Читать книгу William Lyon Mackenzie King - lian goodall - Страница 13

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Nest of Dreams

17. December, die Frau von John King in Berlin, einen Sohn.

Berlin, now known as Kitchener, was in 1874 a town of 3,000 in Southern Ontario. It had such a large Mennonite population that the Berliner, John’s uncle’s newspaper, announced the news in German. The birth announcement read: 17. December, to the wife of John King in Berlin, a son.

John King almost missed the event.

That day, John was dreaming of moving towards a brighter world. The elders of society might be nodding off to memories of the glory of the British Empire, but King was seated at a meeting, listening intently to a Reform Association speech. At a burst of applause, John spoke excitedly to the man beside him. “This man is a friend to liberty!”

Woodside, happy home of Willie, old Bill the horse, Bella, mother Isabel (seated), Jennie, Max (seated), and Fanny (who is hiding under the table).

A lawyer, newspaperman, and active Liberal politician, King admired reformers such as the speaker. He also held his wife’s father, William Lyon Mackenzie, in great esteem. Some people referred sneeringly to the leader of the Upper Canadian Rebellion of 1837 as a notorious rebel who had incited the people. King felt, however, Mackenzie was an example of those who fought for justice. As a newspaperman, mayor of York (which became Toronto), and a member of the Legislative Assembly, Mackenzie had witnessed the actions of the British government, which he felt were unfair in dealing with the people of the colony. He saw his fellow men as enslaved and oppressed at the hands of a few privileged people he dubbed the “Family Compact.” As an editor and politician he first tried to make changes peacefully, but by 1837 the time to seek reform quietly had passed. In 1837 Mackenzie urged armed action – rebellion!

By 1874 Mackenzie had been dead for more than a dozen years. Although his brave attempt had failed, many of the reforms he believed in had come to pass. John King’s generation enjoyed the benefits of being able to vote for responsible government, but as the speaker that day pointed out, there were the issues that still required change. King himself might put up his fists to defend his personal honour, but he wasn’t such a hothead that he charged about with mobs waving pikes and pitchforks. After all, he and his wife were expecting their first child, William Lyon Mackenzie’s grandchild.

Before King could settle into listening again, he felt an urgent tapping on his shoulder.

“Mr. King, a message. It’s your wife. They’ve already sent for the doctor.”

John stood up, half knocking over his chair. Something was very wrong. Isabel was not expected to have the baby for another month. He needed to be back at Benton Street as fast as a horse could get him there.

John and Isabel already had a beautiful year-old daughter, Isabel or Bella. Bella had gone to John’s Uncle Dougall Macdougall’s house. There she would stay with her Grandmamma, John’s mother, Christina King, and his Aunt Flora. John was free to do a lot of pacing and hand wringing. It was a cold night. Fetching wood and stoking the fire in the wood stove kept him busy.

Finally, in the early hours of the morning, Dr. Bowlby appeared in the bedroom door holding a bundle. “I’d like to announce the safe arrival of a baby boy!” he trumpeted. “Mother and baby are doing well.” The doctor neared the wood stove and unfolded a corner of the blanket.

King peered at the red, scrunchy face of his newborn son. “Well, well, well,” he admired. “I have decided,” he told his wee lad softly, “and your mother agreed, that we shall call you William Lyon Mackenzie.” He glanced at Bowlby, his eyes twinkling merrily. “William Lyon Mackenzie King has a nice ring to it, an important ring, don’t you think?” And then he answered himself, “Why yes, it does.”

Although he had been born prematurely, baby Willie thrived. Soon he was toddling about the house, chasing the cat and trying to mount his big wooden rocking horse by himself. His mother thought he looked simply cherubic. His innocent blue eyes were full of curiosity, his blond hair curled sweetly around his chubby face, and his plump little legs peeked out like German sausages from under his dress, the garb for both boys and girls of the day.

Two years later there was another baby in the family, when Janet (known as Jennie) arrived in 1876. During her pregnancies and confinements, Isabel might not always feel like romping across the carpet with her children and roaring like a lion. A nursemaid helped her with the children’s care, but their mother was always available for merriment! After dinner she played the piano and sang hymns and other songs. Sometimes John joined in and even accompanied her with clacking castanets. The little family had a lot of fun before quieting down later each evening to games and stories read aloud. As both John and Isabel King were of Scottish ancestry and very devout Presbyterians, they would read the bible and hear the children say their prayers every night before they went to bed.

