“Not bad.”
Her father spread it over his newspaper, put on his spectacles and said, “Urn!” and her mother said, “You are blackened with charred wood, wash!” Years later the drawing was found in her father’s papers with his comment, “By Emily, aged eight.”
Sketching and painting on porcelain or in water-colour were considered healthy for children and admirable accomplishments for genteel young ladies, and Emily’s parents encouraged all their daughters to take drawing lessons from Miss Emily Wood, who came to the house each Monday with pictures for the children to copy. Emily soon won a prize for copying a boy with a rabbit.
The next time her father pruned the cherry tree, young Emily claimed three of the straightest sticks, tied them at one end, spread them at the other and drove two big nails in to hold her drawing board. When she put this little easel under her bedroom window, she felt like a real artist.
It seemed that young Emily was always in trouble. Once when her mother was very ill, Emily and Alice were sent to stay with the neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Crane. Emily and Mrs. Crane immediately locked horns because Mrs. Crane thought Emily was “naughty.” Once, as Mrs. Crane was reading them a very dull story, Emily entertained herself by tying the fringe of an antimacassar into dozens of beautiful pigtails.
The next morning Mrs. Crane was furious. She said Satan must have made Emily do it and humiliated her by making her confess in front of the whole family and then undo every pigtail.
Another time when Emily was feeling ill and unhappy and homesick, Mrs. Crane dosed her with castor oil. The next day while Emily and Helen, the youngest Crane, were playing in the yard, they saw a hen.
“Oh Helen,” Emily said. “Just look at that poor hen! How bad she does feel!”
“How do you know she feels bad?”
“Well, look at her shut eyes and her head and tail and wings all flopped. She feels as I did yesterday. Maybe oil…”
“I’ll pour if you’ll hold,” said Helen.
The two girls carried the hen back to the nursery and administered their medicine. But the hen, it turned out, didn’t much like castor oil. In her attempts to get away she flew much higher than Emily ever imagined a chicken could fly. She knocked over several things, spit castor oil all over the books in the bookcase, and managed to spread farmyard mud all around the room before Mrs. Crane arrived, her eyes burning and her voice like ice.
While Mrs. Crane cleaned up the mess, Emily tried to apologize: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crane.”
No answer.
“I wanted to help your hen. She’s better. Perhaps it was only a little cuddling she wanted.”
But even as she spoke, Mrs. Crane, following her nose, hauled two reeking starfish from the cupboard and dangled them as far from her nose as her arms could reach. Ten days earlier, Emily and Helen had found them under the boathouse, dressed them in doll’s clothes, and then forgot about them. Somehow Mrs. Crane knew instantly who had instigated the whole incident.
“Such things never enter my Helen’s head,” she said. “Your mama is better; they are coming for you tonight.”
Dosing the chicken and dressing the starfish were just another sign of Emily’s lifelong love for “creatures,” especially birds. When she went to the family cow yard, the rooster routinely sat in her lap, and she tamed ducks and chickens as well as a young crow she took from its nest. No doubt she was comforted by the fact that, if humans – adults and her older sisters – couldn’t seem to understand her, her creatures always did, and she returned their affection with her whole heart.
And then there was the cow. At the back of the Carr property, between the old and the new barns, was the cow yard. Emily’s older sister Elizabeth, called “Bigger,” found it dirty and was a little afraid of the loose-limbed, saggy cow. Sister Alice, called “Middle,” liked the cow all right but she equally liked to spend time with her huge doll family. Only Emily, who called herself “Small,” wholeheartedly loved the red and white dreaminess of the cow and its cow yard. To her, it was a warm, motherly place, especially in the spring when baby creatures – chicks and pigeons, ducks and rabbits, and once even a splendid baby calf – were born.
The other being who always gave Emily pleasure was the imaginary friend who played with her among the white currants at the end of the garden. Emily claimed that the “dance” in her feet sometimes took her there without her even trying: to the family flower garden, through the vegetable garden, past the black currant and then the red currant bushes until she came to the single bush of white currants that, as they ripened, grew so clear that she could see the juice and the seeds inside.
This corner of the garden was a quiet, private place where people dumped the garden rubbish. A wild mauvey-pink flower grew here. It wasn’t very pretty as it struggled to grow up out of the rubbish, but it smelled so wonderful that butterflies and bees were always visiting, intoxicated by the smell. On a hot, sunny day when Emily went in among the butterflies and the pink blossoms and the glorious smell, she felt a part of it.
There was a boy there, who waited for her. He had a white horse and he brought one for Emily, too, and they winged in circles on their horses until butterflies and flowers and bee hum and blue sky and the hot sweet smell of pink all became one thing with the boy and Emily and the white horses in the middle – like the seeds in the white currants around them. That is, until some grownup called, and the boy and the horses went away.
Any outdoor place was a comfort to Emily. Away from her strict family, she roamed the woods and Beacon Hill Park. One of her favourite places was the family’s lily field. This was the only one of her father’s fields that had been left wild and “Canadian” and not made to look like a groomed English garden. The lily field was surrounded by a snake fence of split cedar logs laid crisscross over each other. Inside were fir trees and a few oaks, and the cleared ground underneath was thick with wild white Canadian lilies whose perfume Emily remembered with great fondness all her life.
When she was about twelve years old, something terrible happened between Emily and her father that revolted her and made her turn against him. No one knows exactly what it was. She never spoke of it to anyone until just before her death, and then she only called it “the brutal telling,” but it had something to do with his explanation to her of sex and reproduction. It was unthinkable for a Victorian father to explain sex to his daughter. Perhaps he also touched her. Perhaps it was just the shock of the idea of sex to an extremely sensitive and protected young woman. Perhaps it was literally “a brutal telling” – blunt and explicit because of her stern father’s embarrassment over bodily functions. Whatever happened, Emily was disgusted and her love for him changed.
She began to notice how he commanded everybody, how the family used her to soothe him – sent her out to meet him like a bone tossed to a dog whenever he left the family in a temper. She decided it would be good for him to have somebody to cross his will at times, and that the somebody would be her.
At first her father laughed, but when he saw she was serious, he was furious and even crueller
