Emily Carr As I Knew Her

by Carol Pearson

  Many years ago, when Miss Carr was herself a girl, she had studied in San Francisco. Among the other students at the studio was a little hunch-backed girl that Miss Carr both liked and was sorry for. She had a habit that we often spoke of. The other students paired off in twos and threes, but the deformed little girl, who was eager for love of any kind, was generally alone. Quite often the class would go sketching, by tram, or boat. The hunch-back would slip up to any child on the dock and give her a penny just to wave! When one of us was sorry for herself, for any reason, the other would say, “I’ll wave—for a penny!” The skies would clear at once. But it was sad to think of the forlorn little butterflies that the hunch-back must have had. Miss Carr was so glad that a stray kitten she found one day and gave to the poor little girl returned her love. Even when she was a child, Miss Carr had a sensitive nature; not many young people would have thought of the hunch-back girl in connection with the stray kitten. Not many would have taken the trouble to help a kitten; a pat and, “Aw, poor kitty!” is all most young people have time for. There were times, when in the woods, or painting trees, that Miss Carr would refer to her heart as a bunch of cedar buds. Well, if she did something that she knew I was not sympathetic about, she would say, “Blame my cedar buds, there is a worm in them no doubt.” My reply would be, “The nicest butterflies come from the fattest worms!” We would laugh; but when the shoes were first put in the garden for the mice, the rose bush made to grow, the turtle put on the little sick boy’s fishing string, I used to wonder if maybe the little butterfly hadn’t already hatched, and I was happy just to live right there, in a heart so big and warm.

  TIDES, SANDS, AND WIND

  IT was in the fall of 1941. We had gone miles, or so it seemed. Emily Carr was in her wheelchair, breathing much more easily because of the fresh air, in spite of the strong winds that did their best to blow her rugs out to sea! It had been early morning when we had set out, our lunch packed. The absence of the dogs and monkey was banging at our hearts, leaving a hole in the middle of what would otherwise have been a lovely day. We kept the conversation going, afraid to let it lapse as we usually did so easily. Each knew the other would not mention the animals, but each wanted to save the other the suffering a silence caused. Their absence was as vivid as an electric sign flashing off and on, on a dark night.

  It had been nearly six years since I had seen Woo. When illness had taken over the planning of Emily Carr’s life, the little monkey, after careful thought, had been given to the Vancouver Zoo. It had been in the winter, and a trip East, to me in Ontario, would have been too much for her. Monkeys require a lot of attention, and Miss Carr was so thoughtful, always, of those caring for her interests, and did all she could to lighten their duties even though, as in this case, it nearly broke her heart.

  The Zoo authorities notified Miss Carr, about two weeks after Woo’s arrival, that she had died, they said of a broken heart. I have always thought they could have spared her the news, if not of the death, at least of the cause.

  The little dogs had gone their way, some naturally, sadly, it is true, as in the case of all the pets we hold dear. The rest had gone as gifts, to homes where they had been longed for, and where love was waiting for them. Miss Carr knew how it would be without them, but she knew, too, they would be happy in their new homes, as soon as they became settled. The few budgies, the English doves, the one spaniel that were kept seemed a trifle. “Any fool can feed a dove,” she said! But the sniff that accompanied the remark took the sting out of it. Miss Carr had for some time tried to keep the pets with her, but it is surprising how few people understand the care of animals.

  Miss Carr’s home seemed’ utterly different to me without them. Only the sparkle in her eyes was the same, and it was often dimmed out with the pain she had to suffer. Often her hand would drop over the edge of the bed to pat the little head that was not there. Ginger Pop had almost reigned there for years. Or a choice bit of her dinner would be cut off and set to one side, for a minute or two, before her eyes would go shiny. (CoCo was a fussy eater and had to be coaxed the last year or so.) She would remember, and slowly mix the bit in among the rest on her plate and set it aside on the tray. A home that has always been full of “creatures,” is like a home bare of furniture without them. And a heart that is suddenly stripped of them, is like an unlit stove on a winter’s day; no warmth, just little shivers and chills are circulated from it. The very fact she said so little made the loneliness and longing so clear.

