This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Sept. 20, 1941.
I have been at another convention of Canadian authors and listened to talks by writers, critics and university professors. Again, I heard the depressing statement that we have no literature in Canada. None worth mentioning, that is.
But we might have a literature some day when our hearts are purged and cleansed and great suffering has torn its way through our national soul. But that’s enough of that.
I rejoice exceedingly that we have a Canadian literature and Canadian art, too, and those who do not know this are missing something. I shall leave the matter of Canadian art to someone who has more knowledge of its technique, but I know that Mildred Valley Thornton of Vancouver, Fred Steiger of Saskatoon, W.J. Phillips of Manitoba, to mention only three out of a dozen western artists, have captured our landscapes, our towns, our elevators and our people, with their brushes and made us see the beauty, the struggle, the hopes, the throbbing youth and vigour of this young country.
An authors’ convention is always a pleasant experience, though this year I missed many of the old friends; their places are taken by new members, full of ambitions. Among the new ones I would single out J.F.C. Wright, winner of the Governor General’s Medal for this year for his book entitled Slava Bohu (Praise God).
Wright is a tall young man, with bright blue eyes, straightforward speech and no affectations of manner. He has youth, ability and humility of mind, and the good gift of making friends. He is a hard worker, too, and knows that the path of literature is a rough and thorny one.
He did not get the material for his book sitting behind a desk or reading government reports; he has obtained his knowledge by living and working with the people of whom he writes. He has made hay and harvested grain with them, worked in the mines and oil fields, sat up at night arguing with them, for the Doukhobors delight in arguing. And now he has set down his knowledge in a book that Canadians welcome as the first serious attempt to understand these strange people from central Russia.
The historical background of the Doukhobors reads something like the war news of today, with trumped-up charges, persecution and exile. It’s easy to see how they came to distrust all authority. A bright chapter in their history is the rule of Lukeria, who became their leader on the death of her drunken husband.
Lukeria ruled for 13 years, and during this time the Grand Duke Michael, governor of Caucasia, became interested in the agricultural success of his 12,000 Doukhobor subjects. He was glad to buy their products to feed the Russian army, and they much preferred farming to fighting. Lukeria had a robust common sense that kept the fanaticism of her subjects in check.
In 1874, a Bill of Conscription was introduced in Caucasia, and then began a bitter time for the people who desired only to live at peace. In 1898, the number of Doukhobors had been reduced by persecution and murder to only 8,000, and it was about this time that Tolstoy, the great Russian writer, became interested in them for their pacifist beliefs and their amazing fortitude. On their behalf he appealed to the Czar to allow them to emigrate to some happier country, and the Society of Friends in London contributed $50,000 to help them escape from their persecutors.
On Sept. 1, 1898, a great company of Doukhobors sailed for Canada, eager to take up the 160 acres of land the government had promised to each male over 18 years of age. There was also a special fund of $30,000 placed to their credit to feed them on their arrival, and it was also agreed that the Doukhobors would be exempt from military service.
After the voyage of 32 days, the Lake Huron came into the Halifax harbour, bring the largest number of settlers ever having embarked on one ship for the North American continent. And when Dr. Montizabert of the Health Department inspected the vessel, he said he had never seen a ship enter the harbour in such clean and orderly condition.
Peter Verigin, the leader, did not accompany the Doukhobors to Canada; he was still in exile in Siberia, but he sent full directions for the conduct of his people. They must learn to read and write, he wrote, and live in small villages, with one house for each family.
Dissension broke out before many months had passed. Peter Verigin could not easily be reached and they were lost without a leader, though they repeated, parrot-like, the formula learned in Russian — “No one among us is greater than another; we are all equal. Each man follows his own conscience.”
In 1902, Peter Verigin came to Canada, and government officials were encouraged when they saw this carefully dressed, handsome man of dignified bearing; he would surely bring harmony again to his restless flock. And when they heard he had advised his people to make entry for their homesteads, they rejoiced — prematurely as it proved — believing their troubles with the new settlers were at an end.
The fanatical party among the Doukhobors believed that the Spirit of God had left Peter when he told them to obey governmental regulations, and the first nude parade of about 45 people who marched from one village to another was a protest against his words.
Peter Verigin’s agents tried to stop the parade, but the martyr complex was stronger than the willow switches.
We all know something of the tempestuous years that followed — the burning of schools, nude parades in all weather, the tragic death of Peter Verigin and the coming of his son Peter. The loyalty of the people to this worthless, dissipated man has something pitiful in it.
Peter II spent his time and their money drinking and gambling, and he treated his faithful followers with words of contempt and abuse, all of which they bore without resentment. Their reason is interesting.
“Poor Peter,” they said, “does not want to drink and play poker and swear and tell ugly stories; he hates all this, but he has to do it to deceive the Canadian government. If he did not do these things, they would know he is Christ and persecute him.”
When I finished the book, my feeling was one of admiration for the manner in which it is written. Wright has not made out a case for or against the Doukhobor nor for or against the government. He has revealed the character of these strange people, their industry, frugality and resolute courage; but combined with these virtues is a gloomy, negative mentality.
Laws are anathema to them, and the people who make them or obey them suspect. They see no reason for paying taxes, they do not believe in courts or social improvements — no good Doukhobor could be either a judge or a policemen.
This negative attitude seems to be the source of all their antisocial qualities, and when this is combined with a fanatical, stubborn, unreasoning religion that makes them destroy property and endanger human lives, all to the glory of God, it can easily be seen that here is a problem that has no easy solution. Nothing is as bad as a bad religion.
However, Wright’s book has encouragement for those who hope to see even the wild ones behave themselves and become good citizens. Many of the young Doukhobors are taking part in Canadian life. There are doctors and lawyers, school teachers and farmers who are doing their best to bring enlightenment to their people. Here is an extract from a letter written by a young engineer to his Doukhobor schoolmates in Saskatchewan.
“If we can combine the most admirable characteristics of our Russian ancestry with the best features of Anglo-Saxon civilization in North America, we will then have something worthwhile. … I am sure that those of us who have, in some degree, learned to rely on our own reason and intuition — as the earliest Doukhobors intended we should — will never blindly follow any leader, nor will we attempt to exploit the credulous.”
Note the phrase “the best features of Anglo-Saxon civilization,” and take time for meditation.
Wright’s vigorous writing carries the reader from page to page with all the fascination of a best-selling novel. His description of the death of Peter II in a hospital in Saskatoon might have been written by Victor Hugo.
What have we to write about in Canada? There is a story in every house, beauty under our feet, drama in the air and a great nation in the making all around us.
Some of McClung’s columns from the 1930s and 1940s have been collected in a book, The Valiant Nellie McClung: Selected Writings by Canada’s Most Famous Suffragist, by Barbara Smith.
