It was a day of research like any other. I had spent hours sorting through daunting piles of documents stored in the Trent University archives, too aware of the warm summer weather on which I was missing out. Then, to my surprise, I opened a file containing letters from the late 1960s between John Glassco and Arthur Smith. A few minutes of reading and the authors' repartee had me laughing out loud with that hoped-for but always unexpected joy that is so rare in the dry and oft-unrewarding world of archival research. I wanted to share the letters with anyone who would, as I do, appreciate the insight they offer into the lives and personalities of several of Canada's literary icons. And so, here are three of those letters, dating from 1967.
At the time, "Buffy" Glassco was living in Foster [Lac-Brome], Quebec, and working on the now seminal Poetry of French Canada in Translation. By then an acclaimed poet, he would soon publish his unforgettable Memoirs of Montparnasse. A. J. M. Smithùpoet, critic, and professor at Michigan State University at East Lansingùwas completing yet another anthology, Modern Canadian Verse, in which he was about to publish, thanks to Buffy's connections, barely-off-the-press verse by contemporary QuTbTcois poets like GTrald Godin and MichFle Lalonde.
On January 14, 1967, at a special Convocation to inaugurate the Centennial Theatre at Bishop's University, Smith was given an honorary degree. Two days later, Glassco wrote a letter to Frank Scott and described the event since the latter had been unable to attend. Scott enjoyed the letter so much that Smith asked him for a copy. Ralph Gustafson, Bishop's poet-in-residence at the time, wrote Smith's citation. Buffy's companion during this period was Elma von Koolmar whoùthe letters indicateùsuffered from mental problems: "She has gone right around the bend, I'm afraid," wrote Buffy to Smith in 1968. "She believes she is a posthumous daughter of Czar Nicholas II. And a re-incarnation of Queen Nefertiti. We have some interesting conversations."
Patricia Godbout

