The Life of Margaret Laurence

by James King

  In the late seventies, Margaret had many responsibilities which ate up her time. For example, she had to read a great deal of the work of others when she served as member of the jury for the Governor General’s Award for fiction, reading an average of seventy books a year. She worried about the sale of her books, particularly the Manawaka novels, which were available from two paperback publishers, Bantam-Seal and the New Canadian Library. The price of the Seal mass-market edition was markedly lower than the quality paperback edition. She informed Jack McClelland in May 1978:

  As I mentioned to you on the phone, when I agreed to have all the Manawaka books brought out in Seal editions, just as when I agreed to have THE DIVINERS brought out in the Bantam Canada edition, I was concerned that the mass paperback edition would cut into the NCL sales. I thought this made sense at the time. Now, however, I learn that Bantam has sent out a catalogue including the Seal editions, making a big play of having all my Manawaka books in cheap paperback, and has circulated this catalogue throughout the academic world in this country. You said you couldn’t prevent them from doing so. But I thought M & S owned a controlling share in Seal Books. In the catalogue, no mention is even made of Seal except the emblem at the end of the catalogue, in a very tiny reproduction. The Bantam and Seal editions of my books sell for $1.95. The NCL for prices ranging from about $2.25 to $3.95. No fanfare whatsoever was made of the fact that, with the publication of THE DIVINERS in the NCL, now all my fiction is available in that series. With Bantam giving lots of publicity to the Manawaka books in mass paperback editions, what will obviously happen is that these will supplant the NCL editions for use in school and university courses, thus cutting my income on these books approximately in half.

  In the following year, her royalty payments took a sharp dip. From the time of the publication of The Diviners until 1979, as she told Hugh MacLennan—who taught at McGill—“my income was just about as much as a full professor of English—I thought, wow! And that really was something, Hugh, as you know. However, last year my income dropped by almost exactly 50%, a nasty shock that told me I had been living in a fool’s paradise—taking my time getting into another novel, getting out to dozens of high schools and university classes in CanLit, mostly unpaid, spreading the good word.”

  That decline may have contributed to her resolve in 1980 to sell the cottage, where she continued to spend the summer months, although her explanation of her decision was somewhat different:

  It has been wonderful for 10 years, and I wrote most of THE DIVINERS there, but I think it has served its blessed purpose. I find it a bit of a hassle to have 2 places, and in 6 years I have come to love this village very much and to feel a part of this small community, so I don’t need to get away. Also, the cottage was so much bound up in my mind with the writing of THE DIVINERS that I found I couldn’t really write there any longer. This doesn’t mean that if I manage to write another novel I’ll have to sell up here in Lakefield! The cottage itself wasn’t a part of the novel, but that particular view of the Otonabee river really was and that is the first time ever that the view I looked at, each time I raised my eyes from what I was writing, came into the writing naturally and as if meant to be. I think, too, I am trying to simplify my life in order to concentrate as much as I can on what is ahead, I hope.

  “Simplify” was exactly what Margaret was not able to do, so demanding were the requests she received and so overly demanding were her expectations of herself.

  One activity to which Margaret gave her left-over time from various causes and public appearances was children’s literature. In 1979–80, she published three books for young readers: The Olden Days Coat, Six Darn Cows and The Christmas Birthday Story. Jack McClelland, the publisher of the first title, was not amused to learn in July 1979 that she had another “juvenile” coming out with James Lorimer in the same fall season. Why was this happening?, he asked Margarets editor, Jennifer Glossop, who was also startled by the news. The “Boss” cannot have been thrilled by the rather nonchalant answer the phone call produced: “When I called her to ask about it,” Glossop reported to McClelland, “she was very apologetic and said she should have told you about it earlier but she doesn’t think it will be competition … The book is part of a series for young readers (ages 5–6).”

