Katherine Day Part 13

Part 13 -

The Budding Writer on the Homestead - Canadian Artist, Katherine Day "The Novelist"

By Ted and Suzanne Currie

     I don't believe, although I stand to be corrected, that Katherine Day thought of herself as a serious writer. She may have, at times, as any artist can attest as a distinct fact of profession, become frustrated by a sensed lack of progress in her chosen field. She wasn't the first artist / painter / illustrator, to think of a writing career as an alternative preoccupation. There are just as many writers, who turned to art when their creative juices ran out in the print enterprise, and they thought they could become painters or sculptors as a sideline. Quite a few have succeeded at this cross-over. Miss Day never truly abandoned art when, for a change, she took the plunge, and experimented with the written word. I do believe that if she had worked closely with a tutor, or editor, her ideas could have been transformed into attractive, highly readable manuscripts. I have offered her an apology, as best I can, for imposing myself as such a ghost writer in retrospect, and assisting her with one chapter of an unfinished novel, found in her collected papers. I wanted her work, in the spirit of her original intent, to make it to print, after all these years, if only in the second-to-last chapter of this template biography. It was her intellectual property then, and now, because the theme and progression of the chapter has not been changed from its original intent and story progression. I've shortened the content and made changes to meet that end. It is still the creative energy of Katherine Day at its heart, and of this, I am, as a latter day ghost writer, only too pleased to participate.
     "At the end of a pleasant summer, a neighbor friend, Stephen Brown, at last, came one evening to have a chat with Mrs Burns. He chose a time when he would have the place to himself, for he saw to it that the two girls were away that night, playing tennis on the Metcalfe's court," wrote Katherine Day, in an untitled manuscript she was working out of her home at Hawthornes, nestled so peacefully in the treed landscape of the Oro-Medonte area in Simcoe County. The manuscript which is missing the first six chapters, and its concluding chapter, is an attempt by the well known Canadian artist, illustrator, to try her hand at creative writing. It is in essence, the constitution of a romanitic novel, and was probably commenced in the early 1940's, shortly after returning to her home region, after a lengthy period of time in Europe studying art with tutors such as Nicolas Eekman, among many others in both London, and Paris, before the hostilities of the Second World War.
     The manuscript was never published and when Katherine Day's possessions were dispersed sometime following her death in 1976, it is likely the missing chapters were in other boxes of her personal archives. As well, the story was never edited, so I am taking some liberty as a former editor, to polish the text ever so gently, without changing the intent of Miss Day. There are those who knew the artist who might feel the story is more intimate to her personal biography, while others would dismiss it as just being the result of an urge to create, just like her art work which earned her acclaim.
     I can easily visualize Katherine Day in her charming abode, sitting at her typewriter, a cat curled-up in her lap, a dog on her feet, with the aroma of fresh cut flowers from her garden, mixing with the wafting scent of freshly harvested honeycomb, and the lingering invisible vapours of the past hour's cookery activities. If ever there was a perfect writer's sanctuary, it was at Hawthornes, so preciously tucked into the flower gardens and hardwoods on the hillside. The visitor at this time, of which she had many, would have heard the tell-tale tapping of typewriter keys, while approaching up the cottage walkway. One might have expected, from such an enchanted place as this, that the fairy-kind themselves might be toiling within. The writer continues to sculpt her story of "love lost" and then, by happenstance, and time, found once again. If you put yourself into Katherine Day's setting, sitting for example, in a nearby chair that affords a good place to watch, the story will take on the aura of its creator, and, yes, Hawthornes, as it existed according to her cherished design.
