To University College to talk to freshmen: tried to say something about the pursuit of knowledge as a path to wisdom and thence salvation, or integration, or maturity. Did not do it as well as I should, and I think the theme was too strange for many of them. Gordon Skilling, of Slavic Studies, who spoke after me, was much better. Afterward, a boy of eighteen with a creditable beard and moustache tackled me: wants to write, but how can he give all to his art and at the same time acquire the rich experience from which to write? A girl next: adores the theatre and wants to work with me. The third, a boy, very precise: what must he do to get into Massey College? He can act—“I’m English-born, you see, so I’m pretty good at it, and of course I can put on the accent”—but is going to protect himself from entangling alliances, to see how to get the most out of the university. All freshmen. Better the first two, innocent and silly, than the third, calculating and self-seeking.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 22: Lionel phones about 7 p.m.: Vincent agrees entirely about the non-denominational character of the chapel. He has entirely forgotten his conversations of January 20. This suits me well enough: an Anglican chapel would be little used and might affront some people who associate that church with Toryism and the English ascendancy. Personally I would like to have an Anglican chapel, but I know my desire is unwise from the point of view of the College’s future. Once again Lionel emphasizes—get everything you need before Christmas.
Tonight some ladies in Hall as guests: we progress and I am purposely making haste slowly.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25: The problem this diary now proposes is—what to record? Minutiae or only the big things? But who can say what trifle may swell into something of significance? Consider the farcical scene of February 22 when the chair for the Fellows’ dining-room was so hacked about: would we had hacked the dining-room chair for the Hall as well, for the spikes on the back make self-service and maid service devilish hard and things are spilled. And the little banners on the table lamps drag in the food. Friesen is worried already about the heavy catering costs. But I refuse to be depressed: he and the Masseys must worry about money, and if I do so in detail I become a lodging-house keeper and an impossible head of a college.
This is the week of university freshman initiations, and last night we had several girls invading us at different times because they had been told they must get one of our crested forks in a scavenger hunt. Some crept through the gate when a Junior Fellow was going out: six got through my garden gate and were trapped: three were darting up to Hall when I nabbed them, just as McCracken took them in the rear. Nice children, except for one spectacled piece (a school principal in embryo, obviously), who wanted to argue that she should be given a fork in the interests of women’s rights, or freshman encouragement, or some such nonsense. Was firm.
This morning at 9 a.m. our first Ph.D. exam in the Round Room. The candidate, a chemist, arrived betimes: a real scientist, a gowk with an ugly voice who described the College as “pretty.” Ten examiners were listed for him, but to get a quorum distress calls had to be sent out. One of their number says he may get his degree with some protest as there is serious doubt about his conclusions. But he got it, and departed as self-satisfied as he came.
What wears the spirit in this job is the continual necessity to praise people for doing apparently simple things in which one is not really interested—the man who puts on the locks, the man who advises on whether or not the Hall chairs should have nylon slides on their feet, etc. If one has a beard, and is called “Dr.,” one must be a fount of praise and reassurance, and what a bore it is!
THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 26: A long day, during which I did not set foot outside the College and rarely out-of-doors, which simply will not do. Began the day by venturing into the quad and struck up a talk with John Ower of Alberta, a raw youth who wants to do his thesis on Edith Sitwell, whom he considers “a worthwhile poet, but limited.” The impudent self-assurance of the prairies; he is a child, but full of green learning. At noon Vincent Massey came, and savaged Jowett, the photographer, who, it appears, is working for Ron, though Ron denies him and abuses him: Ron is devious. Jowett, though a nuisance, is following orders. Lunched in Hall: a bad lunch, after which VM came to my study and we settled on a non-denominational chapel, and discussed his book, which appears October 4! What a glory-day for him! Then Robert Dinsmore, the terrae filius for October 4, comes in and VM reads him his verses51 for October 4, and I suggest to Dinsmore that he read VM his notes, which he had given me: this was mean of me, for Dinsmore’s notes were careless, undergraduate, and rather offensive, and spoke of VM as a “has-been governor general.” I wanted Dinsmore to realize that the humour of insult was a more complex mechanism than he knew. Kept him in somewhat horrified suspense for a moment, then let him off the hook. An afternoon of furious business—when do I do my scholarly work?—and at 6 Lionel comes in and we go to Hall. Fishwick had brought Father Shook and Father Sheridan of the Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, both good talkers and witty. Excellent conversation at table and after in the Common Room. Then Lionel to my study and we talk of College affairs till 10:30. He tells me a significant thing: the accident which wrecked Hart’s life was caused by Lionel throwing him downstairs: pituitary injury, a choice of blindness or no growth; then a serum found to encourage growth and it does; then Hart’s wound in the Battle of the Bulge and the back of his head horribly injured and the serum can no longer be used. Result: Hart as he is, and Lionel with a sense of guilt and obligation. Poor, poor Lionel! How life has pummelled him! Poor Hart; who can, at last, blame him, chilly, negative manikin as he is?
