Happy anniversary (of the 1969 Omnibus Bill)

I’ve been on hiatus for years, with little time and no energy for the research involved. I’m looking to get back into it.

For tonight, I just wanted to mention that today is the 43rd anniversary of the final rubber stamp on the Omnibus Bill that made me not automatically illegal for having a relationship in my country.

Tomorrow, we in the LGBT communities will be inundated with Stonewall retrospectives as we always are on June 28th, and Canadians will talk about Stonewall as the start of the movement. But our movement up here was alive, well, and had achieved its first major victory. It got royal assent the night before Stonewall – something in the air, clearly.

No disrespect to Americans who have every reason to celebrate tomorrow, but it isn’t right to forget our own history, and discard the memory of the work of tireless activists up here who made it happen.

Elsa Gidlow’s Circle – The Women Around Her

As I mentioned previously, Gidlow’s is the first portrait by an insider of the lesbian gay community in Canada. Because of this, I’d like to take the time to present in some detail the individuals she who had been part of that community – to put a more human face on what might otherwise be an abstraction.

We’ll begin with the women Gidlow met who were part of the bohemian subculture who had gathered around her friend Roswell George Mills.

The Women at Mills’ Parties

When Gidlow found “her people” in Mills’ small social circle, she was somewhat disappointed. There were only two among the frequent guests at Mills’ home – Marguerite Desmarais and Estelle Cox. Neither was exactly available.

But love must not be explained. One loves. That’s all.
– Marguerite Desmarais

Marguerite Desmarais was a pianist, described by Gidlow as a woman “of great charm.” Mills described her as “the most female creature I have ever met.” Gidlow depicted her similarly: “entirely Woman – strong, with the power of water, yet in no way dependent.” Desmarais arrived at Mills’ for a party one night on the arm of a music teacher named Adelard Brunet, and quickly worked her way into Gidlow’s life.

Mills encouraged Gidlow to go after her, though Gidlow was more focused on a woman named Estelle Cox. She didn’t even see Desmarais as a romantic possibility, believing her to be heterosexual. So no one was more surprised than she was when Desmarais made the first move.

They spent a weekend at a cabin in the Laurentian mountains – arranged by Mills – and Gidlow was often at the mansion Desmarais shared with an elderly mother in a state of advanced dementia. Her home was a shrine to great painters and great composers. It made quite an impression on Gidlow – “every object in the room,” she said, “seemed a projection of her – sharp, shining, alive.” Caring for her mother put a great strain on Desmarais – she devoted herself to art and beauty as a means of preventing her life’s difficulties from, as she put it, “corroding her heart.”

Desmarais was happy to be with Gidlow, though she was primarily focused on men. The possibility of a relationship with a woman did not seem to occur to her. Gidlow once said to her, “But you will not cease to love men. I could no more keep you for my own than hold an armful of moonlight.” To this, Desmarais said, “We cannot hold moonlight because it does not need to be held. We have it now. Isn’t that enough?”

For Gidlow it wasn’t enough, though. Soon Desmarais began to see an older man, but still wanted to be with her. She asked if the boyfriend wouldn’t have a problem with that. Desmarais said that he knew, and, “He finds it amusing.” He didn’t take their relationship seriously enough to feel threatened. Gidlow wondered if all she was for Desmarais was an amusement. She never went back to Desmarais’s home.

Gidlow had lost her heart anyway to a woman named Estelle Cox – almost love at first sight, cemented when Cox gave her a surprise kiss in Mills’ bedroom the night they met. She “felt stabbed” when she discovered Cox was married. Cox’s husband was a lithographer – likely Edwin Cox, whose engraving work was quite famous in book circles in Montreal.

It was not a happy marriage. According to Gidlow’s account, he was sexually demanding of her, and very jealous though he had a mistress of his own. She writes that Cox hated him, but didn’t feel that she could separate from him because she didn’t want to leave her 13-year-old daughter in his care. She called their home “The Morgue.”

Cox and Gidlow kissed a few more times, but Cox was afraid to go further. Gidlow wondered whether she was just terrified of her husband, or not really interested in women. She decided it was the latter when she walked in Cox and another friend, Harcourt Farmer. Yet Cox continued to flirt with her.

With Desmarais, she had the physical, but no possibility of love. With Cox, she only had platonic desire. Neither option pleased her. Her situation was made worse by the knowledge that there had been other lesbians in Mills’ circle, and she’d missed them – they had all left the city.

The first of these had been Muriel Symington. Symington had been born in Canada. She moved to New York in her late twenties or early thirties and took care of her mother and little sister in a house in Greenwich Village. Gidlow described her first impression of her as “a tall, slim, fair woman of thirty or so wearing a tailored tweed suit, silk blouse, and low-heeled oxfords of well-polished leather.”

Symington’s life focused on art, poetry, and music. She had wanted to be a violinist, but had had to give up that dream in order to support her family. She wrote copy for an advertising agency instead. At home she preferred to speak French – she reserved English only for practical things. She was fiercely proud of her Irish heritage, and so she had learnt Gaelic also.

Symington became Gidlow’s first girlfriend soon after they met in New York. Gidlow described their time together, saying that with her, “The most ordinary details of life were haloed. Food tasted divine. I was not merely eating, but savouring nuances of complementary or contrasting flavours.”

They met at Symington’s house. They were able to keep their relationship secret from Symington’s mother – lesbianism was so far out of her experience that the two women could spend hours alone in their room without raising suspicion.

Symington was much more conservative in her politics than Gidlow was. When Gidlow went to work for a left-wing magazine, Symington worried she’d be at risk from anti-communist sentiment. Their relationship came to an end when Gidlow moved in with Mills. They’d had to tell the landlord the unlikely lie that they were married. That made Symington – whose last girlfriend had left her for a respectable life of marriage – very uncomfortable.

Symington vanished for decades. She is likely the same Muriel Symington who emerges in the 1950s as a minor player in a Red Scare drama. Her close friend Elizabeth Gurley Flynn was arrested for violating the Smith Act, the anti-communist act. Symington wrote letters in Flynn’s defence, and tried to get fellow communist Helen Keller to send Flynn a letter of support. By this point, Symington’s politics seemed to have become much more radical. She argued for equal rights for black Americans, and wrote left-wing, anti-Catholic satires for the early underground political newspaper, The Realist.

