Growing Pains (27 page)

He had one complaint against me, however. He said, “You work too hard. Always at it. Easy! Easy! Why such pell-mell haste?”

“Mr. Gibb, I dare not loiter; my time over here is so short! Soon I must go back to Canada.”

“You can work out in Canada—all life before you.”

I replied, “You do not understand. Our far West has complete art isolation…no exhibitions, no artists, no art talk …”

“So much the better! Chatter, chatter, chatter—where does it lead?” said Mr. Gibb. “Your silent Indian will teach you more than all the art jargon.”

I had two canvases accepted and well hung in the Salon d’Automne (the rebel Paris show of the year). Mr. Gibb was pleased.

My sister returned to Canada. The Gibbs moved into Britanny—I with them.

St. Efflamme was a small watering place. For six weeks each year it woke to a flutter of life. People came from cities to bathe and to eat—the little hotel was famed for its good food. The holiday guests came and went punctually to the minute, then St. Efflamme went to sleep again for another year.

The Gibbs’ rooms were half a mile away from the hotel. I had no one to translate for me. Except for talk with my parrots I lived dumb. Madame Pishoudo owned the hotel, her son cooked for us, her niece was maid. All of them were very kind to the parrots and me.

I was at work in the fields or woods at eight o’clock each morning. At noon I returned to the hotel for dinner, rested until three. Mr. Gibb, having criticized my study of the morning out where I worked, now came to the hotel and criticized the afternoon work done the day before. My supper in a basket, I went out again, did a late afternoon sketch, ate my supper, then lay flat on the ground, my eyes on the trees above me or shut against the earth, according as I backed or fronted my rest. Then up again and at it till dark.

I had a gesticulating, nodding, laughing acquaintance with every peasant. Most of them were very poor. Canadian cows would have scorned some of the stone huts in which French peasants lived. Our Indian huts were luxurious compared with them. Earth floor, one black cook-pot for all purposes—when performing its rightful function it sat outside the door mounted on a few stones, a few twigs burning underneath—cabbage soup and black bread appeared to be the staple diet. The huts had no furniture. On the clay floor a portion framed in with planks and piled with straw was bed for the whole family. There was no window, no hearth, what light and air entered the hut did so through the open door. Yet these French peasants were always gay, always singing, chattering.

I WATCHED TWO
little girls playing “Mother” outside a hut one day. For babies one dandled a stick, the other a stone. They sang and lullabied, wrapping their “children” in the skirt of the one poor garment clinging round their own meagre little figures. Whatever they lacked of life’s necessities, nature had abundantly bestowed upon them maternal instinct.

I stuffed paint rags with grass, nobbed one end for a head, straw sticking out of its top for hair. I painted faces on the rag, swathed the creatures in drawing paper, and gave each little girl the first dolly she had ever owned. She kissed, she hugged. Never were grand dolls so fondly cherished.

ON A ROUNDED HILL-TOP
among gorse bushes a little cow-herd
promenaded
her
vache
. I loved this dignified phrase in connection with the small, agile little Breton cows. The child’s thin legs were scratched by the furze bushes as she rustled among them, rounding
up her little cows. She had but one thin, tattered garment—through its holes you saw bare skin. She knitted as she herded. Shyly she crept nearer and nearer. I spoke to her in English. She shook her head. Beyond
promener la vache
I could not understand her. She came closer and closer till she knelt by my side, one grimy little hand on my knee. All the time she watched my mouth intently. If I laughed, her face poked forward, looking, looking. Did the child want to see my laugh being made? I was puzzled. There was great amazement in her big, dark eyes. Presently she fingered her own white teeth and pointed to mine.

“
D’or, d’or,
” she murmured. I understood then that it was my gold-crowned tooth which had so astonished her.

THERE WAS AN
aloof ridge of land behind the village of St. Efflamme. I climbed it often. On the top stood three cottages in a row and one stable. Two of the cottages were tight shut, their owners working in the fields. In the third cottage lived a bricklayer and his family. The woman was always at home with her four small children. They ran after her like a brood of chicks. The children sat round me as I worked; always little Annette, aged four, was closest, a winsome, pretty thing, very shy. I made the woman understand that I came from Canada and would soon be returning. She told the children. Annette came very close, took a corner of my skirt, tugged it and looked up beseeching.