     "Mr. Burns was always shut up in his study, a pleasant enough place with its walls lined with books, and a big armchair in which he could doze away with a book on his knee, close to the window of which afforded a lovely view. He pretended to spend all his time studying, and consuming the content of his many scholarly texts, but with this window opened to enhance the atmosphere, he looked up with great enthusiasm at the array of butterflies, hovering over the late season roses, his wayward attention proving that he was never to busy to admire something of great beauty. There he was, the evening young Mr. Brown called to consult his wife, the good Mrs. Burns, of which he had the utmost respect to handle such family business as this. Trust Stephen to have everything arranged his own way, recited over and over before visiting the Burns residence, where he knew Mrs Burns would stare him down with her flare of old country intensity. "We've had a pleasant summer, haven't we, Mrs. Burns," he asked initially, knowing the answer would affirm his own opinion. "Ay, Stephen, it has been an accommodating season," she answered with the gaze of expectation, that the young man was not visiting to discuss the weather. "I greatly appreciate you taking these few moments to talk with me, Mrs. Burns, and of course, I always enjoy the cheerful atmosphere of your good home." With growing anticipation of what will come next in conversation, she nods and replies, "We'll it is nice of you to say such a thing." There was an uncomfortable calm prevailing in the room. The gentleman seemed preoccupied about his shoe laces, finding it difficult to look up, and judge the expression on the matronly woman's face, in case she was in the midst of scowling.
     "Stephen was unsure of himself, rare for the up and coming lawyer, having a fine reputation in the court rooms of the province. He was not being helped by this judge, at this cruel moment of anticipation, and he knew that Mrs. Burns was acutely wise and protective of her family, which made the issue at hand much more sensitive. This was going to require a building of courage, as if arguing a case to a positive outcome. The old woman was not about to make it easy for him, and for good reason. If he was interested in pursuing her daughter, in a future marriage, he was going to have to do better than what he was mustering at this moment. She was about to offer the poor shaking chap a glass of water, when he began to clear his throat as if to make some profound argument in his own defense; of taking up her time on this beautiful day.
     "It was momentous for him, more so than any of the cases he had experienced in the court house, of which he was for more comfortable than now. The scene he had carefully constructed before-hand, to avoid this kind of stumbling with words and actions, was doing little to remove the feeling of discomfort, and the sensation he was about to make a complete fool of himself that could never be erased in her mind. He was literally placing his future, and all his confidence from this point, in this elderly Scottish woman, who had a stare that would melt glass. He possessed admiration for her matronly sense o f duty, and he knew that to get past her guardianship, he would have to appeal to her sense of proportion, and sensibility toward the circumstance. She was known to be quite high spirited at times. He had seen her this way several times, on previous visits. Stephen had placed all the eggs in the single basket he held precariously, as he lifted his head to face his presumed advisory; at least for the time being. While it may be said with some confidence, that a man is made or ruined by the marriage he enters into, the constitution of the family attitude, was either the wings of mercy or the anchor of destruction. If her parents were unhappy with the marriage, they would be a burden thereafter to constantly fear for their critiques; but if he was accepted and encouraged, it would be a marriage with family support that would pay many benefits in the future.
     "Mrs. Burns was quite content to let the young fellow stew a while longer. She was well aware of the fellow's drift of conversation, and she was, without showing it, pleased that young Margaret, her daughter, was to get such affection from this budding professional with a good future ahead. Getting her daughter's affairs settled had been on her mind for several years. It did make her ponder why her second daughter had not yet found a partner, as she was of the two, the most outgoing and ambitious. Margaret was by even the most loving opinion of a mother, a plain little mouse of a creature, kindly so, and fond of house-making. Stephen represented a solid opportunity for a prosperous life and family. She made an effort to ease the young man's nervousness, by offering a slight but distinguishable smile beyond the original scowl. Stephen, with a dry mouth and throat, on the verge of commanding a cough, spoke quietly, "As you know, I have always admired your daughter, Mrs. Burns. I suppose it is because she is so different from myself."
    Mrs. Burns, with the look of challenge on her face, asked in return, "Whatever do you mean, as being different?" This was a surprising statement, because it wasn't a truthful observation. They were quite similar, almost as if a brother and sister. Mrs. Burns turned her head slowly to look at him, her expression strained, her suspicions raised. Had she heard correctly. Margaret and Stephen were the proverbial case of 'two peas in a pod' and had been for all the years that had known each other. All those who knew them would say the same. Their little fidgety ways had been the subject of most of the jokes that passed their way, and even their expressed opinion on many of life's matters were alike. She waited for him to explain, her eyes now burning into his soul. The man was even more uncomfortable than before.