There is no way of knowing how she experienced this political conversion, if indeed they are the same peron. But Elizabeth Gurley Flynn lived years with Marie Equi, a lesbian, and is generally believed to have been lesbian herself. They were part of that community. And Symington told Helen Keller that she and Flynn were close. She’d even helped prepare Flynn’s autobiography for print.

Tommy

Vincit qui patitur – They conquer, who endure
– inscription on Tomy’s wedding ring to Elsa

Gidlow’s next girlfriend was more conventional. Violet Winifred Leslie Henry-Anderson – known to her friends as “Tommy” – did have a small measure of fame herself, but that was entirely in the world of amateur sports.

Henry-Anderson was born in Scotland, 1884. She was one of the early women golfers. She had been involved in golfing in her native country before she’d come to Canada.

Women’s professional golf was relatively new in the 1910s. It had existed here since the founding of the Canadian Ladies’ Golf Union at Montreal in 1893. Men resisted it, and men’s golfing organisations tried repeatedly to get the women’s associations under their control.

Not surprisingly, more than a few traditionalists were quick to complain that women golfers weren’t very feminine. Journalists described them as “muscle molls” – “moll” being a slang term for a prostitute or a gangster’s girlfriend. Polite Edwardian and Georgian society women saw such women as unfeminine and degenerate.

Some even accused these women of being secretly intersexed, a possibility inevitably portrayed as being deceitful and unfair to the women who weren’t. In 1935, Czechoslovakian Olympic athlete Zdenek Koubkov announced that he was intersexed, and now identified as male – in spite of having competed as a woman. He had surgery so that his outer reality better reflected his inner one.

This shocked one Canadian journalist named Alexandrine Gibb. Gibb was among the first to call for sex testing in sports. Worse, she raised the spectre of intersexed and trans folk competing in women’s sports. She portrayed intersexuality and gender variance as a kind of cheating, arguing such people could take advantage of some unfair superiority over the Canadian “dainty girl runners.”

Oddly, in all this obsession over gender and sports, lesbianism was not on the radar – that came later. A historian of women’s sports in Canada named Margaret Ann Hall suggests that it started to emerge in the 1930s:

Not once, during this period, have I found a single reference connecting athleticism and lesbianism. Susan Cahn argues that the stereotype of the lesbian athlete did not emerge ‘full blown’ until after World War II, although certainly by the 1930s, ‘female athletic mannishness began to connote heterosexual failure,’ usually couched in terms of unattractiveness to men, but also suggesting the possible absence of heterosexual interest.

The stereotype might have developed later, but as Henry-Anderson explained to Gidlow the reality had been established long before the straight world had noticed. She was well enmeshed in that world. She had come from an affluent family in Edinburgh, and had had the leisure time to devote to sports. She had even been a runner-up in a round of women’s amateur golf championships in Britain.

Then her father abandoned the family and took his fortune with him, and she and her siblings were suddenly thrown out into the world to earn their livings alone. The family broke up and settled in different cities. Henry-Anderson and two of her brothers decided to try Canada, though her money wouldn’t take her any further than Montreal. She likely lived with a brother, an E.R.A Henry-Anderson, who sold movie film, cameras, and projectors for a company called Pathescope. She could knit, and made and sold knitted ties that were then popular with upper-class men. The knitting put her through secretarial school.

She soon found a job much more suited to her education, working as a legal secretary. Gidlow tells us how “In our day she would have become a lawyer” but “At the beginning of the century, such a step was unheard of.”

Henry-Anderson had been a part of lesbian circles in Edinburgh from a very early age. Gidlow writes that she and her first girlfriend had been lovers “as girls.” And she provided Gidlow (and us) with a small window onto the Scottish lesbian community at the dawn of the 20th century:

Tommy was able to tell me more than I had ever suspected of women’s passionate, romantic involvement with one another. In Edinburgh upper classes and among her golfing associates, there were many such liaisons, she said.

‘Did they make love?’

‘Of course – those who did not get married, and even those who did for economic or family reasons. An heir was needed. Or they did not like being “old maids.” Once married, they were freer anyway. The men went off to posts in India, Africa, or the Colonies.’

It was not just Scotland. She found British Columbia to be similarly open:

Tommy had not had trouble as a lesbian, even in western Canada. Friends in Vancouver all knew that she and Mona were together and had lived so for years. The couple did not conceal their affection or commitment. If Tommy arrived alone at a gathering or sports event, Sir George Bury, an executive on the Canadian Pacific Railway, would unfailingly ask in railroad language, ‘Where’s the second section?’ Everyone would laugh. It was all done in a friendly, jocular way like one referring to the member of a married couple.

However, a story appeared in the Vancouver newspaper about an individual presumed to be a man, but who was found to be a woman working at a man’s job, with a ‘wife.’ Discovery had come when she had a heart attack and died in the hospital. Vancouver was scandalized and indignant. Tommy remarked, ‘If she hadn’t died I suppose she could have been put in prison. According to the news report, many people knew she was a woman masquerading as a man, but as long as there was no publicity they didn’t care.

Henry-Anderson eventually found her way to Roswell George Mills’ circle, and met a young actress named Mona Shelley. They became lovers. Shortly before Gidlow found Mills, Henry-Anderson and Shelley picked up and moved to Vancouver. Gidlow regretted having missed them. “They were a legend by then,” she writes, “lingering in my thoughts wistfully as the only living lesbians anyone I knew had known.”

In Vancouver, Henry-Anderson resumed her golfing career. In 1922, she took second place in the Pacific Northwest amateur championships, losing to a former English champion named Vera Hutchings who now lived in Winnipeg.

Shelley still wanted to be an actress, though, and in the 1920s she couldn’t imagine making a career in Vancouver. She decamped for New York, where Mills and Gidlow had already set down roots. Henry-Anderson followed her

It soon became clear that the couple was about to break up. Shelley had fallen in love with a teacher whom Gidlow only refers to as “Miss Jonas.” Jonas was apparently in love with Shelley, but uncomfortable with the idea of sex. For that, Shelley stayed with Henry-Anderson. Henry-Anderson was willing to share her girlfriend’s body with another woman – their relationship was open that way – but not her heart. The divorce was inevitable.

