This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Jan. 17, 1942.
Momentary flashes of pale winter sunshine brighten the fields today, but the night falls soon, for we are in the short days now, and the gloom of evenings begins at 4.
The sea rolls cold against the rocks, and no more sailboats gleam on the grey waters of the straits. Flocks of gulls have come ashore and sit like white stones on the plowed land with their backs to the wind. The smoke is going to the ground, and so we are going to have more rain.
Now, maybe you think this is a dreary picture, but that is only the first glance. The cherry tree that spreads its bare arms over the garage is full of robins, and a flash of bluebird’s wings has just gone down the lane. There are still roses on the top of the bushes, teetering in the wind; and a whole hedge of pale yellow daisies makes a long mound of colour in front of the blackberry bushes. The Brompton stocks are finding their feet, and every time I see them they seem to have more pink blossoms that will, of course, stay the winter.
The winter jasmine is in bloom and the daphne is sowing colour, although it is not due until February. Primroses in purple and blue make rosettes on the rockery, that is, what is left of them, for following the long rains, part of the rockery has caved in again, leaving a yawning black hole.
This is the old well, which the neighbours tell us was 80 feet deep when it was used for the water supply. It was filled up long ago and yet every winter since we came it has suffered relapse. When we put in big rocks and earth and made a rockery over it we thought we had satisfied its hunger once and for all, but evidently there is some internal discontent crying out again for more filling.
In the fireplace now we are burning cherry wood — twigs, branches and roots, for several of our cherry trees, having run their course, had to be taken out this fall to make room for young trees. It just doesn’t seem right to be burning cherry wood, but it does make a good fire.
Every time fresh fuel is put on the fire, the same thing happens. With a sudden crackle and thunder and spurts of flame it roars up the chimney as if it means to set the house on fire. Then it settles down to a steady pace with soft purring sounds of resignation, but this is merely the calm before another storm; when with a “whoop and a holler” it’s off again! Another reservoir of gum has caught fire.
Pale yellow flames edged with blue and purple line the black of the chimney, now high, now low, and a great warmth fills the room as the sun’s heat, long stored in the green branches, is released.
When the fire at last dies down, it leaves a grey-blue ash with a glowing heart of rose; and so pass the cherry trees — in dignity and beauty these old Morellos, descendants of the wild cherry originally a native of Asia and brought to Italy before the time of Christ. It is surely better to go up in a chariot of fire than to rot slowly down into earth mould through the long defaulting years.
We look around this pleasant neighbourhood now with a new conception of its beauty — now that a threat lies over it. We are, according to tabulation, in the front line here in Victoria, with a possibility of only 15 minutes’ warning in the event of a raid. But there are no safe places anymore; everyone is in this war. The world is divided sharply now into those who believe all men must be free and those who believe that they are masters and other people are slaves.
It is strange to have to fight for this all over again. We thought it was all settled long ago. We think of all the battles that have been fought and won for liberty — the French Revolution, with its “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity” — noble words now erased from the Arc de Triomphe; the American War of Independence, women’s battle for equality. We certainly thought we had established a firm foundation for society, but the well has caved in again; something wrong far down.
We are united now as never before, with all lovers of freedom; and I believe we are ready to put out the smouldering embers of old feuds. When Prime Minister Winston Churchill spoke to the United States Senate and House of Representatives in Washington and his hearers laughed and cheered and fell in love with this boyish, chubby Englishman, I believed the bitter memories of ancient wrongs died in the music of that laughter.
Men who fight side by side for all that free men hold dear will not remember a grudge against each other. The American nation might even have remembered in that shining hour of history the last written words of their great Jefferson — “As for me I prefer the dream of the future to the history of the past.”
War changes people. We must change or lie down and die, broken-hearted. We must toughen our fibre and we must cut loose from the memory of old sins and old sorrows and look ahead. No war was ever won by looking backward.
The Japanese have chosen to fight under the black flag of the tyrants and have already shown that they will conform to the brutal standards of their masters. I can never believe that the common people of any of these countries are our enemies, but they have made a fatal mistake of delivering their country over to the assassins.
I wish we could in some way get the truth to the common people of these Axis countries. At this moment, there is no doubt the fear of defeat and its consequences holds the German people to Hitler. He seems to be their deliverer from the wrath to come. If we could only plant a seed of home in their hearts, we might shorten the struggle.
There are commentators who say that if the British soldiers marched into Italy today, they would be hailed as conquerors and friends by the disillusioned Italian people who hate their German overlords and the man who has betrayed them. I often wonder if the British people really understand the art of propaganda.
It might be better now, but a few months ago it was true that the people in British air raid shelters listened to German music at night for the reason that the BBC signed off at midnight, allowing the German radios to have full right of way.
This comment was often heard in the shelters: “The Germans do drop bombs on us but they certainly send us good music.” My authority for this is a paragraph in a speech made in the House of Lords, protesting the British lack of initiative in this great field of defence.
Last week, I made a plea for the individual Japanese, that they should be treated fairly; and I know these sentiments will be challenged, for this is a time of excitement, when prejudices run riot.
But we must remember we are a Christian people. On New Year’s Day, we confessed our sins and asked God to guide us. If we are to merit that guidance, we must not allow hate centres to develop here.
“The germ-centres of hatred and revenge,” said Churchill, “must be constantly and vigilantly treated and controlled at their very beginnings.”
Let us, the free people, do all in our power to keep open the gates of mercy, no matter what comes. A great purpose and design for humanity is being worked out in the world now before our eyes and we must not blot our part of the pattern.
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.
