by David Mason
It’s a good system, and every librarian I’ve known whose library contains any special collections understands this and cultivates these people.
Finally, after some five years of increasingly severe confrontations, Jim wrote a letter, a thirteen-page tirade, typed single space, outlining with specifics the entire deterioration at the ROM and what he saw as the destruction of his life’s work. He sent it out to twenty-three prominent people. Helen and Florence gave me a copy of the letter.
On reading this, I could easily see all of the signs of emotional turmoil this caused him; he saw his life’s work being destroyed, and the tone of the letter demonstrates a deterioration in his mental balance. He became increasingly strident, obsessive even. It indicated just how seriously Jim viewed the problem and, sadly, it also indicated that his mind, unable to cope with the enormity of the troubles he experienced, was showing signs of such severe stress that it became apparent that his physical health was at great risk.
Reading that letter is a melancholy experience. It shows us a man losing control in the face of blatant unfairness. Starting off in precise methodical order it lists incident after incident where Barlow’s incredible insensitivity caused problems. It becomes worse when he talks of a letter from Peter Swann, the director of the ROM, “ordering his retirement on June 30, 1970,” his 65th birthday having passed. It becomes obvious that this was Barlow’s doing, and a perfect indication of Peter Swann’s methods. It was easier for Swann to go along with Barlow and to get rid of Jim than to deal with the complications.
Jim actually lists the retirement record of nine other ROM people who continued working long after retirement age.
At this point the letter is beginning to show evidence of instability. Jim demands that Barlow, not he, be dismissed on June 30, and that the ROM appoint him curator for a five-year term, during which time Jim promised to clean up all the mess that Barlow’s stupidities had caused.
It would, of course, take a very brave or very determined director to do that, a man who cared far more about the institution’s well-being than his own. And, of course, the ROM did not have such a director.
By the time I finished reading the letter, I knew what had killed my uncle.
Many things, which I have despised all my life, had conspired to ruin his career, and, in fact, killed him: incompetence, followed by the use of power to cover up that incompetence; moral cowardice on the part of people who could have rectified things; self-interest trumping duty or even decency. It goes on and on.
I was filled with disgust, which rapidly turned into anger and determination.
Now in possession of the whole story, I went in to examine the library a second time. I didn’t think that the few really valuable books Jim had sold affected the value of the library that much. Rare books can be replaced with patience (and money, of course); what was important was the profusion of minor publications, offprints, monographs, many of them inscribed gifts from Jim’s colleagues worldwide. And, most important, the correspondence, also worldwide, with other birders, whether they were professional ornithologists or amateur enthusiasts.
Jim’s office was completely lined with bookshelves full of books, magazines and pamphlets, and there were several filing cabinets full of the papers accumulated over fifty years of work.
I was curt with Barlow this second visit and, in fact, was studying him closely, of which I’m sure he was aware. Nervous now rather than cordial, he clearly could see that I had been given the facts and a sheen of sweat was apparent on his face.
I opened a file cabinet and started examining the papers.
“Oh,” said Barlow. “No point looking at them. They belong to the museum, you can’t take them.”
I didn’t answer; the sweat became more pronounced.
“I’ll be calling in an appraiser, Mr. Barlow,” I said (purposely refusing to call him Doctor—by this point I was already taking no prisoners, my rage making me coldly ruthless). I knew the rules; papers generated in public institutions during an employee’s tenure are legally considered the property of the institutions.
I went to my friend Richard Landon, at the University of Toronto. I told him the whole story over lunch saying, “I want to sell the University of Toronto this collection. I believe it will certainly be the best such collection in Canada, and Jim Baillie was my favourite uncle and I want it at the U of T. I have complete freedom to act for Jim’s family. They’ll go along with my judgment. His collection being in the Fisher will show those creeps that some people think he was important.”
“Okay,” said Richard. “How do we proceed?”
“Because he was family, I’m going to avoid any possibility of suspicions or accusations, so I’m going to have Jerry Sherlock appraise it. Then I’m going to discuss the price and the family’s stipulations with Jim’s wife and daughter, then I’ll offer it to you. There won’t be any sales talks or any bullshit.”
“Okay,” Richard said. “I’ll speak to David Esplin and when you’re ready we’ll make an appointment with him.”
I called Jerry Sherlock and we went to the ROM. Barlow
hovered again while Jerry worked, getting even more nervous when Jerry, on my instructions, started going through the filing cabinets.
“You can’t have those. Why look there?” he said, the sweat on his face the measure of his increasing anger and anxiety.
Till then I was still being civil and correct, if completely formal. It was time to open hostilities.
“I want everything here, Mr. Barlow.”
“Everything? You can’t have it.”
“Well, it’s going to be in the appraisal. Perhaps it’s time for you to set up a meeting with Peter Swann.”
Barlow was furious, he didn’t know how to handle such blatant effrontery. Didn’t I know how things worked? He was the curator of a whole department in a major institution, and I, a mere punk, was telling him what was going to happen in his domain? What arrogant presumption.