After that, Henry-Anderson and Gidlow became close. Then one day, she slipped a ring onto Gidlow’s finger, and said, “Marry me for tonight.” They became lovers, and wives in every way but legally. For thirteen years they were only apart when Gidlow visited family, and during her tour of Europe. They travelled together, moved together to San Francisco, and stayed with each other until, as Gidlow puts it, “death did us part.”

Gidlow’s Tommy died in a San Francisco hospital in 1935, of lung cancer. She had been a lifelong smoker in an age when the dangers were only just beginning to be studied, and smoking had become a symbol of independence and rebellion for women. It is likely that she died without ever knowing the seriousness of her condition. It was not common for doctors to inform patients then that they were dying – it was believed that the shock could kill the patient instantly. Gidlow knew, but was sworn to secrecy.

She was at her wife’s bedside every evening after work until her death. She described the loss as “like an amputation of a part of myself.”

As for Mona Shelley, my best efforts so far have turned up virtually nothing beyond Gidlow’s brief description:

She was a cuddly, puppy-like young thing, maybe a few years older than me, outgoing and physically energetic. Except for her good voice, I could not see her as an actress. She was convinced there were parts she could take and was haunting managers, producers, and casting agents. Roswell and Mona went to plays together, and she was frequently at the studio.

Shelley falls out of Gidlow’s story after she and Henry-Anderson break up. I’ve been looking for evidence that she made it onto the New York stage. So far there are hints that she had parts in some minor productions, but I have no firm proof as of yet. It’s also unlikely she made a break into film.

It is of course possible that she used a pseudonym or that Mona Shelley was a pseudonym – the practice of actors taking one was very common at that time. If so, the rest of Shelley’s story might be lost to us for good.

In my next instalment, I’m going to continue with this series of profiles the people in Gidlow’s and Mills’ social circle in Montreal, moving on to the gay and bi men who were part of that community in the 1910s.

Sources: By far my main source was Elsa Gidlow’s autobiography, Elsa: I Come With My Songs. I was able to find Edwin Cox’s name in Lowell’s Directory of Montreal, which also supplied me with details of Henry-Anderson’s brother. Although I cannot be certain he was her brother, his unusual name appears at the same moment she and her brothers arrive in Canada. I believe that she lived with him because she herself does not have an entry in this rather exhaustive directory, and women living alone were listed under their own names. Her golf tournament in BC is mentioned in Golf Illustrated, the July 1922 issue. I am almost certain that Muriel Symington the communist is the same as Elsa Gidlow’s Muriel Symington. It seems unlikely that that there were two women of that age, by that name, in lesbian circles in New York at that time. On the other hand, there seems to have been at least a half-dozen Mona Shelleys, which was my one main barrier to researching her. I read a fair bit on the history of golf for this article, but the only useful source was The Girl and the Game by Margaret Ann Hall. An excellent study of the subject, and highly recommended. Symington’s satires can be found in The Realist, available online – for example her “Conference in the Hereafter” is in the April 1959 edition of that underground paper. Her letter to Helen Keller is also widely reproduced online. Henry-Anderson’s close friend Sir George Bury is a famous figure in his own right, in part for his life on the railroad, and for his much-read, first-person account of the Russian Revolution of 1917. Mount Bury on the northern tip of Vancouver Island is named for him

Elsa Gidlow’s Circle – Roswell George Mills

At the eye of the hurricane, love and music become the only verities.
– Roswell George Mills, in 1917

There had been glimpses into the gay and lesbian community before Elsa Gidlow. A letter between Alexander Wood and George Herchmer Markland suggests they knew about each other. A La Presse article from 1885 detailed a cruising zone right behind Montreal’s city hall. A social club for gay men in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu was targeted by a secret police sting operation.

It is not until Elsa Gidlow’s memoirs, though, that we get a look into that community through the eyes of one of its members. Gidlow gives us our first rich account of one gay circle in Montreal in the 1910s.

In this article and the next we’ll be turning to that community and exploring it in depth. And we’re beginning with Roswell George Mills, Gidlow closest friend in Montreal and the man who introduced her to the community she’d been searching for.

Roswell George Mills (1896-1966)

Roswell George Mills was a man few people forgot. Gidlow described him as an “astonishing, elegant being … a beautiful willowy blond.” Gidlow and Mills met at the first meeting of her poetry club:

I thought Roswell was the most ambiguously beautiful being I knew, with his metallic blond hair and pale, perfect features, his languid, intelligent eyes, and soft, slim body. He was almost a hothouse beauty, a living flower that appeared artificial.

Mills was so obviously gay that – even in an age less likely to think in such terms – people seemed instantly aware of it. A man in a lieutenant’s uniform who’d joined the poetry club was repulsed when Mills first entered the room. The soldier said, “God made him for a man so let him pass as such.” The lieutenant was apparently too bothered by Mills’ appearance to show up at the club’s second meeting.

Mills wrote for The Montreal Star. He worked on the financial page, and he wrote a column on the women’s page of The Star under a female pseudonym – most likely “Jessie Roberts,” which was the byline of “What Girls May Do.” This column offered women in business advice on working in male-dominated fields, and on how to find and keep a job. It also made frequent references to businesswomen who sound suspiciously like Elsa Gidlow herself, and another woman in Mills’ circle named Violet “Tommy” Henry-Anderson.

Mills also wrote reviewed opera and theatre for The Star. He somehow found time to give piano lessons – he wrote his own music for the piano – and contribute stories to magazines. He authored a short piece of theatre – very orientalist – that depicted a pair of lesbian lovers eloping in China. This was dedicated to Gidlow.

At about 21, he was exceptionally well-read, particularly of those authors most likely to make straight society nervous: Oscar Wilde (imprisoned for “gross indecency”), Paul Verlaine (lover of Arthur Rimbaud), Charles Baudelaire (who wrote openly of lesbians). He was also well-supplied by a doctor friend with books that detailed the latest scientific opinions on homosexuality.

He went to work “scrubbed and in tweeds,” but otherwise walked around in public in full fairy fashion – “delicately made up and elegantly dressed, wearing exotic jewellery and as colourful clothes as he dared.” At home he wore “a bronze green robe of heavy silk.” He lived with his mother, Mabel, and designed her dresses. They shared cosmetics, and a mutual hatred of his alcoholic father.