  Margaret was not quite as carefree about her Christmas book, published by McClelland & Stewart and Knopf, as she told McClelland on August 9, 1980: “the little book may be condemned by the same rednecks who condemned The Diviners, as blasphemous, because Mary and Joseph don’t care whether their child turns out to be a girl or a boy. Actually, I hope that doesn’t happen—what a hell of a way to sell books. I’ve had enough of being called nasty names.”

  This book, as she told Malcolm Ross, had an interesting genesis: it had been written twenty-one years earlier “when my kids (in Vancouver) were 4 and 7. I lost my only copy in 1962 when I moved to England with the kids, and only found it 3 years ago, when I discovered quite by accident that it was still being used in the Unitarian Church Sunday School in Vancouver. I got a copy, re-wrote it to some extent, and asked the Toronto artist Helen Lucas if she would do the pictures.” The expected condemnation came from a different source, as can be seen in the wounded writer’s letter to McClelland: “Wow! Was that ever a stinker of a review in The Globe last Saturday! That same babe, Jacquie Hunt, whoever she is, did a review last year of THE OLDEN DAYS COAT, and said substantially the same thing—text terrible, pics great.”

  The politics of the book world amused and frightened her. In May 1981, she was surprised and only limitedly pleased when the Canadian Booksellers’ Association named her “Author of the Year”: “Somewhat to my embarrassment, the CBA has apparently named me Author of the Year. I certainly don’t know why, as I haven’t published an adult novel in years, but I suppose it is the re-issuing of some of my books in paperback plus the kids’ books.” The one-thousand-dollar award was, in any event, “better than a slap across the face with a wet fish.”

  In the early eighties, Margaret became involved in literary power politics of a very different sort. For some years, she and Adele had kept an informal “Hit List,” sometimes referred to as “The Shit List.” Names entered there were those who had in some way offended either woman. Since the list was a conjoint one, an enemy of one woman was seen as the enemy of the other. In her career as a writer, Adele Wiseman—who had not published a great deal—had obviously not been as successful as Margaret, who gracefully maintained she wrote for her own time whereas Adele wrote for the ages. Much more interested than Margaret in the intrigues within the book world, Adele had also become increasingly bitter over time at the lack of recognition she had received. She would often become vituperative and, Margaret, out of a sense of loyalty, would join her lead. At the end of her life, Margaret made a critical reference to Adele in her journal: Adele “of course has been my dearest friend & colleague for so long. But sometimes.” In those crossed-out words, the reader can catch a glimpse of her feeling of exasperation at the relentlessness of Adele’s rage. Margaret may not have liked the rage, but she knew Adele had been unfailingly loyal. At some level, it must have been difficult for Adele to remain a close and uncritical friend to a writer of celebrity status. Adele’s anger at the injustices she endured was never focused on Margaret. So close was she to her that she could forgive her for obtaining the fame that always eluded her. In fact, she continued to relish Margaret’s success. The bitterness was only part of her character—she remained vibrant, warm and compulsively generous. As young women, the two had formed a bond based on the notion that they had to comfort each other in the face of life’s numerous difficulties. That compact was never abandoned.

  Although Margaret’s interest in the Union had remained strong, she had never wanted any kind of limelight. She was willing to work on committees but otherwise did not take a strong daily interest in the politics of the organization. Adele acted otherwise. She was furious when more and more non-fiction writers (i.e. journalis
ts) started to join the Union in increasing numbers; June Callwood’s election as chairperson in 1979 was for her the nadir. As far as she was concerned, the Union was no longer going to be a band of essentially creative writers joined together (June Callwood, however, was a founding member of TWUC). Adele and three other writers (Peter Such, Joyce Marshall and Judith Merril)—known as “The Gang of Four”—resigned as a group in the wake of problems with office staff; at the time, accusations of financial irregularities were bandied back and forth. Margaret, obviously feeling under pressure to be loyal to Adele, resigned from the Union on October 8, 1982, citing, among other reasons, the Union’s dismal relationship with the Canada Council, the “partying” fervour that had taken over recent AGMs, the Union’s unwillingness to challenge the federal government on important political and social issues. “I do not resign in anger at all, but rather from a sense that I can no longer give anything to the union, nor the union to me.… I do feel that the union has departed from its original intentions.”