  The day before this picnic, we had been out for a walk, along the top of the same cliff overlooking the sea. The tide had been out, a group of children had been playing in the sand, digging holes, making sand houses, burying each other, playing, as children have played for years, in the sand. But they were gone, when we had reached our vantage point, far up on the cliff. The sandy beach resembled scar tissue from away up there; the holes were like open wounds. We did not linger; though very little had been said about the state of the beach it had impressed itself in our memories.

  Today the tide had been in and had gone out again, smoothing out all traces, leaving only its own pretty ripple, like little congealed wavelets in the sand. “Look, Child,” said Miss Carr, “see the sands? All laid fresh and new, yesterday’s upheaval erased completely. If our lives could only be as simple as that. There is a story there in the sands, but I am too tired to find it. Think it over, Baboo; some night we will swap our story of the sands.”

  We moved on, still missing the little dog tracks that were not there.

  The wind continued to blow, this time in our faces, as we made the return journey, past the observatory on the big hill. Miss Carr joked about the type of sail she was going to invent, to put on her wheelchair, to make our trips easier for me. In the distance, coming towards us, down the hill, was a large policeman, walking slowly, evidently deep in thought. I had been pushing on the hills for some time and was breathing pretty hard. Miss Carr suggested I stop a while to rest, but I was not tired, just puffing. To make the time go faster and take my mind off the push, as she always tried to do, she started to joke. The big policeman was still some distance away. “When we get our sails, Baboo,” she said, “it will be hard on poor old policemen like that. Imagine his tired old flat feet, trying to catch us, as we tear along breaking all restrictions!”

  As we passed the big man, he smiled at me, nodded and touched his big policeman’s hat to her. Then he turned and fell into step beside me on the steep hill. Taking hold of the chair, he said, nicely, “May I?” His manner was gentle. He talked to her about the condition of the pavement, the size of the swans in the park, anything, as he continued to push her, with ease, up the long hill. Mom hardly spoke.

  When we had gained the top, as he turned to resume his unhurried way, I thanked him, and Miss Carr said, “Officer, I think you have beautiful feet.” That was all. I am sure he smiled. He touched his cap again, and continued down the hill. Often I have wondered what it was I missed by not hearing her “story of the sands.” My presence was needed in the East so I never got a chance to hear it.

  CORKS, PLUGS, AND “STOP HER”

  CRAZY titles you think? Well, read on. You will find that these, like everything else even remotely connected with Emily Carr, if given a name by her, have been very aptly named.

  Have you ever been confined to your bed by illness? Then you will know how you have groaned inwardly at the thought of another long day to be got through. When friends are busy and the family at work, hours drag so. It is much worse to be confined to your bed, not absolutely ill, but ailing and uncomfortable, and be visited or, as Emily Carr would say, “attacked” by people you know slightly, or by those for whom you have no particular liking, and nothing in common. They invariably stay on and on, tapping their fingers, smoking till the air is blue, swinging their feet, or chewing gum, and talking! Poor Mom, she had them all down pat. Though they were not funny to contend with, it was funny to hear her
describe them! During the three-year period which she spent in bed, she had had them all, and her descriptions were good movie material!

  The mousey little people come because they feel it is their duty to you, or your mother, whom they may have known years before. They come and sit, and shuffle their feet, wiggle in their chairs, till you, in desperation, point out the little room at the end of the hall! They twist their gloves, snap their purses, consult their watches, only speak when spoken to, but never go. In both these cases, hours go by, while the patient’s temperature steadily rises.

  Because it was too hard on Miss Carr to be left at the mercy of the public (who often have no mercy) when she was ill in bed, Mom and I worked out a plan. She had made many new friends, of course, since I had moved East, so I had no way of recognizing the real friends as they came to the door to see her. So, the visitors would be ushered in, and at once our plan would go into action. If the caller was welcome, Miss Carr would say, after the greetings were over, “Well, this is very nice.” That was my cue; all was well and I was to put the kettle on.