He was quite open about his attraction to men – astonishing a half-century before legalization. His “personal crusade” was to make people “understand that it was beautiful, not evil, to love others of one’s own sex and make love with them.” Unlike so many other gay men of the period who’ve told their stories, Mills seemed to suffer neither guilt nor regret – except that his total lack of interest in women precluded having children. “We’re going to be lonely when we’re old,” he once told Gidlow.

Ken Faig Jr, an American historian of amateur journalism, gives us the most detailed account of Mills’ background in a journal called The Fossil. Mills’ family was American, originally out of Connecticut. They had very deep roots in that country. His father’s family had been part of the first Dutch colonies in North America.

After the war had ended, Mills and Gidlow decided to put out a short magazine called Coal From Hades, which was soon changed to Les Mouches Fantastiques. This was a combination bohemian poetry collection, anti-war manifesto, and Canada’s first gay magazine. Copies were sent to friends, and to members of the amateur journalist’s association which Gidlow had briefly led. They published it on a friend’s mimeograph machine from Mills’ home at 27 McGill College Avenue.

Only four copies are known to have survived – and only one remains in Canada, a March 1920 issue at the Archives gaies du Québec. Mills had three poems in that issue, one free verse and two prose. Mills was quite open about his sexuality in Les Mouches – in the free-verse work he (somewhat torturedly) asks, “shall my gift [of love] be good when one I love/These days finds it not good in sight of him?” He was also quite open about his dislike of the traditional, Calvinist conception of a judging God that was used to justify homophobia – Mills (a theosophist) was not a fan of traditional Christianity, as a prose work in Les Mouches Fantastiques called “God Amuses Himself” makes abundantly clear:

In a vast shadowy place pierced by sharp stabs of sunlight an old man sits. His face droops low over his withered hands, and the long end of his dusky garment winds interminably through space. It trails across a world, and on it gleam innumerable eyes, as stars. And as He sits, wrapped in silence, His ministers whose names are Pleasure and Pain and Love and Suffering and Despair, catch in a huge net myriad birds and lay them fluttering before Him. And He, with His slender fingers, that seem like claws, so long have the nails grown, slowly, feather by feather, plucks the struggling things and strews the feathers about Him riotously. When they are nude and dumb with agony, He flings them along the length of His garment, to become a star perhaps. I have been told that they become stars.

Les Mouches Fantastiques made them minor celebrities in amateur journalism circles, though much of the response was negative. But Mills made one fan – an American Episcopal priest named Graeme Davis. Davis took leave from his duties South Dakota and made the trip by train to Montreal just to meet Mills. They became lovers, briefly.

Leaving Canada

In the 1920, it was unimaginable that Canada would one day be more socially progressive than the United States. The country was divided between puritanical Protestantism and conservative Catholicism. Even the left in this country was deeply Christian, and very moral in matters of sex. The United States wasn’t France, but the metropolis of New York offered a kind of freedom that Montreal didn’t possess.

Shortly after Gidlow moved to New York in 1920, Mills left Canada to follow her. They lived together in a group house in Greenwich Village, and then later in a curtained-off apartment. Mills got a job in the financial section of a publication with the exciting name of Oil, Paint, and Drug Reporter. He introduced Gidlow to her first two long-term lovers – both women who had left Canada and come to New York.

Mills fell in love with an Indian immigrant – an engineer named Khagendrenath Ghose. He ended his relationship with Davis, and moved in with Ghose. At that point, he largely vanishes from Gidlow’s story, and so the details we have become somewhat sketchy.

They met again in Paris, in 1928, where Roswell had an apartment with his young Berliner boyfriend, Jurgen. Jurgen was studying architecture in France. Gidlow and Mills ate together often at a restaurant named L’Allonette in the Latin Quarter, where Roswell was living.

In late 1928 or early 1929, Jurgen invited Mills home to meet his parents. Gidlow followed them to Berlin. Four years before the Nazis’ rise to power, Berlin was still something of a paradise for gay men. Homosexuality was illegal there, but the police tolerated the gay cabarets and cafés.

Gidlow described in detail an “invert” café they went to called The Silhouette, full of drag queens and a few women in tuxedoes – as well as gay men who otherwise blended easily in with mainstream German society. An actress friend of Gidlow’s also brought her and Mills to Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institute of Sexual Research – Hirschfeld had started the world’s first gay-rights organization, and was the most important figure in gay and lesbian rights in the world at that time, as well as being one of the first advocates of trans rights. They had the honour of a tour of the institute.

After that, Mills and Gidlow parted, maybe forever. They kept in touch by letters for decades– an astonishing feat, considering how frequently the two picked up and moved with no certain future address.

At this point, our information on Mills becomes even more fragmentary. Gidlow came back to America just in time for the Stock Market Crash. Mills remained in Europe – whether he was still in Germany when the Nazis came to power or not is not something I’ve yet been able to trace.

He was back in New York in 1943, though, when he had to register for the draft. He was working at The Brooklyn Eagle at the time, a newspaper that Walt Whitman had once been editor of. At the same time, he was taking care of his elderly mother. Most of his letters from the time talk about how difficult his life had become.

In 1961, we find him living in Florida. He died just before his 70th birthday, in Florida in 1966.

Mills’ Legacy

Mills looms large in gay and lesbian history in the country in part simply because he is the first homosexual man whose complete story we have. Nicholas Daussy de Saint-Michel, George Herchmer Markland, Alexander Wood, Samuel Moore and Patrick Kelly, the men at the Champs de Mars cruising zone, the men at the private club in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu – we know about their loves, their sexuality, and their community only through the cold lens of court documents, and the jaundiced lens of sensationalist journalism.

Roswell George Mills is the first gay men whom we see at home – the first we see in love, and in desire. He is the first whose story is told by a sympathetic friend, and the first whose own voice we hear. He is also the first gay man we know of to have publicly claimed his identity in this country.

Undoubtedly there were others like him – he mentioned men before him who’d taught him things. But he is the first whose story is retrievable, and that in itself makes him important. And the publication of Les Mouches Fantastiques makes him effectively the first gay male activist in Canada, just as Elsa Gidlow is the first lesbian one.

