Am I too fanciful? I wonder if George would understand me? He might. Perhaps it is because he is a painter and I have seen his pictures of the trees and they are beautiful—though Auntie Alis says they don’t look very much like trees at all and she can’t imagine who in his right mind would pay good money for such things. She makes me laugh. Thank goodness for her! I sometimes think I would drift off up into the clouds and out to the stars if it weren’t for her good sense. And she is so attached to Mother. She is never rough with her body. I caught a glimpse of them this morning, and she bathes her like a child, kind and yet no-nonsense either. Mother is ever docile in her hands. It has been almost two years since her seizure, and yet surely we must not lose hope, surely its effects are not permanent. If only she might speak again!
Tad and I went over to Dr. Clowes to pick up our mail, and there was a letter for Mother from Montreal, from Aunt Louise, as it looked to be her handwriting. Flore had to pull us through a veritable bog, poor creature; the road is still almost impassible. The wagon swung about wildly, and Tad broke off some branches that got in our way. I put my hand on his arm to stop him; it just seems cruel to me, though he does not mean it so. Tad is a good man.
It is just that the saplings are always curious to see us—that’s why they get in the way. I am sure that when I was little, I must have bothered Mother countless times by hanging on to her skirts; it was such a habit of mine. But she has ever been so gentle with me. I can’t imagine Auntie Alis putting up with such nonsense. But I do think that sometimes the wind pushes the branches in front of me, just to cause mischief and make me feel that they do not want me to be here among them. Oh, the wind can be difficult. It is the one I understand the least. At times it truly hates me—I feel it so. Sometimes I put out my arms to catch it, just to say that I am not like those cruel men, but it won’t let me.
April 28
I went out to the Point today—unaccountable occurrence! At first the wind was gentle, as if it were pleased to see me. But then, suddenly, it stopped and there was a strange stillness, as if there were some awkwardness between myself and the Bay. I grew constrained and anxious, and then without any warning, the wind came back but with such force it knocked me down.
It swept up my skirts and pushed back my hair—so vehement did it rush at me that I began to scramble toward the trees. But then I stopped and turned, asking it why it was so rough with me. It seemed almost ashamed and quieted instantly.
I sat there for some time, eyeing the Bay—somehow we are changed to each other this year. Perhaps it is just me that is changing, or perhaps I have become a little altered to it. I cannot explain it. But I felt it there, in our contemplation of each other. As if I am no longer a child…
I do not wish to remain a child, and yet my heart cried out to it that I was not changed, that I loved it still and could never bear to part with it!
May 1
More boats were supposed to come today, and Mr. Samuels was here from town. He brought Tad his usual supply of tobacco, and after a very long inspection and much frowning, Auntie A. agreed to purchase a new kettle. Then Mr. Samuels teased Tad and said that he had better not fall asleep but keep the Light going these next few nights because he heard at Owen Sound that Mr. Clarkson has become president of the Lake Carriers Association and will send out his boats no matter what the weather bodes. Indeed, Tad would never fall asleep and leave the Light unattended! Besides, he and Uncle Gilbert share the shifts, and even Auntie Alis and I are ever thinking of it. Living here as we do, not one of us can escape the Light, not for an instant. Sometimes it oppresses me. Last night I watched its revolutions flickering in my mirror until I fell asleep. I fancied that it was the piece of coal that Prometheus stole and that Zeus will see it and remember the theft afresh—and send us terrible, vengeful storms this summer.
I am glad that we have our own cottage and that Auntie A. and Uncle Gil are in the lighthouse. It seems like a great, towering beast to me sometimes, and I do not like to go into it—as if it swallows us alive. And then the chains and the rasping of the crank as Tad mounts the weights—it sounds like grating teeth and cracking jaws!
Mr. Samuels stayed for supper and told us of many accidents and fires because of boat collisions down at the docks. He said that last week the wind broke the moorings of the Beverley when the crew was still on board and that the tug had a hard time pulling her back, but the men were rescued from certain death. He says lots of boats have been drifting because of the strong currents. Mr. S. doesn’t approve of the private yachts—he says that they should be prohibited from the commercial docks because they are such a menace. The Stewarts’ boat is the Coup de Grâce; it hasn’t arrived yet. I am relieved. The waters are still too dangerous.
