Growing Pains (34 page)

The other half of
Small
was called
A Little Town and a Little Girl
. It told of little old Victoria before she was even a town. Nearly all the people who lived there were English and they had a good many difficulties to cope with. They had only small Chinaboys as helps, no plumbing, only pumps and wells, no
electric light and no telephone. Indians went round the streets selling their beautiful cedar-bark baskets or trading them for old clothes, or peddling clams or pitch wood tied in bundles for the lighting of fires.
The Book of Small
told of the slow, conservative development of Canada’s most Western city.

My Editor was up North on a business trip. He had waited impatiently for the appearance of
Small.
She came the day he left. He wrote me, “I suppose you are being swamped with fan mail.”

No,
Small
lay shut in a drawer. I could not bear to look at her. She lay there for three or more weeks. No reviews, no letters came about
The Book of Small
. They had followed the appearance of
Klee Wyck
immediately or within a few days. In bitterness and disappointment I turned to the wall. My Editor came back from the North and, coming to Victoria, dashed into my room.

“The reviews? The letters?”

“There aren’t any. Oh, Ira, she’s flopped,
Small
has flopped dead, I’m so shamed!” and I cried till I nearly drowned him. He looked perplexed.

“I can’t understand it. Clarke and I both thought she was the equal, if not better than
Klee Wyck
. She can’t have flopped!”

I hid my shamed face in the pillow.

“I don’t care so much about
Small
and me, but I’ve disappointed you and Bill Clarke.”

I howled quarts of tears that had been strangled back for three weeks.

“The Press too, Small will be a dead loss to them. I wrote Bill last night and told him how dreadful I felt.”

“Cheer up, remember it’s war time and everything is higgledy-piggledy. There has been a hold-up somewhere. It’s a marvel to get a
book published at all these days! All dates are uncertain. Reviewers can’t review till they have got the stuff, nor the booksellers sell till they have the books.”

He left me cheered, but not convinced. I could only wail, “She’s flopped, she’s flopped!
Small
’s flopped!”

“Silly!” said my Editor, “you’ll see.
Small
’s all right. Look at the reception
Klee Wyck
got;
Small
will too—give her time.”

Letters came from both Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. Kind letters they were, very upset that I should have thought
Small
had flopped. There had been delays, just as Eye had said, owing to war conditions. The date of publication had had to be postponed several times, the reviews could not come out till the critics got the books and read them. Shipments of books had been late going to the bookstores and libraries. The reviews were just as good, just as complimentary, as those of
Klee Wyck
.

Eye wrote from Vancouver, “What did I tell you? All who read Small (and everyone is reading her now) love her. Bookstores are sold out of copies!”

Mr. Clarke made his autumn trip to the West—dear Bill and his kind little wife felt so sorry about all the doldrums I had been through because of
Small.
Bill’s first question was, “Is the next book ready? I plan to publish one each year.” The script was ready, but we were deeper than ever in war. Hitler is a nuisance from every possible angle!

SPRING WAS YOUNG,
I over seventy. With Spring all about me I sat sketching in the clearing that was now given over to second growth—baby pines, spruce, hemlock, cedar and creeping vines, fireweed, bracken.

The clearing was off the Happy Valley Road at Metchosin, not far from Victoria. Seventy years had maimed me, loggers had maimed the clearing. I could no longer scramble over great logs nor break my way through networks of brambles, creep under bushes and drown myself crown-high in lush, young growth. I had to be taken out, set down and called for, which was a nuisance, but I got immense delight in just being there, in the quiet wood, nobody for company but Spring.

Though everything was so still, you were aware of tremendous forces of growth pounding through the clearing, aware of sap gushing in every leaf, of push, push, push, the bursting of buds, the creeping of vines. Everything expanding every minute but doing it so subtly you did not actually see anything happen.

IN SPITE OF THE DOCTOR
I went into the woods to paint a few times more. The longing was too terrific to subdue and I felt better. I
did not go in my old van (it was deteriorating with unuse so I had sold it). I rented a cabin and took a maid along to cook and carry for me.