The mother said, “Annette wants go you Canada.”

I put my arm round her. With wild crying the child suddenly broke away, clinging to her mother and to France.

This woman was proud of her comfortable house; she beckoned me to
come see
. The floor was of bare, grey earth, swept clean. Beds were concealed in the walls behind sliding panels. There was a great
open hearth with a swinging crane and a huge black pot. There were two rush-bottom chairs and four little wooden stools, a table, a broom and a cat. On the shelf were six Breton bowls for the cabbage soup smelling ungraciously this very moment as it cooked. A big loaf of black bread was on the shelf too.

They were a dear, kind, happy family. I made a beautiful rag doll for Annette. It had scarlet worsted hair. Annette was speech-less—she clutched the creature tight, kissing its rag nose as reverently as if it had been the Pope’s toe. She held her darling at arm’s length to look. Her kiss had left the rag nose black. Laying the doll in her mother’s arms she ran off sobbing … We saw her take a little bucket to the well in the garden. When Annette came back to us there was a circle round her mouth several shades lighter than the rest of her face. The front of her dress was wet and soapy. She seized her doll—hugged and hugged again.

THERE WAS A FARM
down in the valley—house, stables and hayricks formed a square. The court sheltered me from the wind. I often worked there. A Breton matron in her black dress and white cap came out of the house.

“Burrr! pouf! pouf!” she laughed, mocking the wind. Then, pointing to my blue hands, beckoned me to follow. She was proud of her cosy home. It was well-to-do, even sumptuous for a peasant. Fine brasses were on the mantel-shelf, a side of bacon, strings of onions, hanks of flax for spinning hung from the rafters. There was a heavy, black table, solid and rich with age, a bench on either side of the table, a hanging lamp above. There was a great open hearth and, spread on flat stones, cakes were baking before the open fire—a mountain of already baked cakes stood beside the hearth. The woman saw my wonder at so many cakes and nodded. Laying three
pieces of stick on the table, she pointed to the middle one—“Now,” she said; to the stick on the left she pointed saying, “Before”; to the right-hand stick, “After.” She went through the process of sham chewing, pointing to the great pile of cakes, saying “threshers.” I nodded comprehension. The threshers were expected at her place tomorrow. The cakes were her preparation. She signified that I might sketch here where it was warm instead of facing the bitter wind. Again she sat herself by the hearth to watch the cakes and took up her knitting.

The outer door burst open! Without invitation, a Church-of-England clergyman and two high-nosed English women entered. Using English words and an occasional Breton one, the man said the English ladies wished to see a Breton home. The woman’s graciousness congealed at the unmannerly entry of the three visitors. She was cold, stiff.

The visitors handled her things, asking, “How much? how much?”

“
Non! Non!
”

She clutched her treasures, replaced her brasses on the mantel-shelf, her irons on the hearth.

They saw the pile of cakes. The clergyman made a long jumbled demand that they be allowed to taste.

“The English ladies want to try Breton cakes.”

“
Non, non, non!
”

The woman took her cakes and put them away in a cupboard.

At last the visitors went. The woman’s graciousness came back. Going to the cupboard, she heaped a plate with cakes and, pouring syrup over them, brought and set them on the table before me.

“
Pour mademoiselle!
”

Such a smile! Such a nod! I must eat at once! Shaking her fist at the door, the woman went outside, shutting the door behind her—burst it open—clattered in.

“Ahh!” she scolded. “Ahh!”

Again going out she knocked politely, waited. She was delighted with her play-acting, we laughed together.

SOME FIVE MILES
from St. Efflamme was a quaint village in which I wanted to sketch. I was told a butcher went that way every morning early, coming back at dusk. I dickered with the butcher and drove forth perched up in the cart in front of the meat, hating the smell of it. I sketched the old church standing knee deep in graves. I sketched the village and a roadside Calvary. Dusk came but not the butcher. Dark fell, still no butcher. There was nothing for it but I must walk the five miles back. The road was twisty and very dark. I decided it would be best to follow along the sea-shore where there was more light. My sketch-pack weighed about fifty pounds. The sand was soft and sinky. I was always stopping to empty it out of my shoes. I dragged into the hotel at long last, tired and very cross. Madame Pishoudo beckoned me from her little wine shop in the corner, beyond the parlour.