     "She is so jolly and so wonderfully full of life, and I am, by my own sorry admission, a 'sorry-sides' character. And she is of course, so enchanting and beautiful.' 'Tut, tut,' said Mrs. Burns pushing back in her chair as if about to receive a great blow of news. "Young man, I have never considered my two daughters anything but very ordinary young women, who are beautiful of spirit but common as mortals, undeserving of such affections, as you have mentioned." Stephen looked up in a momentary surprise, that he had unintentionally offended Mrs. Burns by suggesting her daughter was beautiful. "I have deep affections for Abbie, beauty aside," he said, creating a heavy, pressing silence in the big room. The old lady moistened her dry lips and cleared her throat before she found the audible voice to ask, 'What was that you said Stephen. I think I must not have heard you right. Why mention Abbie when we have been talking about Margaret?"
     "The whole environment of the Burns' residence seemed suddenly darker than it was a few minutes earlier, as Stephen estimated in his mind, that if there was confusion on her part, an explanation was going to test his creative talent. Everything seemed to be more imposing on his conscience, from the sounds and sights of outside, the clock on the mantle, the visible asters blooming in the garden just outside the parlor window, even the footsteps he could hear on the decking of the verandah at the front door. As some of the willowy flowers dipped their heads in the back and forth of the chill breeze, Stephen settled down in a chair without apology, to attempt some explanation why he had come to seek approval to court the most unlikely of her daughters. They were not kindred spirits and even he knew it was going to be awkward telling this woman, the daughter he had spent most time with in the past, was not the object of his matrimonial desires.
     Mrs. Burns didn't need to know more. She had just been stunned by his statement of intention, opposite to what would likely have been an acceptable position on his part. Abbie was distinctly different than Margaret, and had never considered Stephen as anything more than a friend of the family, and one who socialized with her sister when at the cottage property. When she began feeling tenderness in her knuckles, rubbing them in contemplation, it suddenly arrived in her mind, about a time in the old country, while at school herself, when she had been reprimanded for doodling on her slate with the small bit of chalk in her hand. The teacher, going from desk to desk to examine students' work, was not pleased with her imaginative sketch of the instructor, and it warranted in his opinion, a sharp crack to her knuckles. She remembers trying not to cry at that moment, so as not to appear weak to classmates. It was a strange recollection at this moment, when discussing the future of her daughters, but it stressed in her mind, the need to concentrate on the action to follow, and deal with the consequence of this new information on Margaret especially, who will be heartsick at the revelation. Her reaction had to be even and sensible to the young man's mission, to ask for her daughter's hand in marriage. Plans were being swept away by this change of affection, but she couldn't appear weak to either Stephen or later, both daughters who would undoubtedly be shocked by the twist of fate.
     "Stephen was indulging in a snipit of a daydream, putting him anywhere else but in this room, facing the glare of a potential future mother-in-law. He recognized that her sudden shock at the situation, was the result of his lack of preparedness, because it was an unexpected turn, even in his mind, because his affections had always been directed at Margaret and not Abbie. He even feasted temporarily on the belief he had played it sly, catching the matron off guard, and possibly, as a result, garnering some affection for his astute selection for a bride. He had, in secret, affections for Abigail, such that no one else understood this emotional involvement. She would make a fine wife to grace the home of a successful lawyer full of ambition. She would always give him due measure of admiration and encouragemnet. This was certain, just as Mrs. Burns, being her Minister-husband's closest admirer, Abigail would mirror her mother's sense of responsibility. These Burns' women were "no new women," as to the ages spoke, he thought to himself. She was not mannish in any way and would take her place with family economy. Just in case he was wrong about this, he wasn't going to blurt it out here at fireside, in the presence of a woman who could dash his expectations. He wasn't wrong for his old values that a woman should grace the home. There, they would be content. Abbie pleased him because she was that rare combination; a clever woman who did not object to confining her efforts to a limited sphere. His wife would be an admirable hostess, a leader in the town, a worker in the church of which he was a piller. She would bring about a new credibility to his own efforts at building a profession. He was beaming inside with his convictions about to come to fruition, when Mrs. Burns would confess her joy at the thought of the pending nuptuals. He was pleased with himself for selecting Abbie as a 'help-meet', as he called it, under his own sculpted plan for future living.