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 1: As the 4th draws near, excitement mounts, and work increases. The Junior Fellows, having found their feet, now want all sorts of things—billiard tables, ping-pong; the Upper Library for personal cocktail parties, a laundromat, a coffee-vending machine—and all this must be handled with tact. In the Star on Saturday, September 28, Arnold Rockman published an ugly piece, ostensibly about the building but blaming us for neglecting women and New Canadians and leaning toward WASPS, and also finding fault with the Senior Fellows as coming from within “the contact network of the Massey family and the U. of T.” Why are gifts and benefactions treated to this sort of cankered criticism? This article, I fear, means that any further writing for the Star would be out of the question for me. Yet when I tell them so they will undoubtedly say I have been forbidden by the Masseys or am afraid of them. I resigned from the editorial board of Saturday Night because of its vicious attack on Vincent Massey, and Jack Kent Cooke, the owner, never spoke to me afterward. One of the Southam men tells me the Telegram’s attack on the College was set off by a memo from John Bassett, the publisher. For years I have been defending the newspapers against their detractors, but how true it is that the Toronto evening newspapers, hugely rich, are controlled by little, vulgar minds.
Yesterday I was so over-driven I had to go to bed at 8 p.m., after a day which culminated in tasting claret with Lionel to choose one for the 4th. Chose a South African Roodeberg at $1.40 per bottle, which was what I wanted anyhow. At 6 Vincent Massey called in a swither: Bill Broughall and Zoe were not asked to our dinner party beforehand on the 4th and would they not be offended? Of course they would, but we have not been fortunate in our social relations with them. So Brenda calls, and Bill says they would be delighted. Meanwhile a letter arrived from Geoffrey Massey: he and his wife accept for 4th: so Jenny has to be dismissed from table.
In the evening with Brenda to the Canadian Opera Company’s Aida and enjoyed it thoroughly, as a distraction from all this. Excellent and most refreshing. Ella Lee sang Aida sensitively but strongly; the costume designer had put her in a straight orange sack and with her short neck, big bosom, and thin Negro legs she looked oddly triangular. By contrast Cecilia Ward as Amneris looked beautiful but sang and acted weakly. Victor Braun, last seen by me in The Gondoliers, was an admirable, direct, convincing Amonasro—really a savage with the single-mindedness of a primitive.
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p; WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 2: Telegraph Geoffrey inviting him and his wife to lie with us, as decency rather than inclination dictates. Brenda phones Zoe Broughall, who called last night when we were out: Bill has accepted without thinking, as another Peke bitch is due to whelp and they must be at its side. Bill calls me and blames himself for having left Zoe alone in the critical hour on September 14, and the puppies died! God, these childless people! Then a telegram comes from Geoff. He is coming alone. So Jenny is back at table and a real Massey crisis has been provoked about somebody else’s dinner party.