Mr. Samuels thinks the Three Sisters are in a fearsome mood, having fought with one another all winter under the ice, and that there will be more than one terrible storm this summer. That’s what the men call the huge waves that sometimes sink their boats, but I think they must be thinking of the Erinyes—the three Furies that came of Gaia and the blood of Ouranos. I am sure they must be the same. The men here think that it is their story, but I know that it belonged to the Greeks long ago. When I was little, one of the fishermen told me the Three Sisters are filled with a jealous hatred of each other, and that as one sister comes crashing down upon a boat, the others follow, coveting the vessel. But the other two come so fast behind the first that it gives the boat no time to steady itself—each sister trying to outdo the other in force and damage.
But it strikes me that perhaps I am wrong; perhaps they are the three Graiae sharing only one eye. Then it would be blindness and frustration, jealousy of the one who has the eye, and not the inexorable punishment of the Furies, that drive the sister waves to act thus. And yet, as such, still they are to be feared.
I think I have felt them—when I am swimming out farther than I should, out to where the waves get rough and then mistake me for a sea creature because no human should dare to swim out so far into the Bay.
Sometimes I imagine the Three Sisters, tied to each other as if cursed to do so long ago, and doomed eternally to stay bound together. Three temperaments, each nursing a great jealousy, and then the other two must follow the first’s fury, adding her own. And always, not one, but three occasions for rage. No wonder there are so many storms in this Bay—my wonderful, dangerous Bay.
But this means that the boats are not likely to come today. Nor tomorrow perhaps. I wonder if he has changed since the fall. I am sorely aware that my imagination has created a form where only an outline was. His absence has prompted me to give him characteristics that perhaps are of my own making.
Sometimes I am appalled by how foolish I can be.
May 5
I am so provoked! Auntie Alis should stop her teasing. She says that I speak too freely and that a woman must bide her words around men, and that sometimes it is best to let a man find his own words without a woman interfering. Tad said nothing! I cannot believe it! Besides, those men are such great fools; Donald Brown is the worst of all of them, and I am sickened that Auntie should urge me to favor him.
She is afraid that I will never find a husband, and what would I do without one up here? It’s not a place for a woman to live alone, she says. But I will be alone if I wish it. I wonder sometimes about that Mrs. Edwards and her strong words about women and the dignity of female work. I saw her picture in the newspaper, and I must admit I liked her face, though it was not pretty. Yet it was strong and intelligent. Not ugly. I have heard some men talking and they say she is ugly, but I think it is her intelligence that they dislike. To be sure, she is quick and sharp, and she sees things before they do, and that is why men do not like her, because it is not they who have shown her what to think.
Sometimes I think that I do not have such a high opinion of men as a general class, though it is important to make distinctions. There is, of course, Tad and Uncle Gilber
t—and Dr. Latham was a distinguished scholar, respected by everyone. Even Miss Crabbage respected him—and we all feared her. She, in particular, puts me to thinking of snakes in grasses. Tad says that if you leave the snakes alone, they will not bother you—but sometimes the snakes do seek one out.
I am so thankful for Tad and Uncle Gil. And of course Dr. McTavish and Mr. Samuels and—oh, I contradict myself. George, too, I think. But Tad most of all. I like to look at his face the same way I like to look at the Bay. The Bay is best in the evening, just as the sun is sinking and a sort of deep gray begins to spread across it, and somehow it is both reasonable and beautiful all at the same time. Tad seems wise and impenetrable to me, and yet somehow I am not disturbed by my ignorance of all that he must know about the world.
Auntie Alis says that I am both pretty and smart, but it always sounds as a criticism coming from her!
I sound like a child today, sniveling and complaining. It is that Light! Tad says it is still burning the fuel too quickly and that we will be in trouble if he has to ask for more than our allotment. There are times when I wish the Bay would take that Light in one mighty wave and remove it forever.
