Outside, everything dripped; inside all gloomed. The monkey’s scarlet apron was the only gay spot this grey day. She sat warming spread toes in front of the Studio fire. Ginger was alert for play, but Woo was pensive.
The telephone whizzed, “May I bring a stranger to your studio?”
“Artist?”
“No, writer.”
“Sure, come on!”
The stranger, a woman, asked me to show her some pictures. They interested her.
“Tell me,” she said, “why have I not heard of your work? I have been in Victoria for months and I have enquired repeatedly, ‘Are there no artists?’ ”
“Victoria hates my painting. She resents the more modern way of seeing that I learned in Paris. No place is more conservative in art than Victoria.”
“Have you given Victorians a fair chance to see it?”
“No. The few who come to my Studio are so depressingly antagonistic—ridicule, loathe it. I don’t care whether it pleases them or not. I am not changing back fifty years to please them!”
“Well, Victorians are going to see it now. I am going to rub their noses on canvases whether they like it or not and you are going to give a talk on the newer way of seeing—give it before the Women’s Canadian Club!”
“I couldn’t! Oh, I couldn’t!”
But within a week I found myself booked to give that talk plus an exhibition. Alarming ordeal! No wonder my watch on Woo was slack. While I scribbled notes a stealthy foot stole towards my paint-box, a firm supple tail whipped the large tube of yellow paint towards her foot, her foot gave it into her hand—silent bliss.
I glanced up from writing. “Woo! Woo!” Monkey, rug, and bench were yellow as daffodils; the torn tube lay empty. Woo was obviously beginning to feel very ill.
My talk flew to the four winds. All day I hung over my monkey. I washed inside as far down as I could reach with gasoline rags. I gave emetics and physic. Woo submitted, pocketed the physic in her cheeks and spat it out later. She lay across a hot bottle in my lap.
The veterinary said, “No good my coming out. She would not permit a stranger to handle her. You have done all there is to do. If she lives through the night she’ll make it—very, very doubtful!”
The sponsor of my talk rang up.
“How goes the talk?”
“Gone! The monkey’s dying.”
“You can’t let me down! All arrangements made—day after tomorrow. You couldn’t!”
“If Woo dies, I shan’t talk!”
My sponsor had enlisted the help of a Dutch artist to hang the exhibition.
He phoned, “Dis talk, she is ready? De picture, she ready too? Tomorrow I hang.”
“No exhibition—no talk—my monkey is dying!”
“So? What ails leetle monkey?”
“A whole tube of aurioline yellow.”
“Dat monkey, she eat?”
“Yes.”
“Bad, ver’, ver’ bad. Yellow most poisonest of all paint. Leetle monkey die for sure—too bad!”
“Good-bye.” I slammed the receiver down.
Woo did not die. She was violently, yellowly sick; then she sat up, shook herself, and ate grapes.
Early, early in the morning my sponsor’s voice quavered through the phone, “Woo?”
“Aurioline came up—going to live—am working on my speech.”
“Thanks be . . . .”
The talk went over on the crest of such happy thanksgiving it made a hit. The credit belonged to Woo’s tough constitution.
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