Claude Bissell calls: he doesn’t want the Master’s stipend specified in the statutes, as a non-professional person might get it, and also “someone of substantial private means.” What fussers they all are! Sometimes I wonder very seriously if I have not made a grave mistake in accepting this maddening job. My heart misgives me. These academics are so capricious and waspish.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 3: This morning I had a chat with Bill Dobson in his rooms and tell him how harassed I feel; he comforts me by saying that when he was setting up the East Asiatic Department he thought the university as a whole was in league to denigrate, thwart, and humiliate him, and there were dark days when he thought he would shoot himself; sleep was a stranger. Found all this comforting. In the afternoon, a meeting of the College Corporation in the Round Room for the first time, and all were present but Phillips, Bissell, Gordon Roper, and Raymond Massey.
VISITOR
The Right Honourable Vincent Massey
MASTER
Robertson Davies
SENIOR FELLOWS
C.T. Bissell, President of the University of Toronto
V.W. Bladen, Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science
W. H. Broughall, Barrister-at-Law
W.A.C.H. Dobson, Professor of Chinese
J.C. Eayrs, Associate Professor of Political Economy
R.D.C. Finch, Professor of French
A.R. Gordon, Professor of Chemistry, Dean of Graduate Studies
Geoffrey Massey
Hart P.V. Massey
Lionel C.V. Massey
Raymond H. Massey
Lieut. Col. W.E. Phillips
J.C. Polanyi, Professor of Chemistry
G.H. Roper, Professor of English
J.T. Wilson, Professor of Geophysics
C.A. Wright, Dean of Law
I had previously had a long talk with Vincent in what are to be his rooms in the NE corner of the quad. He greatly likes this notion as he is understandably loath to be cut off from the College, which is so much his creation, and it is a small thing to do for him. We understand one another very well about this venture and I have not seen him looking so well and alert in many months. The meeting went well—several men wore gowns and resolved they would wear College gowns at future meetings. Visitor’s statute passed with one change, but we decided to hold over the Master’s statute until Claude Bissell explains his objections. Was pleased by this show of independence, for though I understand Bissell’s points, I thought him somewhat cavalier in his manner of stating them; I suppose Laddie Cassels or Frank Stone objected and Bissell simply passed it on.
Vincent Massey, Hart, Lionel, and Geoffrey all dine in Hall and are impressed by the young men they talked with. I sat next to a young Jesuit, a guest of Scott Dunbar, who evinced the subtlety and suavity of his order in such remarks as, “You certainly got a lovely plant here, Professor.”
After Hall and conversation, Vincent, Hart, and Lionel came in for a drink, and we get on good terms and Hart is positively genial. I see VM to his rooms about 11 and returning find Scott Dunbar gazing into the pool. This grotesquely shy man became quite friendly, said how beautiful the College was physically and he hoped in spirit. We talked of religion: he grew up a Quaker and has sought what the Church of England has to give and cannot like it. Odd talk in the splendours of a fine autumn moonlight night. But this building encourages good and direct talk. VM and I rehearsed tomorrow night’s ceremonial.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4: The morning goes in organization and being photographed with Vincent Massey in full academicals for his Christmas card. In the afternoon I have my first meeting with my graduate students about nineteenth-century theatre, eighteen of them. At 6:30 all the Masseys, Helen Ignatieff, and the Bissells assemble in our drawing-room and at 7 proceed to the Senior Fellows’ Dining Room, where we had a meal carefully ordered and planned by Brenda and clownishly served in the style of a bad restaurant by the College caterers—baskets of bread offered, “How d’you like yer steak?” hissed in each guest’s ear, wine jellies as hard as Pharaoh’s heart, and the wine (a good Moulin à Vent) poured out in brimming glasses, and no chance for me to try it. All bad and vulgar. But everyone knew it was the first try of the arrangements and the talk was good; Raymond Massey a splendid guest; we toasted VM’S book. Returned to the Lodgings for coffee and brandy, then to the Upper Library to robe.