“I’ll have an appraised value in a couple of days. Make an appointment anytime after that.”
Then I went to David Esplin, Richard’s colleague. Esplin had been hired by the university in 1965 to bring the university’s research collections up to the level they needed to be for post-graduate programs.
Esplin was abrasive, opinionated, brusque and confident, all the qualities needed to do what the University of Toronto had hired him to do, to build the essential base necessary for a great research collection for the major university in Canada. And to do it quickly.
Jerry Sherlock appraised the collection at $25,000.00, and I discussed it with Jim’s family. I suggested we ask less than the appraised value and make two stipulations. That it be called the James L. Baillie Collection, the university agreeing to continue building on it, and that it be confirmed in writing that anyone, no matter their age or qualifications, be allowed full access.
Except for calling it the Baillie Collection, these stipulations were unnecessary. They were really just a reflection of the importance the family and I gave to a proper recognition of Jim’s contributions to his field. The University of Toronto would automatically add to any such collection; after all, that’s their mandate. Otherwise there would be no point in any serious library buying anything. And, of course, as a public institution, anyone has a right to use it anyway, so both stipulations were pointless; they were just our way of emphasizing what was important to us. It was Jim’s passionate attention all his life to so-called amateurs, especially the young, which motivated that stipulation, and I knew Landon and Esplin would understand that.
Richard and I met with Esplin. I could tell that Richard had already explained all the relevant details. I gave Esplin the appraisal, told him the price and stipulations and told him my plans, what I intended to do afterwards and how I was going to do it.
“Okay,” said Esplin. “Let’s go look at it.”
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We made an appointment and went to the ROM.
Barlow hovered, watching closely and still sweating.
Esplin looked carefully for half an hour, turned to me and said, “Okay, I’ll take it, if you can deliver it. But don’t get me in any fights with this institution.”
No bargaining, no arguments. I’ve never forgotten that civilized gesture to a kid he must have known was operating mostly on nerve. He assessed my delicate position and accepted everything, his only stipulation being that I make no extra problems for him by my methods.
I told Barlow on the way out, “Mr. Barlow, let me know when we can meet with Peter Swann.”
A few days later Barlow and I entered Swann’s office. I had learned a great deal more during my lengthy preparations for the fight, having reread the letter and a relevant exchange of letters between Swann and Uncle Jim in the archive.
Peter Swann was an early example of what is now a quite common type of Canadian institutional executive. He had been hired to be the public face of the ROM, and his function, aside from managing a large institution, was to raise money from private donors to further the expansion of that major public institution. Governments—politicians—are notoriously cheap about delegating funds to culture, at least in North America. (I read recently that the French Government grants $150,000,000.00 a year to subsidize the Paris Opera. An opera house! It took many years of effort by private citizens like Hal Jackman before Toronto finally got an opera house, but we still remember the enraged cries of elitism by those Canadians who seem to believe that hockey is fine, but minority tastes are elitist snobbery.)
Whether Swann was the first institutional head whose primary function was to raise money in Toronto I’m not sure, but he might have been the first who sought public attention as a money-raising tactic, something which is now a primary function of the heads of public institutions. William Thorsell, a later head of the ROM, and Matthew Teitelbaum at the Art Gallery of Ontario, are current examples of that species. When governments increasingly lack the sophistication to understand that feeding souls is as important as building sewers and freeways, private citizens with vision become even more essential to a country’s culture, as do the directors of those public institutions which need private help.
Swann was constantly in the news, at public functions and dinners, and he was becoming quite well-known and I believe that he was very effective in raising funds. But what I discovered in my many talks with Jim’s friends and colleagues was that inside the museum it was a mess. Time after time I was told that Swann didn’t want to deal with the internal problems of the professional staff. I guess he felt he needed to concentrate on raising the public awareness of the ROM, and he therefore neglected inner administrative problems. I blamed Barlow strongly now for almost everything that had gone on, but I also felt Swann had committed sins of omission and bore some of the responsibility. His refusal to act or address the problem had exacerbated matters.
My strategy was to focus on Swann’s responsibility for this mess, and that is how I presented it to him.
Barlow and I entered Swann’s office, Barlow already sweating. By now my private name for him was Doctor Slippery, and it wasn’t just because of the ever-present sheen. Barlow couldn’t look me in the eye for more than a second or two. Swann sat us. He was not nervous, but seemed a bit apprehensive and very cautious; he was obviously a pro. He knew he had a problem, and perhaps a serious one. He knew I was family, so my anger would be more personal and therefore much more dangerous. Hurt pride is not to be placated by token offerings. He didn’t know where all of this might lead, and he was very alert.
We didn’t waste much time on pleasantries—what was the point when we both knew we’d better draw the lines early? Barlow only spoke once.
“Okay,” Swann said, “What do you want from me?”
I got right to it, laying out my position and what I would offer.
