Miss Trimpany Emma,
I was sorry to hear of more comings and goings in the nursery. All that flux must be awfully hard on the little girls. How are they faring?
We had a mild weekend here, so I got the harebrained idea to hike to the top of Mont Royal, which is the mountain in the middle of the city. At the top, the Saint-Jean-Baptiste charitable society has erected a cross more than 100 feet tall, lit up at night by dozens of electric bulbs. I can actually see it from the window in my rented room. Up close, by daylight, it is not nearly as impressive, but the views of the city are something. The air at the peak seemed fresher and cleaner than it does down below—more like home. And the sky was cloudless: the kind of blue that makes you feel like it goes on forever and could take you anywhere you wanted to go.
Back in my cold room now, my legs are stiff and I have blisters the size of a silver dollar on both heels. I will regret my little expedition tomorrow.
I have a rock dove who has taken to roosting on my windowsill. He arrived last month and has really settled himself at home, making a terrific mess of the wall. The green and violet iridescence on his throat is quite something to see up close. He seems pleased as a peacock to have me admiring him through the glass, strutting to and fro and sizing me up with his orange eye. I’ve named him Howard Hughes.
Yours truly,
Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
April 11, 1938
Dr. Dafoe gave me the afternoon off today to work on my first painting for the corn syrup company. I’m trying a different type of oil paint that is much brighter in color. It’s taken a bit of practice to understand how to mix and layer it, but I’ve got the hang of it now, I think. I’m not painting a scene for this one, just the faces of the girls based on the pencil sketches I’ve been working on. I’m pleased with how it’s going. Today I could hear the girls playing outside in the private yard—this was the first warm day we’ve had—and their happy voices helped me work.
At one point, George tapped lightly, then popped his head around the open door. I love it when he stops by to see my progress. Today he peered at the painting for no more than a second or two, then strolled away.
He did a distracted loop of the room the way he does when he’s looking for ideas for his column, then plunked himself on the bench by the windows. When I glanced over, he appeared to be watching the girls outside, a faint smile on his lips.
“Imagine being so carefree,” he said.
I scarcely paid attention. I was struggling with Marie’s mouth, which is smaller than those of her sisters.
“They’re in a bubble. We’re all in this bubble, aren’t we? It’s as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
He turned to look at me. I kept puttering with my paints, but I could sense his gaze on me and felt myself growing flustered.
Then, out of nowhere he said: “Do you know that more than ninety-nine percent of voters in Austria voted to join Germany in yesterday’s plebiscite?”
I blushed even deeper, jabbing my brush into my palette and smudging the colors.
He gave a groan. “Emma, you must follow some news, surely? Europe is falling to pieces while a self-proclaimed demigod marches around, annexing countries for Germany. Europe is sliding again toward war, you know that, right?”
I set my brush down and turned to look at him, the heat still in my face. “Of course, I’m aware,” I snapped, wiping my hands on a rag and standing up. I drew back from my easel and pretended to assess my work. “It’s not as if Canada will get involved again,” I said, although not with the certainty I would have liked.
George stared at me, then stood and was across the room in seconds, laying a hand lightly on my shoulder. I wheeled around, and he lifted his hand away and spread his fingers, a gesture of apology.
“That’s not true, Emma. You must realize that. Canada will get involved. You’re so mired in the lives of the girls, but you can’t bury your head in the sand while the rest of the world goes to pot, you see that, don’t you?”
I got angry then. I don’t like it when George is patronizing like this, when he discounts the work we’re doing. He reminds me of my father. “You of all people should know we have our own important battles raging right here!” I said.
I intended to flounce out of the room, but his big brown eyes held me there a moment or two, wearing an expression of disbelief, or worse—disappointment.
“What you have ‘here’ are five perfectly healthy little girls, who through no fault of their own are worth an awful lot of dough. If this is a battle, Emma, what is the point of the war? And who, tell me, are the good guys and who are the bad?” He scraped at his lower lip with his front teeth, his chin jutting, waiting for me to answer. When I said nothing, he snatched his hat from the window seat and was out of the room before I could imagine what it was he’d been expecting me to say.