It wouldn’t be right to end this profile without some of Mills’ verse poetry. He was first and foremost a poet, after all. Here’s a piece of his more mature poetry – “Roses” – from the 1927 edition of The Vagrant:

I wished to send you flowers,
Symbols of our long dead hours,
Red roses like the breath of song.

I bound the crimson offerings,
Knotted them with silver strings,
Red roses like love dead.

The knots came all unfastened,
Knots I made of silver thread;
Red roses blowing out to sea.

The sea was stained with crimson,
Red petals like our passion,
Red roses meant for you.

From Roswell George Mills we now turn to the other players in Gidlow’s life about whom we know less – “Tommy” Henry-Anderson, Harcourt Farmer, Ivy Gidlow, Marguerite Desmarais, among others.

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Sources: By far my best source is Elsa: I Come With My Songs by Elsa Gidlow. There’s no more complete record of Mills life, and indeed it would be unlikely anyone would ever have researched Mills without it. Beyond Elsa, my best source is the July 2006 issue of The Fossil, which details his life from the point of view of the amateur journalists’ association he belonged to, but also provides a lot of background detail Gidlow does not include. The April 2007 edition of The Fossil provided the poem “Roses.” I learned about Mills’ piano lessons and confirmed his address from an ad he put in the Canadian Jewish Chronicle for March 26, 1920. There is a huge body of letters from Mills in Gidlow’s archived collection in California, but I have no way of accessing it. I’ve had to rely on the impressions from other readers. The detail about Walt Whitman is the only fact here from Wikipedia. It took me months to narrow down Mills authorship of “What Girls May Do” under the name “Jessie Roberts,” and it’s still not absolutely certain. Only four columns on The Star’s women’s page had female bylines. The AGQ originally identified Mills as Margaret Currie, who wrote an information and advice column. However, they no longer believe this to be the case – Margaret Currie was the pseudonym of Irene Currie Love, a major figure in the history of women journalists in Canada. Indeed, when Love collected her articles in Margaret Currie: Her Book, she had some scathing words to say about the “artistic temperament” that Mills loved exalted and typified. In a page one could almost see aimed at her co-worker Mills, she called “the artistic temperament” a “disease of the nerves” in need of a cure. Of the other candidates, Margaret Lloyd’s conservative advice to mothers seems unlikely. That leaves Jessie Roberts and May Manton. Manton wrote a syndicated fashion column that was mostly an ad for her patterns. But Manton seems to have been a real person – you can still find her patterns on Google. Jessie Roberts is untraceable because her first and last names were too common for the period to properly distinguish her, but I’ve never encountered one linked to The Montreal Star outside the columns themselves. She doesn’t appear in the histories of women journalists in Canada that I’ve found either. The fact that “she” was often talking to women of Gidlow’s and Henry-Anderson’s descriptions seems to clinch it, along with the fact that it was a business column and Mills was primarily a business reporter. I’ll admit to selecting the poems based on quality – his free verse from Les Mouches Fantastiques was pretty awful. The slight clipping I did include here is so tortured in syntax as to be nearly unreadable. And something from Les Mouches had to be here, so I went with the prose poem. I also used a much later, mature poem for the same reason. They don’t quite fit with the theme of this entry, but Mills was a hit-and-miss poet in his early days, and tends to be “miss” when he’s at his most autobiographical.

Another Apology for the Lateness

I wanted to apologize again for the lateness. The other week, I discovered that four months of research had been four months chasing a red herring – the pseudonym I’d been pursuing turned out not to belong to the person I’d believed it had.

I’m still researching, and I didn’t quite have to start from scratch. I hope to have something in the next few weeks on the first known queer community in Montreal – the circle around Elsa Gidlow.

Still Here

I just wanted to apologize for the long hiatus. I am still working on the site, but my current project – researching the people in Elsa Gidlow’s circle – has taken much more time than I expected.

I expect to have something up in the next two weeks.

Elsa Gidlow

Elsa Gidlow did not like Canada when she moved with her family here from Hull, England, at the age of six. It was too cold, and even at an early age, she saw it was too Victorian.

We’re lucky she came here, though. Gidlow gives us our first look at Canada’s queer community from an insider’s perspective.

The Goddess of Tétreaultville

Elfie Gidlow was born in 1898, to a poor-but-educated father and a mother whom she adored. While she was still small, her father moved the family to Tétreaultville, a village on the Island of Montreal that’s since been swallowed by the city.

She became very attached to the trees and river there – and claimed to have had a vision of a goddess by the riverside. But she was less sure of the people, or at least their way of life. Roles for women in that very strict Catholic community were limited to wife and mother. Gidlow resolved never to marry a man. She also decided at an early age that she wanted to be a poet, and began sending her work to The Montreal Star.

She didn’t get along with her father. But he had liberal ideas when it came to women’s education and working women, and she was his favourite of his seven children, so he took her under his wing. She came with him on his job teaching first-aid to people working on the railroad, and learnt secretarial and clerical skills – still thought of as men’s work in the 1910s.

She spent six months at business college. Then when she was sixteen, her father helped her get her first job. She did clerical work in the office of Angus Works, which manufactured and serviced parts for the Canadian Pacific Railway. This was 1915, and with so many men fighting the war in Europe, Angus Works was forced to hire more women in spite of its chief clerk’s reluctance.

Around this time, Gidlow developed a crush on a woman named Frances. She had met her at business college. Gidlow didn’t realize it was love until later, though, by which point Frances had a boyfriend.

Things began to fall into place for her a little later, when a co-worker of Gidlow’s named Rebecca Stuart met a “friend” of hers at work. Gidlow picked up that there was something about their gestures and expressions that suggested they were lovers and not friends. She wasn’t the only one who noticed. One of her co-workers called Stuart something that sounded to Gidlow like “mofredite” through his thick Scottish brogue.

A year later, looking through a book of Greek sculpture, Gidlow came across the word “hermaphrodite” – a word that had been used to mean “homosexual” since the Renaissance, and which was then better known than “lesbian.” She realized then that that’s what she was. In her diary soon after, she wrote, “I am going to get a room of my own. I am going to find my kind of people.”

Gidlow didn’t know how to go about the second task, and her job wouldn’t pay a woman enough for the first. Instead, she went about trying to become a poet instead. She created a poetry group, and sent a fake letter to The Montreal Star to drum up interest. It worked, and she attracted a small crowd of would-be poets and people who were simply curious.

