Sophie

One day, in answer to a gentle knock, I found a little Indian mother. There was a fat baby on her back, lased to it by a gay plaid shawl. She had a full skirt full of loud plaid material, a bright yellow silk handkerchief about her head. A little girl hung unto the mother’s skirt and a heavy boy dawdled behind. 

“Basket?” She undid a very large bundle tied at the four corners and exhibited some beautiful baskets of her own make. 

“Haho, chuckiman” — (No money).

“Warm skirt just the same.”

“Haho warm skirt, next month maybe. Cath um Victoria.” The basket I wanted was about 18″ wide and 24″ long, stoutly woven from cedar toot and inlaid with designs in cherry root an inlaid with designs in cherry bark and split cedar. It was square cornered with handles and a firm, beautifully fitted cover. We had a cup of teach and some bread and jam. Then the woman put the smaller baskets into her cloth, lashed the child tighter to her and got up to go. 

“Take the basket, I will come to North Vancouver and get back from Victoria with my clothes.”

“Just same bymby.”

“How can I find you in the village?”

“Me Sophie Frank. Everybody know me.”

This understanding trust, when I knew how often my race fooled her. 

That was the start of a deep friendship. Something that touched the very core of life. 

Sophie was the mother of 21 children, only six of whom I knew — she had already given birth and buried the others when I knew her — the three she brought with her on her first visit to my studio and three later infants. One was named for me. I saw Sophie part with these six, one by one. When life hit me hard, I went across the bay and sat a spell with Sophie. Her bare little house was clean. It faced the sea, and you could hear the lap or dash of waves on the beach at Sophie’s door. 

Inside the door there was always calm, even after there were no more babies to roll around the floor as Sophie squatted there basket-making. I know that Sophie felt the same thing for me as I for her. She was a Catholic. I was glad the priest told her that I was just like a Catholic and that she could love me. She was a little sad when she found that I did not belong to her church. So afterward we went to see the graves and the little Indian church, and I dipped my fingers into the little shell that held holy water and I crossed myself. I cannot feel if not according to my own faith that it was mockery. It wa gratifying to little Sophie. 

When I left Vancouver, Sophie cried bitterly. She said, “I love you like my own sister. I love you more because she forgets me sometimes. You will not forget.” I felt it a tremendous thing to be accepted by an Indian like this. I kissed her goodbye. “If you want, send word and I will come.” She did, and I went.

After Sophie had buried twenty children, she broke and took to drink. Frank, her husband, had the habit for years. Coming from Victoria to see her, I found her drunk. The shock of having me see her sobered her. Her shame and crying were bitter. 

Even the disgust of the vile-smelling liquor and Sophie dischevelled and wrecked couldn’t shake my love for Sophie and I love her still. 

Although she has passed on now, it was just all comprehensive love. Perhaps to me it needs neither defence or explanation. The people in the village called me “Sophie’s Emily.” She herself called me “My Emily,” and so I was. She is dead now, and the memory of her folded together with the little of handful of things particularly mine. 

Sophie had a friend called Susan who lived in the next house to hers. She too was a mother Indian. She wove a new papoose cradle every year and almost as regularly ordered a little coffin from the undertaker. I suppose the trouble was tubercular. Between the carrying out of a coffin and the weaving of a new basket, Sophie and Susan took their baskets, all tied up in cloths with knotted corners over their arms, and any remnants of their families still living came to Vancouver on the ferry, selling baskets door to doo. They had a standing invitation to a cup of tea in the studio, any many a tea party we had. 

Nothing escaped their notice although their eyes never roved. They say quite immobile, talked little, ate greatly. Susan was not so find as Sophie, and according to Sophie’s standard occasionally erred. Then she received a sharp slap on the hand  from Sophie. Sophie always wanted to be “nice.: Often, if I asked why, she replied, “Nice ladies don’t.”

“Sophie, you passed my house yesterday. Why did you not come in for a cup of tea?”

“I came last week.:

“That did not matter.”

” Nice ladies don’t come too often.”

Sophie and I respected each other’s “being nice.” Our friendship was based on honesty and trust. We never pretending to each other. Many veils, of necessity, fell between us, veils of race and creed and civilization and language. Each stood on her side, sensing the woman on the other. We were the same age. Sophie was very jealous. If I went to see other women in the village, she got angry. “But Sophie,” I said. “I like to know all the Indian women.” Sher refused to introduce me to Chief Joe Capilano’s wife 

“You are my first,” she said fiercely 

“You were my first Indian friend, Sophie. You will also be the biggest.”

The first day that Susan came with Sophie, she said, “This woman got Injun flowers?”

Uh-huh. She pointed to the wild ferns and the little cedar trees in my window boxes.