April 14, 1938 (Toronto Star)
* * *
EDUCATION OF QUINTS AROUSES CONTROVERSY OVER ENGLISH TONGUE, CHANGES IN STAFF
Guardians Hope to Give Same Schooling to Entire Family
CALLANDER, Ontario—While the famous Dionne babes were serenely making mud pies and singing childish songs in their nursery playground, controversy over their educational future reached an acute pitch. The Star has learned that the education of the Dionne quintuplets, up to now entirely in the hands of the active guardians, will in all likelihood be taken over by the Ontario department of education, under the bilingual section.
This development is the outcome of a controversy over their teaching following changes in the Dafoe hospital staff six weeks ago. Retirement by the active guardians of Nurse Jacqueline Noël and Teacher Claire Tremblay, both French-Canadians, raised a storm of protest from French-Canadian organizations, representatives of the Roman Catholic Church, and from Oliva Dionne, father of the children. These two attendants were replaced by Norah Rousselle, as teacher-in-charge, and Sigrid Ulrichson. Miss Ulrichson, it is said, speaks little or no French, while Miss Rousselle, of French parentage, is more at home in the English language. Mr. Dionne has stated that French should be the language of the Dafoe hospital and nursery for at least the next two years.
Judge Valin, chairman of the board of guardians for the Quintuplets, is himself a French-Canadian and is equally at home in either tongue. “If the girls are to live on the North American continent,” asserts Judge Valin, “they must be thoroughly familiar with the English language. The girls would be miserable if they grew up without a knowledge of English, no matter how well they spoke French, and they would reproach us when they reached maturity if we neglected our duty in that respect. And they would be justified in doing so.”
At 81, Judge Valin impresses one as being alert and active, physically and mentally, despite the fact that he limps slightly and walks with a cane. Indeed, the judge’s cane is one of the quintuplets’ most prized playthings when he visits them. The Quints dig in the sand with it, ride it around as a witch is supposed to do, and don’t relinquish it to the judge until he leaves.
Used with permission.
April 15, 1938
Dr. Blatz has been fired! I feel giddy with relief for the sake of my girls, but also nervous about what this means for the nursery. Nurse Ulrichson was very upset by the news, her pretty face looking pinched and tired. Mark my words, she’ll be the next to go.
The official word is that the education of the quintuplets will be managed by the provincial education authorities, but according to George, Dr. Blah-Blah’s dismissal is the Dionnes’ doing. Indeed, M. Dionne was over here this afternoon, strutting about on his skinny legs with his chest puffed out, all but crowing in Dr. Dafoe’s office. He stayed an hour, the door closed, then stalked back out to his car to drive the hundred yards to his farm, not once poking his h
ead into the playroom to bid bonjour to the babies. They had heard the car pull up, of course, and scurried to the windows to watch him march inside. What must they think when the man they’re told to call “Papa” is so busy fighting over their future that he forgets to actually pay them a visit?
I’m in a muddle. I’ve come to despise the way Dr. Blatz treated the nursery as his own private laboratory, but for M. Dionne to be holding the balance of power? This scares me no end.
April 16, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
My dear Emma,
Before you say anything, I know, I’m a terrible correspondent. I have spent every spare minute working on my book, and somehow this leaves me with zero energy for any other type of writing. Why on earth can you not get a proper phone in the nurses’ dormitory? It’s ludicrous that the only phone line is in Dr. Dafoe’s office. Judging by the number of products I see plastered with the faces of the quintuplets, I’d say the Dafoe nursery could easily afford to install a private line for the nursing and teaching staff. Ridiculous.
Of course I have followed all of the news over Dr. Blatz, the toothy old toad! I will see Fred next week and he can give me the full scoop, although I bet you with your quiet step and sharp eyes could tell me a better story, if you just took the time to call. Can you not ask Dr. Dafoe for special permission to take a call from me? I’ve got heaps to tell you about. Let’s say April 21 at 5:00 P.M.
All my love,
Ivy
April 21, 1938
It was so wonderful to hear Ivy’s voice. I think she’s picked up a slight American inflection with all the time she’s spent down there, but she is still Ivy through and through. Ivy’s big news: she and Fred have decided to have a private wedding this July, just the two of them, the priest, and her father. Both of Fred’s parents have passed. She says there is simply too much publicity around their romance: The nurse and the photographer to the Dionne Quints! So I will not be a bridesmaid after all, and I’m relieved, it’s true. It’s a credit to Ivy that she asked me in the first place, knowing that someone with a face like mine in her wedding party might be a distraction. So I’ll glide along a little bit longer, it seems, keeping myself to myself.