In the crowd was an effeminate, beautiful young man whose mere appearance seemed to upset a couple of older men in the crowd. One of them was so repulsed that he left early. The young man was Roswell George Mills, a 19-year-old editorial assistant at The Montreal Star’s financial page. The Star also let him write an advice column for businesswomen under the female pseudonym of “Jessie Roberts.”

Mills introduced Gidlow to another world. He brought her attention to a series of writers whose bookds were a kind of iniation into his circle – Oscar Wilde, Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, and Charles Baudelaire. They read Plato’s Symposium and Havelock Ellis’s Psychology of Sex and Edward Carpenter’s The Intermediate Sex. In short, they all the books available to them that were sympathetic to homosexuals. Mills in turn had been introduced to them by some of the older men in his life – hints of a community or network that some believe had been in Canada since at least the days of Alexander Wood.

Roswell Mills had a “personal crusade.” Gidlow writes:

He wanted people to understand that it was beautiful, not evil, to love others of one’s own sex and to make love with them. Roswell had divined my lesbian temperament, and was happy to proselytize; the veil of self-ignorance began to lift.

It was 1918, and Gidlow was only nineteen. She came from a household where sex was never discussed. All this was revolutionary to her, and she was deeply grateful to Mills. She hated her name Elfie, and he nicknamed her “Sappho,” a name used among her friends all her life. She later began using “Elsie” and then “Elsa” as her professional name, but “Sappho” stuck and friends were still using it at the end of her life.

Mills introduced her to a circle of gay and bisexual people, and to a culture and literature she hadn’t known existed. As happy as she was to find this world, there was one serious problem – there were no lesbians. Mills’ friends had known exactly two lesbians – Violet “Tommy” Henry-Anderson and Mona Shelley – but both had left Montreal years before and settled in Vancouver.

Mills’ circle included a Marguerite Desmarais, who was mostly interested in men but happy to experiment with Gidlow, and an older woman named Estelle Cox. Gidlow fell in love with Cox immediately, but Cox seemed unsure of her feelings for Gidlow. In the end, nothing happened between them.

Les Mouches Fantastiques

Lacking any real romantic possibilities, Gidlow threw her energies into her poetry and journalism. She was active in an association called the United Amateur Press Association of America (UAPAA). This was a major American association that allowed young journalists and poets to publish their works. In spite of its name, a great deal of their work published was as good or better than what was in the newspapers. Amateur journalism functioned as the paper equivalent of the blogosphere in the 1910s, and the UAPAA was one the two biggest players in this business.

The group was divided, though. A schism in 1912 over a disputed election meant that the UAPAA had two presidents, each recognized by half the organization. For the 1917-1918 year, Gidlow was the president for her faction, and may have hosted a UAPAA convention at Montreal. The president of the rival faction was none other than Howard Phillips Lovecraft, who would go on to be one of the world’s most influential horror writers.

Not surprisingly, Lovecraft loathed Gidlow. Details of the power struggle between them are vague. But after Gidlow, Mills, and a few of their friends collaborated on a literary journal, Lovecraft launched a nasty, homophobic attack on Gidlow likely as an extension of their rivalry.

This journal was originally called Coal from Hades, but later renamed Les Mouches Fantastiques (Fantastic Flies). Les Mouches Fantastiques was part literary collection, part bohemian manifesto attacking the middle class.

And a large component of both the poetry and the politics was an argument for the acceptance of homosexuals. In fact, there was so much queer content in it, that could be counted as the country’s first gay journal, five decades before the magazines that usually get that title. In Gidlow’s words:

Besides our poetry, [Mills] contributed translations from Verlaine, articles on ‘the intermediate sex,’ and one-act plays sympathetically presenting love between young men. My poetry was obviously addressed to women.

Les Mouches was never widely available. Its creators mimeographed a hundred copies, and sent it out to friends and organizations like the UAPAA.

Lovecraft shot back. He described Les Mouches in his own publication The Conservative as “artistic chaos characteristic of the late Oscar Wilde of none too fragrant memory.” Gidlow wrote a review of Lovecraft in return in American Amateur, describing him as “Mr. Lovecraft with his morbid imitations of artists he seems not even able to understand.” Lovecraft answered that “Perhaps Mistress Elsie-Elsa would prefer that the amateurs follow her own example, and perpetuate morbid imitations of morbid artists whom nobody outside the asylum is able to understand.”

(“Morbid” at the time still could mean “degenerate,” and Lovecraft was probably referring to the homosexuality in Les Mouches.)

The whole affair left a bad taste in Elsa’s mouth. She confessed in 1920 to be haunted by “the indignant ghosts” of her time in the UAPAA, and by the “the wraiths of the abused Les Mouches Fantastiques.” She does not even mention her presidency or the UAPAA her autobiography. Still, she continued to contribute to UAPPA journals, and in 1927 published “Phoebus to Narcissus” – a poem deeply infused with male homoeroticism – in a UAPAA magazine called The Vagrant.

Gidlow began to think about leaving Montreal. She considered leaving for New York, where she would have more possibilities to publish as a poet. She also hoped she would be able to meet lesbians there. As strange as it may seem to someone on our side of the same-sex marriage debate, Canada was then seen as hopelessly Victorian, while the United States was imagined as a place of freedom for the marginalized.

Thus in 1920, she packed and left Montreal, returning to Canada only for occasional visits to her family, and to a retreat on Hay Island in Quebec.

Later Life and Legacy

Most short biographies of Gidlow focus on her life after Canada. Some do not even mention her childhood or her accomplishments here. Since the rest of her life is easier to track, I’ll only touch on it in slight detail.

Gidlow spent six years in New York. Mills came to join her there. She found some lesbians there, though not quite the community she was looking for. She met a woman named Muriel, but their relationship didn’t last.

Then Tommy Henry-Anderson came to New York. After she’d broken up with Mona Shelley, Henry-Anderson and Gidlow became a couple, and lived as wives until Henry-Anderson’s death of lung cancer in 1935, at the age of fifty-one. They moved to San Francisco together, and were always together except during Gidlow’s visits to Montreal, and a year she spent in France, Germany, and Britain.