     Stephen looked up at Mrs. Burns, expecting an expression somewhat more calming than previous. 'Does this proposal take you by surprise? I know of course many others admire Abbie. All the men I know admit to have affections for her, calling her wonderful, having so many admirable qualities.' Mrs. Burns responded in short, 'Oh, whilst, so it is Abbie you have come to talk about." There was a detectable seriousness to the woman's face. All was not well, and would not be well in the Burns house, thanks to Stephen's sudden change of affections that would destroy the heartfelt ambitions of daughter Margaret. Before her mind's eye, Margaret's face came as a vision; her actions and joy when expressing her affections for Stephen; this strange man sitting beside her now, telling her that he wanted to marry her sister, who she well knew had no interest in his advances no matter how sincere. Margaret had only been a friend to Stephen, contrary to what she had believed for long and long in their social encounters. A baffling anger filled her heart as she hadn't experienced it in years. This was a confrontation against the whole spirit of goodwill as she practiced it as a matter of inherent humanity. She had a difficult decision to make and an alarming muddle to sort out. They would would be deep and take years to heal.
     "She waited for Stephen to speak again, for she found herself confused about the best course of action. It was as if she hoped he would offer such an engaged explanation, in its sensibilities, the matter would suddenly and profoundly make sense, as to why he was about to hurt one daughter to engage the other. With obvious hesitation and a slight newfound stutter in his voice, Stephen stated with growing hubris, as a lawyer might be expected to offer in clarification, "Mrs. Burns, I promise you Abbie would see a  great deal of you and your family as a married woman, as we would be living in Mara (of Simcoe County). I will soon be entering the firm of Douglas and Harris, and prospects are good that I might eventually become a partner in the firm. It isn't as if we would be moving halfway around the world after we marry," the young man stated, occasionally changing his focus to look out the window, just in case Abigail should be seen coming along the front path. "What under these circumstances, at present, do you wish me to act upon Stephen, if anything at all." Stephen was momentarily inspired, sensing an opportunity to move forward with the proposal. "I would very much appreciate it Mrs. Burns, if you could find it in your heart, to tell her of my intentions, to ask for her hand in marriage, with your approval of course, as with Reverend Burns, I assure you. Especially that you would secure an invitation for me to address Abigail for a formal proposal of marriage." His eyes looked at the woman with great emotional appeal, such that he would be broken hearted if she had declined his request.
     She was not inclined to perform this duty, but because she knew the answer in advance, it was a better choice to shield the young man from the bitter truth. What she wanted to say to the nervous ninny, couldn't be spoken without hurting him. She couldn't understand why he would not have chosen Margaret, as everyone in the household had expected he would do one day. There would be no choice in the matter. Margaret would have to be told, her love for this fellow would not be returned. Would she take this distress against her sister in a fit of jealousy. What was this clumsy man doing to the serenity of her residence at this moment?
     "I will, with some reluctance, speak with her about this matter, and find out whether or not, she would be willing to meet with you on a more formal occasion, for you to ask your question. I will address it when she comes home later this evening, and I will let you know the outcome when you arrive next."
     "When might that be, Mrs. Burns," asked Stephen, wringing his hands for lack of anything better to do with them. "May I return tomorrow for my answer?" "Ay then, you may come tomorrow, but I won't guarantee that you will receive the answer you wish, let that be clear." Surprised by the directness, and the tone of pessimism, Stephen extended his thanks and his farewell in a few seconds of conversation, and skipped out of the parlour and out the front door, much as if he had just won, however narrowly, the first battle of numerous, to secure his future direction. He sped home on wings, his thoughts bright and facial expression rosey. Abbie was a prize to covet. Together they would rise to eminence in the professional community, he had designs on conquering. He took a deep breath of the atmosphere of this important domain on earth, smiled broadly, folded his arms to his chest, and with great daring, rode his bicycle along the dirt roadway, feeling it quite impossible that he might fall the result of miscalculation. His ambitions were soaring. He was intoxicated by his own perceived success today. He carried on his merry way, singing some ditty or other to celebrate the occasion. It was only a muffled clatter of little notice, when the bike wheel left the roadway, and the framework of the vehicle collapsed down into the gutter, taking rider and rubber on a dramatic tumble into the rock-filled water-course. His saving grace that he was out of sight of the main house, and no one had seen his fall from his apparent glory.