Foster, Que., January 16, 1967
Dear Frank,
Since you and Marian couldn't be at Bishop's for the Convocation last Saturday, here is a kind of rundown of it while things are still fresh in my mind.
The theatre itself is very fine, as beautiful as anything fire-new can be, lighting excellent, acoustics wonderful (they shut off the microphone about 15 seconds after Ralph [Gustafson] had begun reading his poem, and the natural voice came through much better). The only fault it may have is that it's too big; that is, may be hard to fill. I hear England is now pockmarked with theatres like this (one to every town) built by arts-conscious local councils, and they are almost empty because the people don't really care for plays, preferring the togetherness of bingo in the parish halls, etc. But this theatre could be a nucleus for a whole district in time. It's wonderfully complete: more room behind the stage than in front, all kinds of rising and sinking fore-stages, aprons, orchestra-pits, and such plushy dressing-rooms full of mirrors, running water, toilets, etc. Everything but a bar.
Convocation itself got off to a bad start when Kenneth Montreal (lawn sleeves, red petticoats, king-sized pectoral cross and about 1 tbsp. hair-oil) took the floor and bade us in ringing microphonic tones pray for Her Majesty the Queen, His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, all the Royal Family, the Governor-General, all the Lieutenant-Governors and so on and on and on and ending with "all the Christian people of Canada" (no Jews, Muslims or lesser breeds), and then launching (as I suppose he was bound to: it's the clergyman's climax, after all) into the Lord's Prayer. During this sibilant tribal muttering I was heartened to note that Arthur's lips, like my own, were firmly locked. In fact he looked black as thunder (he told me afterwards he had been wondering 'just where in the hell he was').
Doug Abbott (seated like Tamburlaine on a kind of gilded Elizabethan throne: everyone else on what looked like camp-stools) then presented Hughes Lapointe in his usual jovial political-meeting style, even managing to get in a decorous plug for the Liberal Party. Lapointe spoke very well, gliding into French and out again with great address: he handled his clichTs very well.
Then came Ralph's poem. He delivered it beautifully. It's really not a bad occasional poem, and after reading it over about 10 times, later, I even began to understand it. Listening, of course, it was impossible to make head or tail of it. Those gnomic compressions of his, those sudden jumps of thought and metaphor which make me think of a man dancing on a log-jam, certainly don't lend themselves to recitation. But the last Prospero-like stanza was quite moving.
The citations were all excellent. All the honorands behaved very well during them, except for John Vickers who struck an absurd mock-modest operatic stance, hands behind, chin sunk on chest, presumably still playing Florestand in prison. Jean Gascon was perfect, however: he just stood with his tufted chin stuck out with a modest smile. Roberge was very still and grave. Celia Franca (wearing stage make-up and looking about 18) gave the Chancellor the deepest and most beautiful curtsey I have every seen performed: a thrilling osprey-like swoop which pulled a spontaneous burst of applause. (We must hand it to the Thespians!) But Arthur was the best of all. He really did Letters proud. He looked so much more dignified and manly, and wore his robes with the air of a Renaissance prelate while all the others looked vaguely theatrical and somehow dressed-up, including Robertson Davies who, as always, gives me the impression of a magnificent but (possibly) spurious Rembrandt.
Davies' address was a fine show. He's a real pro. Unfortunately I can't remember a thing he said, I was so taken up with admiring his ample, roomy gestures. He did make a point of sorts, however, by ribbing bilingualism quite cleverly in delivering his exordium in Latin. Most of the Latin portion was addressed to the Chancellor (whose command of Latin is probably limited to the formula of admission), as if to say, "I am a Scholar, Sir, while you are only a Judge." It was extremely witty, and very well done though with a faint flavour of ham.
I mustn't forget that in the front row, just to the right of Lapointe, was a black-avised, black-haired young man in a black business-suit who kept biting his lips with rage all the time. I believe, though am not sure, he was Marcel Masse, the Associate or Assistant Minister of Education, the ultra-nationalist M.L.A., sitting in for Bertrand. [It was. P. G.]. The prayers for the Queen and the Royal Family probably upset him: like everyone else, he had to stand for them.
A very nice reception afterwards, with lots of liquor. Elma got engaged in a long conversation with Bishop Brown (a very nice archaic bishop he makes, like something in a Wilde play), so that I was able to study his gaiters from behind: they strap under the instep, button all the way up on the outside, and then merge subtly into some kind of breeches which vanish under a tail-coat with a great posterior horsemanly vent flanked by two big black buttons. ùRon Sutherland has grown a beard like an early Yankee whaling-captain's, absolutely circular and sans moustache, it suits him very well: he said it was to celebrate the birth of his first son. ùCelia Franca's boyfriend was quite charming, but dresses a little outrT in drainpipe ankle-flared trousers, jacket with mini-lapels and a Musset cravat. He always walks behind her, with furrowed brow, while her splendid nose cleaves the way like a ship's prow.
The Connaught Inn was delightfully empty when we got back. In fact we were the only guests there, Mr. Hopcraft having given us your room (that's a bridal suite, the one with the bathroom). This is a wonderful hotel, it's just like home. Wanting ice for a nightcap, I groped my way downstairs at 1 a.m. and at last found the kitchen: a staggering Victorian suite of rooms with ten-foot high ceilings, all kinds of mysterious pea-green-painted cupboards going up to the ceiling, and a 25 square-foot wooden nickel-handled ice-box, or rather meat-safe, partly converted to a frigidaire in which I groped among nameless leftover foods in plastic jars and at last found some ice-cubes in one of those primitive iron-sectioned trays, and then thawed them out in a Dickensian sink. I even managed to find an old soup-bowl to put them in, but only after rummaging through drawers and cupboards full of old spring-scales, nails, knives without handles, broken plates, rusty egg-beaters. A real adventure, a trip back into time.
But it was such a pity you and Marian weren't there. We felt quite lost when Mr. Hopcraft told us you had the grippe and had cancelled.
Elma is much better now and sends you both her best love.