Oh, I should not say that!
I do not mean it!
May 6
There are times when I wish that I did not write down my thoughts because then, when I read my scribblings over, I see how ridiculous I am. Yet Mr. Muir said I had a fine sensibility for the world around me. I am thrilled by the thought that his hands touched the pages of my letter and now I have touched the paper that his hands held as he wrote back to me. In this way our hands have touched, as have our thoughts. If I were ever to meet him, I think he would know that I understand his trees and would love them as much as he does. His trees must be beautiful, tall, graceful trees, all of them old and wise. My trees are much wilder, I think. They’re a bit unruly sometimes—especially the cedars—more like sailors I suppose.
May 7
Mother fell asleep while I combed her hair this afternoon, and then I dressed it—just as she used to wear it—that it might be a surprise. When Tad came to get her, I heard him catch his breath, though I was careful to be fussing with the brushes at the bureau and have my back to him. How beautiful she looked!
Sometimes Tad is such a mystery to me. Mother’s beauty is so exquisite, and yet I know him to prefer things that are a bit rough and unpolished. Except for the lens—that must be perfect and gleam like a diamond! I think it must be because he feels for the people so, out there on the water and if there should be trouble.
Once Auntie Alis told me that Tad is this way because their father had been a seaman and that he had impressed upon them both a respect for the power of the sea. Her father died rescuing people from the sea—when she was a little girl and Tad was just a young man.
How I hate it when Tad and Uncle Gil have to take the boat out in a storm. Auntie hugs him so fiercely when he comes back, and he must pet her until she quiets and releases him. It is the only time I ever see her affection for Uncle Gil. Tad says it is his duty as lightkeeper, but I am glad when the waves are so strong that they push the boats back to the shore. I am!
For a man, Tad is very neat and tidy and orderly, but he does not like fancy things. He doesn’t like the Stewarts very well. I don’t think he’ll ever go to tea, though they invite him every year. I don’t think he likes any of the families that come here for the holidays. It is rather odd to see them with their servants and all the baskets. Mrs. Stewart brings her own maid and crates and crates of china. I love the cups and the silver tea set, though I am afraid to drink my tea. Imagine if I were to break a cup. I should be ashamed, and yet I still love them so; they are absurdly fragile.
May 8
I think I will go to the Basin after supper to see if there are any boats. Yet if Allan is there, how shall I greet him? He kissed me on the lips when he left last fall, and I was so surprised. It was really only a peck, I suppose. He will be thirteen years old this year, and I think that I will not be able to tutor him for much longer. It was so sudden. What did he mean by it? I didn’t expect him to do such a thing, and now I cannot tell whether I am displeased or not. There is a part of me that is a little sad to see him grow up. I am only six years older, but still I am a young woman and he has become…a youth. He will want a man now to teach him.
Allan is a fine-looking lad. He is very fair, and his eyes are a curious and lively blue. But his feet are enormous and his boots sometimes so clumsy. He is a playful rascal at times, and sometimes I must be wary to be the prim teacher. Especially around George. But I think I must call him Mr. Stewart and not George any longer; he is very…reserved in some ways, even though I have known him since I was ten. I remember Allan, too, when he was a very little boy and Mrs. Stewart asked Mother if I would watch him. Allan has always been like a puppy, and sometimes I have a terrible time keeping him out of trouble. I am sure George thought I was party to the untying of his boat last year. It was terrible! Five of his canvases were lost—completely ruined!—but it was one of Allan’s ill-advised pranks. I could not condemn him in front of their stepfather—he is so awful with his punishments! But I am sure that George thinks I am a foolish, irresponsible person.
I do hope the Stewarts won’t come until the storms are over. Mr. Samuels says we are due for a big one for certain. He says that whenever his legs start aching in a certain way, he can tell a storm is brewing. I think Tad half believes him. I certainly believe him.
“Not like November ’81, though,” he always says. “There’ll never be a storm like that one again in my day.” And then that awful story about all the bodies from the Fairweather and the boy he found, drowned.