  But, if she asked right away, “Did you find the cork?” then the visitor was a “stayer,” and steady talker, and Mom needed help. In these cases tea was taken in as soon as it could be made, then in a short time I would enter again and say I was sorry but my patient had to rest at that hour, no matter what hour of the day or night it might be!

  It was nearly the same procedure when a stranger (to me) called. At once I would be asked about the “plug.” The plugs were worse than the corks. They got no tea.

  By the corks and the plugs, you knew them!

  As the day for my return to the East drew near, we inserted advertisements in the daily paper, in the hope of getting good help, which I could train a little before I left, to make it easier for Miss Carr. We decided on a nice, big-boned English girl, slow, but nice and clean. While I was there, things went along smoothly, but the letter that followed me home was funny. The girl had been schooled, satisfactorily, I thought, in our “plug” technique.

  One day a woman of means who, it turned out, was a prospective buyer from the States called. Miss Carr was meeting her for the first time, with, as it were, the best foot forward, even if it was in bed! The guest was asked to be seated. Then the girl turned to Miss Carr and asked clearly, “Ma’am, is this one a plug?” nodding her head in the guest’s direction. No pictures were sold that day.

  Another English maid had the nicest skin I have ever seen, but Mom says in England all the skins are nice, due to the climate. Our faces were red most of the time she was there, and it was not in any way her fault! She was one of those who drop their “h’s” and often when we put her sentences together, dressed in their “h’s,” the meaning was not what it had sounded like! If the puppy got out, she would call, “’Oops, watch, watch your blinkin’ neck, the ruddy pup’s out!” And “Oh crikey, I’m after gettin’ a blinkin’ blister on my stutterin’ ’eel.”

  Miss Carr enjoyed this one (most of the time), but tea was rationed then and drinking tea was Dora’s favourite indoor sport! And she was untidy about her dress, slip showing, things hanging; it upset Miss Carr’s artistic sense to have things continually untidy.

  Miss Carr was not one to complain, and, unless she was very ill, she preferred to look after herself. If someone called just to gossip (she hated gossip), or to find fault with things in general, she would chuckle later about how she had turned her visit into a tonic, and how she felt a lot better! She worked it this way, and only on people who, as she said, “had it coming.” When a gossipy caller arrived, Miss Carr would wait her chance, then start, and relate all her aches and pains and troubles, the ones she already had and those she was afraid she might develop. All pills and tonics were described in detail. Gossipy people are never sympathetic or interested, or she would never have done it. She said the complete indifference displayed by the caller, even though it was what she expected, never failed to get her goat, so that it acted like a tonic in itself, and she ate and slept better, after such a visit. When I asked, in fun, if it wasn’t hard on the callers, Miss Carr replied, with her chuckle, “Not on that brand.” But she added, “Do not let it backfire; if it happens the visitor is all sympathy, you will probably end up both in tears!” Her warning is well worth heeding, but it should not be hard to pick the type, and it would be rather fun.

  APRONS OR PINAFORES

  DURING the war years, Emily Carr, like the rest of the world, had trouble trying to get, and keep, good help. It was at this time that her heart was so bad. She was supposed to rest; but it is impossible to rest if things in the home are not going smoothly. When someone stays in bed it does not mean she is resting! A “homebody” is not able to lie and rest if plants need watering, or a budgie needs gravel. And Emily Carr always said sleeping pills did no good if a kitten was crying outside the door.

  Every week during the four bad years, I received two or three letters from her, depending on how she was feeling. They were all very interesting; some were funny, and some sad. Some came from her home, and some from the hospital or nursing home, depending on how she was at the time, but they always came. There were a few from her, written for her by her nurse, when she was too ill to do more than dictate.