     Later that evening, Mrs. Burns, on sensing the right moment to approach her daughter, walked up the flight of the creaking wooden stairway, slowly according to her tight joints, and difficulty catching her breath. She went to her own bedroom and asked for the assistance of Abigail, to balance her down into a favorite window-side chair. You could hear the rustle of her long black dress that connected with the floor boards, and swung back and forth on her hips, seemingly twice as large as her small frame warranted of such attire. "Help me to get down into my chair Abigail, my dear, I have such a headache, and feel a little unsteady on my feet." Her daughter arrived in the doorway of her mother's bedroom, etched with concern there was some sort of pending collapse. She grabbed her elbow from behind, and helped turn her around to slide more gently down into the armchair. After the slow settling into position, and the chorus of groans and fabric rustling, Mrs. Burns found sudden comfort in the collapse into security, of a chair brought all the way from her parents home in Scotland. The same chair her father had sat in, with his old pipe clenched in this jaw, talking about the failings of politicians and their ilk. It gave her an unspecified measure of confidence, although she wouldn't have been able to express why she felt this way. This didn't matter. She needed to confront her daughter about a delicate matter. Stephen Brown's affections for one thing. The impact on Margaret, the other. A cup of tea was of assistance as well, clearing her throat for a question that was burning from the inside out.
     "She sounded grim, making Abbie feel initial trepidation about what was on her mother's mind, necessitating an early evening chat. She sat on the edge of the large bed, with its Victorian elegance and high headboard, awaiting whatever conversation was about to arrive from her mother, calmed by the current environment of soft cushions on old bones. It was obvious though that, by facial expression alone, her mother's mood was inspired by depression, not an irritation about some report of her daughter's social affairs. "Has something happened mother, to give you such a headache," asked Abigail. "Ay lass, something has happened, that I must address this very moment, though I know the answer in advance." She adjusted her glaze from the gardens out the adjacent window, to her daughter sitting on the edge of the bedstead. "Young Master Brown was here earlier this afternoon, to ask me a difficult question." "Did he come to ask your approval of his plan to ask Margaret to marry him," Abigail asked with a tell-tale grin on her face, as if a good thing was happening for her sister's future. "It wasn't what I could have imagined, after all the years of knowing the boy; you see my dear girl, he did the exact opposite to what we all in this family hoped would happen one day." Well, what did he want mother," Abigail demanded, with a worried look now gracing her pretty face.
     "I'm afraid to say the gentleman has asked for you instead, and my permission to allow him the opportunity to state his intentions to you personally." The hair brush dropped to the floor from Abigail's hand, and pushing the curls of hair away from her eyes, as she fumbled for a suitable response to the statement that was still smashing at emotions, causing her to ask repeatedly for the woman to revisit the same unsettling words just spoken. She steadied herself against the tall dresser, and looked out the window, as if she suspected Stephen Brown was outside waiting for her answer; spying on her now, and intruding upon her freedom with this unwarranted call upon her mother, asking such a ridiculous question. Forcing this uncomfortable moment in family history, that deserved its integrity of good humour, and sensibility despite its essence of debacle.
     "Well, what might your answer be to such and enquiry," her mother asked, knowing full well, it would be a clear rejection. "This is not of my doing mother, I assure you. I have never had any interest in that man, and would never consider such a proposal, now or ever. It has always been Margaret, who has been the target of his affections, and certainly not me," she stated in failing voice, tears welling up in her eyes, at the almost insulting situation, that would cause her sister considerable grief, as Margaret had very much entertained the idea of becoming Mrs. Brown before the year was out. "Mother, he is a fool, and a man of lesser character, to have led my sister on, and then abandoned her for something he perceives as being better for his future. I would not have a man like him if he was the last man on earth." Her mother nodded acceptance of her daughter's position, and agreed the young man was more interested in his own welfare, and position in his professional pursuits, thinking that Abigail would be more adventagous to the cause of upward accomplishment, than the loving company of a woman who dearly respected him for all his virtues, as questionable as they seemed at this moment of discussion. "I will pass on your regrets, Abigail, and dispatch the man from this residence when he next visits, which I expect will be tomorrow." Abigail retreated to her room, after taking away the tea cup and saucer from her mother, who was content to recline and watch out over her garden from that second floor portal. What should she tell Margaret to make it as gentle as possible. She felt older than her age, and it seemed life's duties were becoming harder and harder to tend to, in her failing health. This matter did not help at all, as the damage inflicted by truth, would last the rest of both their lives. Hers was a shorter time to expend.