“That butcher! Ah! Yes, he drunk ver’ often! His forget was bad; but Madame she does not forget her little one, her Mademoiselle starving in a strange village.”

Madame had remembered—she had kept a little “piece” in the cupboard. Its littleness was so enormous a serving of dessert that it disgusted my tiredness. Madame Pishoudo forgot that she had supplied “her starved Mademoiselle” with a basket containing six hard-boiled eggs, a loaf split in half and furnished with great chunks of cold veal, called by Madame a sandwich, half a
lobster, cheese, a bottle of wine, and sundry cookies and cakes. If one did not eat off a table, under Madame’s personal supervision, one starved!

ONE DAY I SHARED
a carriage with two ladies from Paris and we went sightseeing. I have half-forgotten what we saw of historical interest but I well remember the merry time we had. The ladies had no English, I no French words. We drank “
cidre
” in wayside booths, out of gay cups of Breton ware that had no saucers. I persuaded the woman to sell me two cups. I knew they sold in the market for four pennies. I offered her eight pennies apiece. She accepted and with a shrug handed them over saying the equivalent of “Mademoiselle is most peculiar!” We went into a very old church and my companions bowed to a great many saints. They dabbled in a trough of holy water, crossing themselves and murmuring, “
Merci, St. Pierre, merci
.” One of the ladies took my hand, dipped it into the trough, crossed my forehead and breast with it, murmuring, “
Merci, St. Pierre, merci!
” It would be good for me, she said.

“MR. GIBB,
I have gone stale!”

The admission shamed me.

Mr. Gibb replied, “I am not surprised. Did I not warn you?—rest!”

“I dare not rest; in a month, two at most, I must return to Canada.”

I heard there was a fine water colourist (Australian) teaching at Concarneau, a place much frequented by artists. I went to Concarneau—studied under her. Change of medium, change of
teacher, change of environment, refreshed me. I put in six weeks’ good work under her.

Concarneau was a coast fishing town. I sketched the people, their houses, boats, wine-shops, sail makers in their lofts. Then I went up to Paris, crossed the English Channel, and from Liverpool set sail for Canada.

I CAME HOME
from France stronger in body, in thinking, and in work than I had returned from England. My seeing had broadened. I was better equipped both for teaching and study because of my year and a half in France, but still mystiffed, baffled as to how to tackle our big West.

I visited in Victoria, saw that it was an impossible field for work; then I went to Vancouver and opened a studio, first giving an exhibition of the work I had done in France.

People came, lifted their eyes to the walls—laughed!

“You always were one for joking—this is small children’s work! Where is your own?” they said.

“This is my own work—the new way.”

Perplexed, angry, they turned away, missing the old detail by which they had been able to find their way in painting. They couldn’t see the forest for looking at the trees.

“The good old camera cannot lie. That’s what we like, it shows everything,” said the critics. This bigger, freer seeing now seemed so ordinary and sensible to me, so entirely sane! It could not have hurt me more had they thrown stones. My painting was not outlandish. It was not even ultra.

The Vancouver schools in which I had taught refused to employ me again. A few of my old pupils came to my classes out of pity,—their money burnt me. Friends I had thought sincere floated into my studio for idle chatter; they did not mention painting, kept their eyes averted from the walls, while talking to me.

In spite of all the insult and scorn shown to my new work I was not ashamed of it. It was neither monstrous, disgusting nor indecent; it had brighter, cleaner colour, simpler form, more intensity. What would Westerners have said of some of the things exhibited in Paris—nudes, monstrosities, a striving after the extraordinary, the bizarre, to arrest attention. Why should simplification to express depth, breadth and volume appear to the West as indecent, as nakedness? People did not want to see beneath surfaces. The West was ultra-conservative. They had transported their ideas at the time of their migration, a generation or two back. They forgot that England, even conservative England, had crept forward since then; but these Western settlers had firmly adhered to their old, old, outworn methods and, seeing beloved England as it had been, they held to their old ideals.