Willie awoke to the sound of little Jennie’s crying. He couldn’t get back to sleep.

“Tell me the grandfather story,” he demanded of his mother as she perched on the edge of his bed.

“Which grandfather story?” Isabel queried, tucking the coverlet around Willie’s small frame. “You have two grandfathers, young lad. Both came from Scotland and both were very brave and important men, like you shall be one day. Would you like to hear about Father’s father, Bombardier King? At the Battle of the Windmill the Royal Artillery fought off the Rebel sympathizers!”

“No, not that grandfather – my grandfather,” the little boy insisted. He didn’t mean any disrespect toward his soldier grandfather who had fought against the other grandfather’s forces. But Willie wanted to hear about the person for whom he was named.

“Oh!” Isabel chuckled. So her father’s exploits had become the story.

“My father, William Lyon Mackenzie, was a man with strong ideas who wanted to help people.” In the lamplight she wove a story of good and evil – the brave farmers and their leader against the government and its selfish, powerful friends. “Grandfather felt he had to take more action than writing or editing a newspaper or even than he could when he had been mayor of York.” Isabel’s account contained many exciting details – but Willie liked best the part after the Rebel forces lost the battle. He was thrilled each time he heard Isabel tell about the daring escape through the countryside “just a few miles from here. There was a large reward offered for Grandfather’s capture, one thousand pounds to any one who would ‘apprehend and deliver’ him. You’ve seen the very poster that many greedy men also saw that day. However, a good man and lover of reform posted scouts, who found Grandfather before his enemies did. They took him across the Grand River and gave him shelter for the night. The next day they sent him on his way to safety across the border to Buffalo. Grandfather never forgot their kindness.”

Although she made her father’s life sound like an adventure story, Isabel couldn’t help adding her own personal colouring in a quieter voice.

“I was born the same year as your father, in 1843. Only I was born in the United States, after Grandmother Isabel, who is an angel now, joined Grandfather in New York State. I was the youngest of thirteen children, although not all survived. Things were very difficult.” She told Willie of the hardships she had known, how her father was often without work, and once even imprisoned for breach of the American neutrality laws! Her life continued to be difficult and some people snubbed them, even after a pardon permitted the family to return to York. When her father died in 1861, they had bravely struggled on. “Then your Uncle Charles Lindsey introduced me to a good and handsome student from the University of Toronto – but now we’re getting into another story and it’s time for you to go back to sleep!”

She smoothed his hair and kissed his face tenderly before she took the lamp and left the room.

The importance of family traditions is reflected in the names the Kings gave their four children. The first baby girl was named Isabel Christina Grace, after her mother and grandmothers. The second child, the couples first born son, was given the name of Isabel’s father, William Lyon Mackenzie. Their third child, a daughter, was Janet Lindsey (but called Jennie). Her namesake was her mothers sister, Aunt Janet, who had married Charles Lindsey. When the fourth and last King child was born in 1878, he was given the name of John’s uncle, Dougall Macdougall. The young Dougall Macdougall, however, would be always known as Mac or Max.

John and Isabel had grown up in an age when it was expected that families would help each other. In the days before government programs provided any help, it was common for elderly or widowed people to be looked after by their family. John King’s father had died before he was born, so he and his mother had lived with his uncle, Dougall Macdougall, a Berlin newspaper editor.

When John finished school, he returned to Berlin and opened his law practice. He and Isabel had a long courtship, but John wasn’t established enough to marry her and bring her from Toronto to Berlin until 1872. Like most parents, John and Isabel created hopes and dreams for the four precious children they had. They wanted their offspring to be respected people and important citizens – the girls to have secure marriages and the boys to have important careers. Helping their children achieve these goals meant sacrifices. True, John King wanted to make the world a better place, but his first commitment was to see that his children had education, connections, and opportunities to ensure their success. The Kings did much more than provide food and shelter for their family. They opened doors to their children’s futures by exposing them to important people and ideas – even when they were very young.

The crowd pressing around Willie made him hot in his suit jacket and woollen knickers. He squeezed his father’s hand for reassurance. John smiled at his seven-year-old son. “Can you see?” he asked. When the lad shook his head “no,” John lifted him up.

Now Willie could see the speaker on the platform. The tall, dark-haired man with a funny nose, Willie knew, was Prime Minister Sir John A. Macdonald, the most important person in Canada. That was why his father had brought him to the meeting.

“I would like to thank you,” Macdonald concluded. The audience clapped, Willie very enthusiastically.