Even in a relationship, Gidlow never stopped looking for “her kind.” She was invited to Germany by Roswell Mills, who was living there with a boyfriend. There, she encountered Magnus Hirschfeld, who in 1897 founded the first organization to advocate for rights for the “third sex” – a category that included homosexuals, trans individuals, and intersexed people. She found Hirschfeld’s views on sexuality to be too coldly rational.

She was equally dissatisfied with meeting Radcliffe Hall, author of the first lesbian novel in English, The Well of Loneliness. Gidlow found Hall to be snobbish and condescending, and too in love with fine jewellery.

After Henry-Anderson’s death, Gidlow bought a parcel of land outside of San Francisco that she called Madrona. She lived there with her partner of the time, Isabel Quallo. The two of them traded up to a larger and more remote piece of land she named Druid Heights.

In 1960s, Druid Heights became a place of pilgrimage for artists, people interested in Taoism and Neo-Paganism, and for young lesbians who now regarded Gidlow as a kind of elder – a role she wasn’t always comfortable with. She lived at Druid Heights until her death in 1986.

She never stopped writing poetry. Editors urged her to write a novel, which would be more profitable. She did, but never enjoyed prose. She made her living mostly through freelance journalism, and some editorial work.

She continued to publish her poetry as well. Her first collection of poetry was On a Grey Thread, which came out in while she was in New York in 1923. She was still publishing at the end of her life – her last volume of poetry came out in 1982, and included recent work.

Gidlow was at the forefront of much what came to be thought of as lesbian culture in the 1970s. She was interested in goddess worship since her vision at the age of six in Tétreaultville, and later developed an interest in Guan Yin or Kannon, the Merciful Goddess of Buddhism and Taoism. This was later supplanted or supplemented by Wicca and Neo-Druidic concepts of the earth as Mother Goddess. She was anti-war as far back as World War I, and interested and supportive of trade unions in the days when “union” was still a dirty word. She was an anarchist, anti-capitalist, and egalitarian.

And Druid Heights was an early experiment in communal living, as well as a point of ferment for artistic and intellectual creativity. It drew feminists as diverse as Catharine MacKinnon and Margo St. James, spiritual leaders from American Taoist Alan Watts to Irish Neo-Druid Ella Young, and musicians from Dizzy Gillespie to Neil Young.

And naturally, it also drew lesbians and gay men. Young women came to find out what it was like to be a lesbian before the age of Gay Liberation. Major figures in the movement for lesbian equality – people like Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon – were in her circle of friends as well. Gidlow no longer needed to wander the world to find “her kind.” She’d created a place where they could come to her.

Gidlow thought of herself before anything else as a poet. So in closing, we’ll leave Gidlow with part of a poem she wrote when she was nineteen, and still was still in Montreal, “To The Unknown Goddess”:

There is pain here, and tears,
Bitter, terrible tears;
But the joys have warm mouths, and madness
Dances downward with the years.

Come to me at the top of the world,
O Mine. The valley is deep.
The valley is overfull of the dying
And those who sleep.

But here Heaven’s winds blow
And the pines sing one song:
Come to me at the top of the world,
Come soon. I have waited too long.

In my next entry, we’ll be turning to Roswell George Mills, and the community he was at the centre of.

Sources: By far my best source is Elsa Gidlow’s own very detailed autobiography, Elsa Gidlow: I Come With My Songs. I also used her final volume of poetry, Sapphic Songs: Eighteen to Eighty. A few details were drawn from the website of Les Archives gaies du Quebec, which holds what might be the last surviving copy of Les Mouches Fantastiques. I drew a couple of minor details from Wikipedia and Who’s Who in Gay & Lesbian History (eds. Robert Aldrich and Garry Wotherspoon). I perhaps consecrated a little too much space to the battle with Lovecraft. However, I’d never seen it mentioned anywhere else – even Gidlow doesn’t include it in her autobiography – and it amused me because in spite of his views, I have a soft spot for Lovecraft’s stories. It’s also intriguing because even during his own lifetime, Lovecraft was often seen as gay – to the point where his friends have had to defend his heterosexuality by trotting out a quote from his ex-wife that during their brief, unhappy marriage, he was “adequately excellent” in bed. Anyone “defending” Lovecraft from “charges” of homosexuality have also used another quote, in which Lovecraft says he knew about homosexuality among the “ancient nations,” but hadn’t realized homosexuality still existed until he was more than thirty. Since he writes with revulsion about homosexuality and Oscar Wilde here at the age of 27, this is clearly not true. The details of her battle with Lovecraft come from the April 2007 issue of The Fossil, a publication devoted to the history of amateur journalism, and from H. P. Lovecraft’s own Collected Essays, Volume 1: Amateur Journalism

The First Poets, Part 1: “Gaydar Moments”

In John Barton’s introduction to Seminal: The Anthology of Canada’s Gay Male Poets, he describes what he calls “a gaydar moment.” For Canada’s earliest poets, we can only speculate on their sexuality – educated guesses based on their work, their lives, and the context of their times.

The few openly gay literary critics working on Canada’s poets know that we have to be conservative.

Still, Barton and Billeh Nickerson are able to give us two poets whose work was published before the end of World War I, and who may have been gay. Frank Oliver Call (1878-1956) was an Anglophone poet from Quebec’s Eastern Townships who’s thought of as a bridge between traditional and modern poetry in Canada. Émile Nelligan (1879-1941) was one of Quebec’s greatest poets and famous tragic figure.

Meanwhile, another early poet, Elsa Gidlow is the first individual we know about to identify as “homosexual” in the country. She gives us both our first poetry openly about same-sex love, and our first descriptions of Montreal’s queer community. She deserves her own article, and I’ll be devoting the next few entries to her life and the circles she travelled in.

As for Nelligan and Call, neither were “out” publicly – and neither of them are on this list without controversy. Still, their work seems to include what some of us see as a “gay sensibility.” Elements of gay life or gay aesthetic haunt the edges of it. Neither were married, or otherwise connected romantically to any woman. Call incorporated homosexuality clearly into his writing, though in Nelligan’s work there are only suggestive hints. We’ll deal with Nelligan first.