  At about this time, however, Margaret declined to join the “Club,” Adele’s attempt to form an alternative consortium to the Writers’ Union. Moreover, none of her stated reasons for leaving the Union tie into Adele’s. There is, perhaps, a more direct—although contorted—way to explain what happened in 1982, one which is hinted at in a letter to Marian Engel of January 31, 1983: “I would just like you to know that my letter of resignation from the union (which is not a confidential letter and can presumably be seen by anyone who wishes to check out my carefully considered reasons) was written before I discovered that my daughter had been subjected to the distressing phone calls of which you are aware. The two things were in no way connected.”

  Many members of the writing and publishing community in Canada were well aware that Margaret drank too much. Although no one broached the topic with her, many friends and acquaintances thought she was killing herself. Marian Engel—whose novel Bear had enjoyed a remarkable succès de scandale in 1976 and herself a heavy drinker—was concerned about Margaret. In her cryptic diary entries for October 26, and October 30, 1982, a few weeks after the resignation, Marian—who had discussed the matter in detail with her good friend, Peggy (Margaret) Atwood—mentions that Margaret had been outraged by Peggy’s criticism of her drinking in a phone call to Jocelyn, then executive editor of Toronto Life magazine. She began by referring to the animosity that had been unleashed, placing herself and Peggy on one side, Margaret and Adele on the other.

  26 October

  Now we are gossips, & traitors & very hurt. Letters, phone calls flying.

  She is quite right that she [Margaret] helped me more than I did her. Should rather die than take the lower position. The dreadful thing is that if she goes on drinking she will.

  She’s written off the Union, most writer friends. Except of course Adele whose hate grows like a ball of butter, it seems.

  Well, too, if Adele forms her salon, it will get the Union back to being a Union not a club.

  I was hurt. Now I’m relieved. Something had to be done. Peg did it; we backed her. There’s a crisis.

  Oh, I hope she doesn’t withdraw entirely. I hope she SEES.

  It wasn’t until Peg told me drinkers were boring that I saw.

  Ms jealousy of P is on the surface now—surfacing for Survival.

  Oct 30

  … now I realize how few friends I have here & without Margaret. And will she savage me? Oh Margaret, Margaret I loved you, but no one is God & it is madness to believe lies.

  * * *

  Long talk with Peg about Margaret

  She spoke to Joe

  Joe told not Marg but Adele

  Peg says that the old Marg doesn’t exist any more.

  Adele has a new patient

  Marg’s pretences are now out in the open

  She has nowhere to go

  Marian Engel’s fragmentary entries seem to suggest that events had reached a crisis point, perhaps culminating in Margaret’s resignation from the Union, and thus having “nowhere to go.”

  In the autumn of 1982, a visiting writer friend told Peggy Atwood that something had to be done about Margaret Laurence’s excessive drinking. This friend insisted Peggy was the person to undertake the delicate task of confronting Margaret about her self-destructive behaviour. Peggy was not certain this was a good idea, presumably on the grounds that a person who drank excessively would not stop if ordered to do so. She decided to phone Jocelyn, who politely responded: “Mum may drink too much, it worries me too, but that’s her business.” Jocelyn decided not to tell her mother about the phone call but, obviously bothered by it, confided in Adele, who informed a furious and humiliated Margaret about it.

  Since Margaret’s return to Canada, her friendship with Margaret Atwood had undergone a curious metamorphosis. Although she was kind—sometimes excessively so—to other, especially younger, writers, she had always been a bit uneasy about Margaret Atwood, who she maintained was a gifted poet but not a great novelist. In Canada in the late seventies and early eighties, Margaret Atwood was the only other woman writer anywhere in the same league. Jealousy amongst writers is a dark, complex emotion—one difficult for Margaret to admit to or even think about. Once, she told a friend she had not become a writer in order to enter the “immortality stakes” but she did not completely (or realistically) believe that. And, in reality, she felt that Margaret Atwood was the only other woman in Canada who could surpass her.