A young woman crossed the stage, curtsied, and held out a posy. The prime minister bent to receive the flowers, and the giver innocently placed a kiss on his cheek. Macdonald was enchanted. So was Willie. He would never remember what it was that Macdonald had said, but he would never forget the charming rewards that political greatness could hold.

Willie enjoyed the benefits of having parents who were well known in Berlin, but he was not growing up in a rich family. The Kings’ bills exceeded John’s income. However, while John and Isabel did not belong to the upper classes, they wanted to appear to be people of means. Even though John would never own a home, the Kings felt they should live in a place that would impress their friends and potential clients. They needed enough room for their children, their visitors, the family members who stayed with them, and the servants they often employed. In 1886, when Bella was twelve, Willie eleven, Jennie nine, and Max seven, the family rented the last home they would live in in Berlin – Woodside. They would remember it as a warm nest where they had their best family times.

Woodside was a golden-bricked showpiece just outside of town, with over five and a half wooded hectares for enjoying the pleasures of Nature. There were flower gardens to dream in; Lovers’ Lane for rambles; a lily pond for reflecting; a hilltop above the orchard where the children could camp; shady nooks for sharing books of poetry, and woodsy knolls, where on sunny days, Isabel could set up her easel and paint.

Inside, Isabel began decorating and remodelling. The Kings were usually able to hire a man and a woman to help Isabel and the children with the many indoor and outdoor duties. The family still had time for a whirlwind of activities and often went out – skating, sleighing, curling, camping, or attending teas, concerts, church events, and meetings. Between the gay parties at Woodside and the busy schedule away from home, the Kings’ social lives sparkled with laughter and friendship.

The happy mood was tempered with duty. In addition to the gardening, cleaning, and other chores, the four King children were expected to devote themselves to the tasks of intellectual preparation. Schoolwork did not stop even after several hours of homework. John King hired a governess to assist the children with German and other subjects. Many Berliners were more fluent in German than in English. When Miss Siebert came to stay with the family, the local Presbyterian minister and family friend, Reverend Mr. Winchester, was also included in the little Woodside German classes.

When their noses weren’t in school books, the Kings were always reading something else. Almost every evening the cozy panelled library was alive with discussions regarding events they had read about in newspapers or the books that lined the walls. Reading and thinking about important issues was part of the children’s heritage. Grandfather Mackenzie and Great-Uncle Macdougall had edited newspapers. Their father not only wrote articles for newspapers and other publications, but also legally represented the Canadian Press Association. At Woodside, John wrote a book about his father-in-law, in which he argued that Mackenzie was a misunderstood man. The King children were encouraged to have their own opinions, and to seek to do good, to make Berlin and the world beyond a better place.

The students in the gymnasium of the Berlin High School were beginning to squirm, and Willie couldn’t help but notice. Most times he’d rather be having fun by joining his classmates on the cricket or football field or engaging in some silly prank. But today he wanted them to listen. He was speaking about something important.

“The next topic addressed,” King began, assailing a fresh section of his lengthy speech, “concerned …”

“Mr. King,” Principal Connor was on his feet. He peered at Willie over his pince-nez glasses, and his flowing white beard touched his chest as he tilted his head. “We must proceed with the other items on our agenda. I would like to thank you for your interesting narrative on the political meeting you attended.” Willie took his seat to the sound of his classmates’ applause.

“That’s my brother, Old Grandpa,” Bella whispered to her seatmate, Emma Bauer.

“Old Grandpa?” the girl whispered back. “Is that because he’s named after his grandfather?”

“That and because he’s as serious as a little old man, always setting us on the right path” his sister replied.

“I think,” Zulema Seyler piped up, “that Willie King is a silver-tongued orator.” Her friends giggled.

“He may want to be a politician one day,” his friend Oscar Rumpal contributed,” but if you meet Billy in a fist fight you’ll know why we call him The Rebel.”

“Young ladies and gentleman!” a teacher reproached sternly.

John King’s Law Office, Germania Block

Berlin, Ontario

August 6, 1888

“May I help you?” The young man looked up with serious blue eyes. As the teenager was costumed in a suit and tie, despite the August heat, the messenger assumed he was the office clerk.

“Give this bill for telegramming to Mr. King, will you?”

“Mr. King is in Muskoka, vacationing.”

“Vacationing, eh? That might explain why he hasn’t paid it yet. When’s he back?”

“Tuesday next.”