“Mr. Swann, you have a serious problem. Jim Baillie was a very public man and much loved by many people. Your institution treated him very shabbily. I have studied the evidence. His family is very confused and upset. I am also very angry and upset. But I’m not confused. With Jim’s letter and with what I’ve been told from people inside your institution, I have a very definite plan which I intend to pursue.
“You and I must reach an agreement here, otherwise you can be sure that you are going to have a situation to deal with where your opponent has nothing to lose and, furthermore, doesn’t have the slightest concern what it could cost him personally. However I’m going to suggest a solution which could solve the problem.”
“And that is?” said Swann, watching me closely.
“I’ve just sold Jim’s library to the University of Toronto,” I said. “But I offered them as part of the deal Jim’s whole office—the files, everything.”
It was here that Barlow spoke for the only time in the entire meeting. “He can’t have those, they belong to the museum.”
I ignored him and so did Swann. I continued.
“Mr. Swann, there are twenty-three copies of that long letter Jim wrote out there. I have the list he used to send them. If you heard Gordon Sinclair’s radio eulogy and read between the lines you will be aware that he has a copy. So do many others, influential and important people here, and throughout the world. Many of those people are ornithologists and academics, but many others are business people, the kind of people you need in order to raise the money that the ROM needs to raise. Here’s what I want, and here’s what I suggest.
“You let me take the entire contents of that office, and I will undertake to get those twenty-three letters back and destroy them. I, and Jim’s family, will get what we want, and you will avoid a public scandal which I assume you don’t want. Personally, I’d love a public scandal, but I’m trying to be professional, as a representative of the Baillie family. It’s more important to them that a personal monument to Jim be established than that they get revenge, especially when they aren’t even sure they understand what has happened. As for me, I would choose revenge, the more public the better, but unless I decide that’s necessary, I will let my regard for Jim’s family supersede that. That is my offer.”
Swann looked at me intently for about five seconds.
“Do you think you can get those letters back?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I believe I can.”
“It’s a deal,” he responded at once, confirming my first observation that he was a pro.
We shook hands and Barlow and I went back to Jim’s office.
“I have to go through the files before you pack them,” said Barlow. “To take out stuff that’s obviously the ROM’s property. Like official reports, and minutes of meetings, stuff like that.” His white face was shining with sweat.
“Weren’t you listening, Barlow?” (No longer even the subtle insult of “Mister.”) “I guess we’d better go back and see Swann,” I said. “Let’s go.” That was it. Doctor Slippery surrendered.
I packed and delivered the library. I wrote a letter to the twenty-three people explaining what I had done and why and got every letter back. I then wrote to every nature group I could find, from the Ontario Federation of Naturalists to obscure birder clubs everywhere, explaining that Jim’s very important library was now at the University of Toronto, and that the library would welcome donations of relevant papers to fill out the collection so that it would continue to be the greatest printed collection relating to ornithology in Canada.
Several of Jim’s friends donated much time to working gratis on the papers, transcribing Jim’s handwritten notes and advising the Fisher staff, their way of paying homage to their friend and guide.
The response was enormous and very gratifying to me. Regularly, as Jim’s old friends and associates have died off, more important material has been left to the university.
So Uncle Jim’s legacy is intact and cont
inues to grow. Booksellers get a fair number of opportunities in a lifetime to both further their professional ambitions and to also contribute to the common good, but I can’t imagine that anything I do will ever supersede what I managed to do here. And I was fully aware at the time that probably nothing in my future would measure up to that triumph. I peaked early in the glory race, I guess you could say.
It is unlikely that Dr. Slippery will ever read this, having long since gone back to the States. I kept track through occasional queries over the years, and heard that, in the manner of all big institutions, which never fire people unless they commit unmentionable moral transgressions, he was locked in his office (the term universities use to designate people whom they are trying to keep from causing any more damage) and allowed to continue until retirement. He may not even be alive, for all I know.
In a further irony, Swann himself was fired a couple of years later by the ROM Board of Directors. The charges? An article in a newspaper quotes a board member: “Any institution that has a President who … has lost and continues to lose the support of the backbone of the museum, the curatorial staff, doesn’t deserve to have his contract renewed.”
It’s impossible here not to refer to the old cliché: “What goes around, comes around.”
Some time after everything was completed, Florence and Helen asked me up to the house. After some hugs and congratulations they presented me with a cheque for $2,000.00. I refused. I tried to explain what it meant to me. To not only triumph over the bad guys, like John Wayne and Alan Ladd, whose films formed my early moral base, but to do so on behalf of that wonderful man, one of my earliest true heroes, was more than enough reward for me. In truth, I didn’t want to soil my triumph with profit. But they had their own agenda, and they insisted that I take the money. It became apparent that their insistence was based on the same feelings as my own. Their pleasure at the outcome was based on the same emotions. Family pride, the importance of the recognition of our beloved Jim’s importance, and this wonderful result which we believed his vindication.