  In her turn, Atwood was no longer willing to play the role of acolyte. In her dealings with Laurence, she had found the older writer excessively self-centred, a relationship dictated on her terms being the only option. Friendship—which implies equality—was out of the question. And Atwood—who had a genuine affection and concern for Margaret—was perplexed by the older woman’s remoteness. But Margaret Laurence, no longer able to write, was threatened by her and was, in turn, resentful. Atwood certainly had not enjoyed being around a drunken Margaret during her one visit to the cottage: she had been both bored and dismayed.

  Under pressure, Peggy Atwood made a phone call that sadly led to nothing but trouble. Margaret was furious, but she never confronted Peggy, although she placed her at the top of the “shit list.” She obviously felt that Peggy had wanted to humiliate, not assist her. In subsequent years, Peggy would hear nasty stories about herself disseminated by either Margaret or Adele. Margaret’s departure from the Union—with which both Engel (as founding Chairperson) and Atwood (Chairperson 1981) were intimately involved—may well have been her public response to the phone call.

  This story has a strange coda. Marian Engel had been a friend of Margaret’s before the Atwood incident. When, two years later, Marian Engel was dying, that relationship was revived and intensified, leading to exchanges of letters in which Margaret attempted to define her own particular brand of feminism and to locate a new writing voice. The link forged between the two was one based on the fact they were professional women writers—both with broken marriages—who had tried to balance the rearing of children with the demands of their calling.

  Personally, I think that a lot of women writers in this country, whether with children or not, and whether with mates or not, have been HEROIC. But one thing we have NOT been is bloodless, and you know, Virginia [Woolf]’s writing, much of which I read long ago, never did strike a chord in my heart.… it always seemed so cerebral, so bloodless.… But she never chose to write about things closest to her own heart and spirit, and obviously I am not talking here about writing in any direct autobiographical way. I think a lot of Canadian women writers … quite frankly … have been braver.

  If Virginia Woolf was not a suitable model, Jane Austen was:

  …the more I read her and think about her, such a subtle and strong feminist! In them days! But those days, apparently so far back, are not so very different from our own. Is this not always the way? I think so. Strong women did always have the difficulties that Austen presents, and people like you and I have lived through
that, too. With, I may say, tolerable success. We pass on a whole lot of things to the children, both female and male, or so I hope and pray and know.

  Another woman writer Margaret greatly admired was Emily Brontë, whose Wuthering Heights she had often picked up on sleepless nights. At the very end of her life, she told herself: “I am in spirit like wild Emily, but in life more like Charlotte.”

  After she abandoned work on three projects for novels, Margaret became determined on one centred on mothers and daughters, obviously a book which could talk about “strong women” and the “passing on” of certain vital, often ignored issues, overlooked because they were part of female history. (The surviving fragments of the novel, Dance on the Earth, are described in the Appendix.) By May 1984, having determined to write such a book as non-fiction, she told Marian: “I find myself writing odd things, not a novel, more like things about my ancestral families, especially the women. History has been written, and lines of descent traced, through the male lines. More and more I want to speak about women (always have, of course, in my fiction, but now I want to get closer to my own experience.… not necessarily directly autobiographical, but close, I guess). We will see. What stuns me, looking at my own family, is how pitifully little I know about the women, even my grandmothers … and how much about the men. Lost histories … perhaps we must invent them in order to rediscover them.” The act of “rediscovery” and “re-invention” of “lost histories” would be her last book, Dance on the Earth.

  20

  THE DIVINER

  (1986–1987)

  BY THE EARLY 1980s, Margaret had made a good recovery from the banning controversy. She no longer felt like some sort of undesirable in Lakefield. In May 1981, she was even an enthusiastic participant in the Victoria Day celebrations.