“Just give it to him then.”

“I will direct it to his attention immediately upon his return,” William smiled confidently.

The man left and Willie set the bill on the pile of invoices growing between the stacks of newspaper clippings and letters on the desk. Next to the telephone he had cleared a space and was writing a letter. At age fourteen, Willie increasingly took on more responsibilities in his role of the eldest son. He kept an eye out for his siblings, helped his parents, and even minded his father’s business.

He reread the paragraphs he had written under John King’s letterhead.

“Dear Papa and Mama,” he had begun, “I must answer your loving letter…” He followed with a report of duties as the man in charge.

I have protested two notes and while I was at the bank yesterday there were two notes but the one was recalled… Bella was at a small party for tea at Clara Simpson’s last night and enjoyed herself very much. There were only girls invited. I couldn’t say that Robert has done much work lately excepting talking and watching us play. Mary is a little cross to us… nevertheless we are getting along first rate…

Satisfied, he dipped his pen in the ink. It was time to get to the heart of the matter.

I can just imagine you sitting there, Papa reading the letters and Mamma sitting listening to them with eager eyes and both of your hearts full. For I know that mine was when I got your letter and you saying what a brutal thing it was for any person to poison our dear little Fanny.

Willie felt a stab of pain as he remembered their dear, loving black dog, Fanny. He had been the one to receive the news from the hired man that their pet had been found dead, poisoned. Though he thought his heart would break from grief and shock, he had been obliged to organize collecting the poor contorted body.

We went the next morning and got Fan and buried her and put stones over her grave. We buried her just opposite the barn in the woods near that post and little Max every few minutes would run and sit on her grave and cry. We do miss her very much.

Willie’s handwriting looped wildly. He had been as upset as Max, but he didn’t show it in the same way. Poor Max believed that Fanny had died because he had committed some wicked sin. “I will be good,” his little brother wailed. Bella and Jennie had cried just as much. Willie could not permit himself many tears. He tried to comfort Bella, Jennie, and Max with scriptures and prayers. A real minister would have known what to say, but Willie could only do his best. Surely God would comfort them and punish the perpetrator of the dastardly deed.

Willie resumed writing, holding his pen in firm control.

But that can’t be helped. If you should see another little dog like her to bring it along with you… but I guess you would find it a hard job to get another faithful little dog as faithful as she was…

It is now nearly noon and time to go home for my dinner. I am carrying out business as well as can be done. I am keeping track of my hours, and will be able to give you a receipt for my services when you get home. I must close now giving my best love to you from me and all the others.

I remain your loving son

William Lyon Mackenzie King

Later that afternoon, Willie was in the garden, scuffling a long row of potatoes. “Sciff scritch,” went the hoe. A lone crow cawed from the big pine tree. Where are Bella and Jennie? Willie wondered. I could use a drink.

They’ll be coming soon with the bucket of cool ice water, he thought. He decided to stop work and wait for them in the shade. He lay back in the tickly grass and watched the branches wave above, slowly fanning the lazy midsummer sky.

I miss Fanny, Willie realized. Normally, her panting black body would be lying beside him, her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth, her tail thumping happily every time her young master spoke or patted her shaggy head. “I miss Fan,” he half-whispered aloud.

Again the crow cawed. A grey squirrel scampered up a nearby maple. Willie looked once more into the pattern of the branches and the sky. Mesmerized, his mind slipped into wondering and dreaming.

What purpose does the Creator have for me? I am sure it is to do good, to be as good a man as my father, to be as great a man as my grandfather. I feel I am meant to help others less fortunate than me, but I do not yet know how. Father, in his talks, has begun to prepare me for university. Mother too, is encouraging me. What, what shall I be?

“Do you know?” he asked out loud to the saucy squirrel, which had curiously come near him. The squirrel churred, flicked its tail in alarm, and scurried back to its tree. Willie laughed.

“I didn’t think you knew any better than I,” he said and returned to his silent reverie. Would he be a lawyer like Papa? His father had recently been appointed a Queen s Counsel. Law seemed a noble profession. Or a minister? That way he would help people and please God. Or would he enter a life of public service? He often thought he would be a politician like Grandfather and maybe, maybe even one day return to Woodside, beloved Woodside, and purchase it. The reward after a life of helping others. Perhaps, perhaps… and his dreams became fuzzy, golden and warm.

On his way. Willie graduates with a master’s degree from the University of Toronto (1897) and one from Harvard (1898).