          She turned the thoughts round and round in her mind until she feel asleep in the chair. Her husband would eventually coerce her to come into the bed, and after a short adjustment to sleeping attire, Mrs. Burns collapsed into bedlam to dream of happier circumstances. Instead, she couldn't get past the realities of the final hours of the day. It was the burden of a near nightmare that didn't end when she awoke to sun beaming in the chamber. The issue was still the same. She would have to, on this day, break the heart of her daughter. Ruin her life with the truth of the man she wished to reside with, to the end of days. Now with one great crash, the house that others had built for Stephen and Margaret had toppled over, like the young man crashing his bike into the moat at roadside.
     Margaret was told by her mother, that morning, of Stephen Brown's intention of asking Abigail to marry him if unopposed. She took the survey of the ruins with expected dismay. Margaret's hopes obviously, by tears streaming down her face, were crushed. There they were likely to remain, for people of her slow and cautious demeanor to weather. It had turned into a hopeless muddle for both daughters, and mother, who could do nothing to calm the outrage that had overtaken an otherwise happy residence.
     Abbie would, in no uncertain terms, sweep away the proposal by the young Mr. Brown, who was devastated such a man of property and standing would be dismissed so casually. What was she thinking to disregard such a prosperous union for both their lives? She became smitten by anger at the boldness of the red-headed man-child. She could not, under the circumstance, have ever tolerated him even as a brother-in-law, should he have decided to ask Margaret, after this initial rejection. He must have been mad to have thought she would marry him, as if he was picking a horse or an article of furniture for his house; that I would surely want to be a part of for its resident securities. As symbolic of the cleansing from Mr. Brown forever, she vigorously tossed out a basin of water, from her bedroom window, at almost the same time, as Margaret tossed out water from the kitchen window, possibly with the same intent of restoration. Abigail had not be flattered by the offer of marriage, but rather, deeply offended by the man's inconsideration, turning away from the woman he had been long associated, who just happened to be her sister. In fact, she was furious. Margaret, at a matter of emotional conflict, felt she would never marry, as she had lost her one true love, who by no coincidence, had let himself fall for her own sister. A tragedy untold, but etched in the hearts of the Burns family, who ended their summer by the lake in a mire of conflicting loyalties, and family values, that by stalwart conviction, would survive intact to serve the future. Stephen Brown was mired himself in his mistaken approach to win the hand of a fair maiden.
     He pedaled home slowly that afternoon, following the offering of bad news that Abigail had rejected his marriage proposal. His bike had a bit more wobble to it than the day before, the result of his accident, yet today's unsteady operation, was mostly the result of having just been the victim of his own misguided presumption, he could have all that he wanted in life. He himself fell into bedlam when he arrived at his residence, pondering how it was, that he had ruined his relationship with Margaret as well, in a poorly conceived move at advancing his career.
     "Oh damn it all," was what he uttered, over and over, as he buried his face in the scrunched-up pillow that would, before sleep overcame him, become wet with selfishly generated tears of his newfound burden of loss and shame. What had he done?
     If the times of our lives had paralleled, I would have felt it a great honour to have worked with the artist / writer, as an understudy, because she possessed a creative flare for the written word.
     This was just an ever-so brief glimpse of one selected chapter of a never-published, unfinished work of fiction, from the bosom of Hawthornes, and the hand of Katherine Day. A happy ending? It was heading that way, but we will never really know for sure. But the essence of this biography, is to be a background to the most important aspect of her work, being the field of art. It is, in summation, how we will honor her accomplishments......that of being an important contributor to the cultural identity of this region of Ontario, and Canada itself. Please join me tomorrow for our own final chapter, of this template biography, which will hopefully be added-to in the future, when new information is revealed, to be included in the more complete story of Katherine Day.