  Every few months they would contain the same little bit: “Ads. in again.” The constant changing was hard on her. The spate of questions, “Where is this?” or “Where is that?” can be very wearing, especially for an active person, suddenly confined, who would find it much easier to get the article than to waste hard-to-get breath in the telling where it was. She dreaded the interviews. Miss Carr had her own names for all the maids, privately that is, and by their names you knew them! Some I remember were, Nimble, Dusty, Muddle, Starchy, Chuckles, and Scorchy (this one was bad!). Some were very good, but the good ones were always being looked up by former employers and offered more money, so they never stayed very long. The poor ones no one wanted. If she wrote me of a new one about to start, who had not yet acquired a nickname, she would then refer to her aprons to describe her; and it is funny how right she generally was in her reading of them. It would be something like this: “Good sensible wrap-around apron type,” or “frilly little pinafore, no use I’m afraid.” She said many times that when they came all dressed up for the interview she wished, instead of letters of reference, they would produce their everyday aprons!

  When the resting first started, there was still some hope of keeping a few of the pets. The advertisements stated plainly that lovers of animals only need apply. But some of the maids she got did not know the meaning of the word animal, I am sure! One, for instance, took in the breakfast tray, on the first morning, asking Miss Carr, then, what to do next. She was asked to feed and water the English doves, which were kept in a glassed-in end of the veranda. That was that. More than an hour went by. Not a sound was to be heard from the veranda. The phone rang, and continued to ring. Finally, Miss Carr could stand it no longer. In spite of all the doctor’s warnings, she got up, put a blanket around herself, and made her way to the veranda. Imagine her amazement, anger, and disgust, to find, huddled down in the corner of the doves’ cage, this “fond of animals” new maid! She had entered with the food, the doves, glad to get it, had “cooed” as doves do, and she was then too scared to walk out! I am surprised Miss Carr did not leave her there. I never did hear how she got back to bed!

  Some of her letters to me, written while Pussy-Foot was with her, were really funny. They would be going along neatly, and suddenly across the page there would be a great slithery line or, at times, a big blot. That would be when Pussy-Foot appeared, suddenly, at her elbow. She moved about without a sound of any kind. Always Miss Carr was very punctual. Once a routine was established, and proved satisfactory, that was the pattern that was followed. The day, at Miss Carr’s, started early; fires were lit at the same time every morning. She was awake herself, so naturally, being bedridden, sounds were very impor
tant to her. After she had moved from her big home, into her sister’s flat, the kitchen was next to her bedroom. It was quite natural, when seven o’clock came, to listen for the stove’s clatter, the clamour of the pots. There would be no sound. By the time she was quite on edge, the adjoining door would open soundlessly and the coffee smells would announce breakfast, all ready to be served. Funny though it seems now, it could be very annoying. Miss Carr had, on occasion, had specimens of the noisy, dish-breaking variety, which had caused (and received) their share of grumbles, but Pussy-Foot cured her of the very quiet ones!

  “There is no accounting for humour,” Miss Carr said to me one afternoon when I asked her to tell me of some of the funny things that had happened. Some of the little stories escape me till something happens to remind me. One I remember clearly.

  Rent Rant was her name for this one; if it reminds you of something, I think it is supposed to! She had been with Miss Carr only a week or so when this incident took place. Miss Carr had been a little better, and able to sit up for a while in the afternoons, in her studio where she had been working hard on a special picture of an Indian image, in which the one eye was enlarged and impressive, the other ignored completely, as the Indians are wont to do. She had been anxious to get it done for some time, and was so pleased one day, as she stepped back into bed, exhausted but happy, that it was finished to her satisfaction. Relaxed, she slept a little while, and awoke to find her “helper” of the moment, holding the picture up before her, with two eyes! “There, ‘e can rest now, Ma’am, I’ve done it for ya.” She certainly had! There was the picture, complete with a second eye, the wildest looking eye, quite yellow, but as the woman said, there were so many colours used in the picture already that she did not think it mattered much which she used, and it was, she said, a very “purty yallow!” Poor Miss Carr, she was quite speechless—with gratitude, this woman thought! “Oh, it’s all right, now don’t be thankin’ me, it’s the first time I’ve done, I daresay it’ll be the last, but it’s lots of chairs I’ve done in me time.” Remember now her name, Rent Rant!