Buffy
February 27, 1967

Dear Buffy,
I thought I ought to try to repay Ralph for his glowing citation at the Bishop's Convocation. What think you of the enclosed? It begins as a sort of pastiche of Ralph's Browningesque manner but recaptures a certain decorum as it goes alongùenough to be printed (I trust) as a tribute rather than as a satire in an issue of the student literary mag honoring R.G. [The Mitre, P. G.].
FRS [F. R. Scott] writes I should ask to see yr brilliant account of the Convoùthough perhaps I have. If not, do send it along.
Jeannie and I are struggling thru the proofs of the Bk Mod Can Po [Modern Canadian Verse]ùwith much cursing and bad language. I have galleys and galleys of longlonglong Fr poems (probably more pages than the more numerous but shorter Anglais). I wish the modns among the latter wd learn how to write a sentence, how to unify it, when to stop, and above all how to punctuate. Birney, Dudek, Purdy and their followers ramble on and on, gossiping away, changing the subject, introducing whatever idle fancy or trite that comes into their heads as they write. If they can split an infinitive they will or leave a clause dangling . . . Then after this is the infantilism of Reaney and Gotlieb, the metaphysical cryptogrammaticals, the aesthetes, the academics, the Gravesians, and even yet the female socialservice songstresses down to the projective verse of the tishbitesù4 letter words multiplied to 400 and sprawled across the page. It's going to be a great book.
Do not sell this with yr papers and mss. BURN IT.
Bill Toye will be here this weekend for proofreading. We (Jeannie and I) hope Elma is feeling better, and that we may all have some pleasant reunions this summer. RSVP.
Arthur

In Residence
Our Ralph? A poet is he? Walks he here
Among us studious ants in sacred groves
ùHead lifted, locks uncumbered, halo tipt
A trifle rakish, though invisible,
And goatsfoot sheathed in gleaming Cordovan?
Behold! Our Bishop's nourishes a bard
Again.
Where Drummond mimicked joual
And Scott, not yet canonical, drank deep
Of the Pierian spring, as did his son,
As did McCrae, who sleeps where poppies blow,
He sings.
Lived has he? Suffered has he? Toiled
To ply the homely slighted shepherd's trade?
We can but guess. Yet sure, his lyre's in tune
ùHis portable Corona, fact puts inù
And follows faithful wheresoe're he goesù
Be it Vienna, Knossos, Revelstoke,
Vadstena, or Milan's cathedral's roofù
And pours song forth on Salzburg's storied streets
As rich and sweet (though often gnarled with
thought
And knotty syntax too) as rolls he round
Alberta's ragged crests and icy clefts
Where postcard mountains thrust to dare a man
Attempt Parnassus.
What made him poet?
Who shall say? Yet read his verses as they're writ
ùNot with mind's calculating eye alone
But with the heart's, and then the secret's out,
The secret many a cryptic poem shouts
ùAn ars poetica in two small words:
MY LOVE.


March 5, 1967

Dear Arthur,
A very fine Ralphian poem indeed! So deft, so couth: I even seem to catch some Miltonian intonations 3/4-way through . . . I'm sure it will cheer him greatly.
He seems, lately, overly stretched on the rough bed of his public reflection, to mix a metaphor. Also, like those tragic clergymen 100 years ago who had Doubts (implanted by Darwin, uneradicated by Pusey), I think he is given to vocational qualms. But aren't we all? Anyway, I think this will give him a much-needed shot in his security. The last line is very beautiful in the Herbertian way.
If you insist on my burning your letter I will do so with tears in my eyes. Your listing of the tribes of Can. poets should not be lost to posterity . . .
In calling them over, you forgot the Dropped-articleites. Dorothy Livesay was at one time the highpriestess of this sect, which practised a technique at once easy and baffling: first write your poem; then ruthlessly weed out every 'the' and 'a'. This gives a fine, nubbly effect of compression and density, and by making the poem 3 times harder to understand conveys an illusion of great depth. Also the Breathing Exercisers, who give artificial respiration by making the reader chase
the bloody poem
all
over the
page.

Then there are sub-species like the Uxcrists, who are always writing about wedded sex, and the Philoprogenitorians, who keep us posted on their children. The last two, however, still only exist in pockets.
[à]

I didn't make a copy of my Convocation letter, but Frank says he will send me a Xerox and I will send you one.
Elma is much better, and sends all her love to you both.
Buffy