The subsequent affair52 may reasonably be called a triumph: forty minutes and not one of them dull. The terrae filius surprise was splendidly effective and Dinsmore was excellent; the business with ringing Saint Catherine admirably timed; the party afterward rode on the crest of this and was really merry. I was very well received and especially by the Junior Fellows, which delighted me, and my speech went to laughter and clapping. I felt truly that in this hour I became Master—not chief administrator or landlord but Master—of this college and that its future lay in my power.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5: I woke with a feeling of peace and accomplishment. Chat with Vincent Massey in his rooms before he leaves. He tells me Bill Broughall broached his plan that the Foundation set up a separate trust with $1,500,000 for the College, with the Master a trustee, at the Foundation meeting on Friday, and it was shelved and Broughall was cross. But the seed has been sown and VM assures me the Foundation has no thought of deserting the College after five years. Nor do I see how it well can when the Massey name is on it, and I told VM so and he entirely agreed. I am not worrying about money. Hart, Geoffrey, and Raymond have all been impressed and pleased by what they see here and it must have time to work with them. We must make the place live and live splendidly before we ask for money either from the Foundation or the university.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6: H.t.d. on waking. A wonderful autumn day: we go to Tuzo Wilson’s cottage at Kleinburg. In the evening Green, Dick, and Levene come for coffee. This week marks the end of the very long haul to get the College built and going, and the beginning of the varied task of making it work properly.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 12: A peaceful week compared with what has gone before but not without event. Lionel tells me Hart has written to Vincent definitely stating his opposition to endowing the College. Lionel and VM, however, want this and it might come to a vote. Too early to fuss, as Lionel sees that the death of VM or himself, or of Claude Bissell, could gravely endanger the College. They will move as fast as they can and need no prodding from me. Tanya was here Monday to Wednesday and the chapel begins to take shape; Ron’s lighting fixture is complex and rather ugly but gives a good light; Norbert’s53 alternative looks well but may be too dim.
The Star is after me again to resume the “Writer’s Diary”; Philadelphia offers $50 a column and Montreal Star $30, which is flattering and I am tempted. I reread some of the stuff and it is good. If only I thought I had true worth as a novelist! I know I am a good journalist. Should I do what I do well, or continue with what I want to do well? Malcolm Ross wants Leaven of Malice for the New Canadian Library, and I approach Clarke, Irwin, the publisher, but with small hope. But Ross thinks my novels important.
On Thursday Melvyn Pelt, a Junior Fellow, visits me, aggrieved because Colin Friesen and Miss Whalon have been chipping him about feeding College news to the Varsity and Rosemary Speirs, whose March on Massey organization threatens to picket us. Pelt has no sense of humour and a poor grasp of grammar, but I try not to dislike him; how do these grammarless oafs get high marks in history? He greatly dislikes College Conversation and thinks it sh
ould be abandoned: how pompous! But apart from him the Junior Fellows seem to like it here.
On Saturday and Sunday of the Thanksgiving weekend, the quad was used really properly—several men lay on the grass in the sun, reading, and though there were some visitors, they were few. On Saturday Robert Finch in to see me about College music; he is getting a harpsichord and clavichord himself, and suggests the Masseys might consider putting in a baroque organ, and making this a home of baroque music. As Gordon Wry54 has approached me about a small choir here for madrigals and kindred music, this makes good sense and I shall write to VM about it.
With Brenda and the three girls to Canadian Opera Don Giovanni at the O’Keefe Centre as part of our Thanksgiving celebrations. Orchestrally good under Walter Susskind, and Beverly Bower as Donna Anna and Frank Porretta as Don Ottavio sang splendidly. The best acting—good singing, too—from Jan Rubeš as Leporello. As Don Giovanni, Don Garrard fell into some common faults—a too domineering manner which made him severe rather than attractive, and a lack of humorous ease, or relish of his bad reputation. The demands of the role, of course, are phenomenal, and the notion of a philosophical libertinism hard to understand and convey. The sets, by Rudi Dorn, were well conceived and reminded me strongly of Portugal, but were crudely painted—and of course that stage is a killer. It killed Mavor Moore, whose direction was sometimes merely frantic and his use of the chorus inspired by despair. The use of Dent’s translation, flat as it sometimes is, keeps one in mind that the piece is a comedy. In one way Mavor scored heavily: he walked the Commendatore before our eyes from the grave yard to Don Giovanni’s hall, and it was thrilling—here the vast stage was employed with real imagination.