I can see the Bay from my window, and that dark blue color is unmistakably ominous. Besides, the leaves of the aspen are trembling and revealing their silvery underbellies—a sure sign of a storm.
The trees always warn us, if only we would heed them.
May 11
I wish that George’s paintings had not been lost last summer. I am sure he must still think poorly of me.
Sometimes my own insignificance oppresses me. I am like the trees in this, am I not? We pay so little attention to them. And yet, how beautiful they are. How unpredictable and moody and wonderful and intelligent…
I think I will go down to the Basin when Uncle Gil goes this afternoon and perhaps walk over to the Lodge, just to see if the boats are in or if any are coming. I do hope that the Stewarts will wait, for it is far too dangerous to sail.
May 15
The Stewarts came early this morning! The Bay was quite rough, and they had a few anxious moments navigating the channel into the Basin. Not Mrs. Stewart though, or Effie with her new baby—they will come in a few days. But George and Allan, and their stepfather, have all arrived safely. They brought a cow again this year and two horses. The poor beasts seemed quite glad to be on land once again and were all quite docile. There is a new man to take care of the horses, and it seems Susan has agreed to be the Lodge’s housekeeper for the summer. She brought her daughter, Charlotte, to help with the housework. Charlotte is just a little thing, only eight, and quite shy.
Allan is almost as tall as I am! I was quite astounded. He will tower over me by the end of the summer, I am sure of it. At first I was confused about how to behave with him. No doubt initially I was a little cool, but honestly I think he has quite forgotten his improper kiss. He whooped and whistled and pumped my hand up and down when he saw me; it was quite a display, and I was embarrassed in front of George. He shook hands with me quietly and asked after Tad and Mother, and then attended to the boats. Old Mr. Stewart was in a terrible mood, and he spoke quite roughly to Uncle G., as if he were a boat hand.
There seem to be even more baskets and crates this year, if that is possible. There is quite a stack of furniture and many carpets all rolled up, and Susan had two of her heavy irons in her bag instead of crating t
hem. She is such a funny one about pressing her precious linens.
Auntie A. thinks that Mrs. Stewart pines for her first husband—George and Allan’s real father. He died of influenza many years ago, when Allan was still a little baby. But she must be very rich to come on holiday here year after year. I do not care at all for their stepfather. He is harsh and very stern-looking, and terribly grim in his demeanor. I was truly reassured to discover that there is no shared blood between George and old Mr. Stewart, though he is cousin to Mrs. Stewart’s first husband and that is why he shares the same last name. I am so glad he isn’t their blood father. Am I uncharitable? George is almost twenty years older than Allan, and I think he tries to be a good brother. Allan is really quite wild—not in a bad sort of way but…in an animal sort of way. His stepfather is very severe, and so I cannot in good conscience betray Allan, in any of his pranks, to such a rigid and exacting disciplinarian.
May 16
Mrs. Stewart and Effie—I must remember to call her Mrs. Ferguson the first time I see her—will come in two days with her little girl. Allan says that George is going to do a great deal of painting and that he, Allan, is going to catch the largest fish that ever was seen on Georgian Bay. George laughed and said that if a reputable source confirmed the catch, he would give him a dollar. Allan jumped about as if he already had his dollar, and of course he upset one of the boats, and then suddenly he was in the water. The Basin is not so deep near the shore, but Allan is not a strong swimmer, and I rushed to help him. I did not realize it, but George was close behind me, and he pulled me back a little roughly. Then he stepped into the water to rescue Allan, who was bellowing that he was drowning and thoroughly enjoying all the commotion.
I must have been nursing my arm, though I don’t recall that it was really hurting me—but Uncle Gil saw me and asked me about it. I so wished he hadn’t, but I think Uncle Gil was vexed at George’s rough manner. George was very sorry for pulling me back so hard, and he apologized twice. And then he inquired if I were wet and seemed anxious that I should be dry, for there was a wind stirring, and it is true that the air is still a little chill. I am sure that I was brusque in my response and awkward. I do not like to be fussed over.
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