The maid was too busy attending to her own work to bother about me; she carried my things out into the woods and came back for them and me later. I was very happy but the last expedition I over-did and came smash.

For a year painting lay dormant but I did some writing. One day a friend took my sister driving. On the way they planted me in a thick lonely place just off the high road while they took a long ride. It was here that I painted
The Clearing
and here the wild geese flew over.

Hark! Hark! High up in the blue, above the clearing, wild geese migrating. Honk, honk, ya honk! A triangle of noisy black dots.

Every Canadian thrills at the sound—the downpour of cackling honks broken, irregular, scattering with the sharp monotony of hailstones while the geese sail smooth and high, untroubled by fear of men, for migrating geese fly far, far above man’s highest shooting.

On the ground the wild goose is a shy, quiet fellow. In the sky he is noisy and bold.

I lifted my face to watch the honking triangle pass across the sky. The day was clear, not dazzle-bright. I could look into the face of the sky without blinking. There was just one cloud. The geese caught up with the cloud. The leader dove into it, his flock followed. For a few seconds the cloud nestled the geese to her breast, emptying the sky, muffling the honkings, but the company pierced through the cloud. The leader and those few
birds that fly in close formation behind him appeared, then the two long wavering side lines of singly-spaced birds emerged, to continue their way sailing, sailing into the North, one glad rush of going, one flock unswervingly following one leader. At that height each bird appeared no bigger than a small black bead, evenly strung one goose behind the other, a live necklace flung across the throat of heaven.

The racket passed over the clearing, the sky was again still, my eyes came back to the greying stumps amongst which I sat. Young growth had already hidden some. Even the echoes had forgotten how they had shrieked sympathy when the axes bit into the great original forest giants, forgotten the awful crash, the groan, the tremble of the ground as each tree fell.

Today the clearing was not sun-dazzled, rather it was illumined with spring, every leaf was as yet only half unfurled and held light and spilled some.

TODAY AT SEVENTY
I marvelled more at the migration of the geese than I had at the age of seven when, standing in our cow-pasture holding Father’s hand and looking up into the sky, I heard Father tell the story of bird-migration and only half believed. Today a new wondering came to me as I watched the flight. What of the old or maimed goose who could not rise and go with the flock? Of course there
was
the old, the maimed goose. What of him when the flock, young and vigorous, rose leaving him grounded? Did despair tear his heart? No, old goose would fill the bitter moment, pouring out proud, exultant honks that would weave among the clatter of the migrating flock. When the flock were away, animal-wise he would nibble here and nibble there, quietly accepting.

Old age has me grounded too. Am I accepting? God give me the brave unquestioning trust of the wild goose! No, being humans, we need more trust, our hopes are stronger than creatures’ hopes. Walt Whitman’s words come ringing,—
We but level this lift to pass and continue beyond
.

The Book of Small
Introduction by Sarah Ellis
ISBN:
978-1-55365-055-3

Growing Pains: The Autobiography of Emily Carr
Introduction by Robin Laurence
ISBN:
978-1-55365-083-6

The Heart of a Peacock
Introduction by Rosemary Neering
ISBN:
978-1-55365-084-3

The House of All Sorts
Introduction by Susan Musgrave
ISBN:
978-1-55365-054-6

Hundreds and Thousands: The Journals of Emily Carr
Introduction by Gerta Moray
ISBN:
978-1-55365-172-7

Klee Wyck
Introduction by Kathryn Bridge
ISBN:
978-1-55365-025-6

Pause: A Sketch Book
Introduction by Ian M. Thom
ISBN:
978-1-55365-229-8

The Complete Writings of Emily Carr
ISBN:
978-1-55054-578-4

Emily Carr and Her Dogs
ISBN:
978-1-55365-095-9

Opposite Contraries
ISBN:
978-1-55365-110-9