Émile Nelligan

In the bookstore a block from my home, there’s a large photo of Émile Nelligan in the window. It’s the same photo used on every book about Nelligan’s life. And there are many books. While English Canada has largely forgotten its 19th-century poets, Nelligan still looms large in French Canada, as much for the myth of his life as for his work.

Émile Nelligan was born in 1879 to a French-Canadian mother and an Irish immigrant father. He famously didn’t get along with the father. Nelligan was a child prodigy in poetry and knew he wanted to be a poet from an early age. David Nelligan wanted his son to enter a better-paid profession.

Nelligan was first published at age sixteen. He wrote prolifically throughout his teenage years, published (much of it under pseudonyms), gave readings, and was part of the Montreal literary scene.

Then in 1899 – before his 20th birthday – he had a breakdown that is now believed to have been the onset of schizophrenia. He was hospitalized, and never left the hospital. He died in 1941, having spent two-thirds of his life in an asylum. He only became famous after his complete works were published in 1903, and though he had visitors in the hospital, it’s said he never knew that he came to be considered one of French Canada’s greatest poets.

The brief spark of genius followed by more than forty years of insanity meant that Nelligan’s life leant itself easily to myth. The most famous of these myths was that his breakdown was caused by his having an anglophone father and a francophone mother, and could not reconcile the two cultures – an object lesson for nationalists on the danger of mixing cultures, and a metaphor for Quebec in Canada.

Few of Nelligan’s biographers take this theory seriously now. But these days they have to increasingly address another theory – that Émile Nelligan was gay.

Nelligan literary critic Émile J. Talbot summarizes the debate, and provides his own opinion in a discussion of the tension between sexuality and religion in Nelligan’s work:

Armand Laroche, in his play Nelligan blanc (1981), suggested that Nelligan was a homosexual, a condition that, if true, would be sure to heighten his anxiety in matters sexual. This suggestion has since been repeated by others, notably by Aude Nantais and Jean-Joseph Tremblay in their play Nelligan déchiré. There is, however, no textual, biographical, or historical evidence for such a hypothesis, and it has not been endorsed by any scholar of Nelligan. Since homosexuality would not have been a subject of discourse in nineteenth-century Quebec, the absence of evidence itself is not, in itself, proof of the absence of the fact.

Talbot goes on to say, with refreshing honesty, that he will assume Nelligan is straight unless there is evidence to the contrary. He is far from the only scholar to adopt an “innocent until proven gay” position when it comes to understanding historical figures, but he is one of the very few to admit it clearly.

To his credit, he also admits that nothing is known about Nelligan’s sex life, if any. Some of his biographers tell us that he claimed to be celibate, either because he was married to the muse of poetry or because he was a devout Catholic, but there’s no real proof even for this.

I disagree with Talbot that we should assume the heterosexuality of Nelligan without any hard evidence either way. It suggests that queer people were rare birds among Montreal’s poetry scene – and when we get to the next entry, we’ll see that that’s simply not the case.

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When academics look at the things that influence a poet’s work, they tend to go to the books they were reading, especially other poets.
All that is good – and supports my point given that those authors for Nelligan were Rimbaud, Verlaine, and Baudelaire. But sometimes it’s worthwhile just to walk in the poet’s footsteps and see what they saw.

Nelligan began going out of long walks at night in the last two years of his life. Nobody knows where he went. And I hope the reader will bear with me as we walk through this literary mystery.

Émile Nelligan’s neighbourhood is remarkably well-preserved. The old greystone attached houses with their carved porches maybe beautiful to those of us raised on glass and concrete, but to Nelligan they were part of an urban jungle that the speakers in his poems always seemed to want to escape. And north, east, and south, it’s old grey stone as far as the eye can see.

If you walk a quarter of a block to the Rue Napoléon, though, and walk a few minutes west, you come to the eastern slope of Mount Royal – the city’s largest park, and a paradise for anyone wanting to get away from the city. There the maple trees and birches that line the streets give way to the trees that fill Nelligan’s poems: yews, cypresses, white poplars. You’ll also see other objects, like statues, that seem to fill what could be called his “park at night” poetry.

Reading Nelligan’s work and walking the park, it feels impossible not to conclude that you’re looking at the places in the park poems – and very likely that Nelligan spent at least part of those long nights wandering the forest that was practically his own backyard. But by the time you get to the trees on that eastern slope, you’ve already entered a place long known to Montrealers in the know as “The Jungle.”

No one knows how old “The Jungle” is. The men who cruise there tend not to write memoirs about it. It looms large in gay fiction in Quebec, and as early as 1954, there was an official study of it. Historian Luther A. Allen tells us that “It is plausible in fact that well before the 1930s, gay cruising had established itself on the trails.”

How much earlier? Parc Mont-Royal’s sister park – Central Park in New York – became a cruising spot almost instantly after it had opened, and Mount Royal in the 1890s was close to the nascent gay neighbourhood in the red-light district on Saint-Laurent, “The Sodom of North America” where there had already been a bust of a brothel of male prostitutes (more on this in a future article). Montreal already had a cruising area on the Champs-Mars behind city hall, but the public had begun to notice it, and the mountain was closer to the red-light district. So it would be very, very surprising if there wasn’t already gay cruising there in the 1890s.

If there was a gay cruising spot on the mountain, and Nelligan was there, did he notice it? For evidence of that, we turn to his poetry. There are frequent references to public sex in parks at night in his poems – the “large parks where Love plays under the trees” (“Rhythms of the Night”). In these places,

The languorous, beautiful yews, and the white poplars that become sad,
Cast shadows over the green nests of love. (“Dream of Fantasy”)

Similar imagery is also called up in “Night Seeds Love”:

The night seeds love, and the Fertility Festival [rogations]
Gets down on its knees with Dream.

Then there’s “Force Back the Dirt Path”:

Force back the trail
Almost being reborn
To our passing shadow.

Speak there
With all that
Which was from the villa

Among hushed voices
Old statues
Are here and there knocked over.

In the dead park
Where roams a perfume
Of white night in brown night.”

In another poem –“Under the Satyrs” – he personifies his pain as a person he has clasped to him in “cloistered in the back of old, close pavilions” under “under the darkness of rustic/Trees that emit an opiate perfume.” In a poem from his asylum days, he writes, “On the side of the mountain a spring [of water] sings/A spring of love and of beautiful youth.”

Why all this imagery of parks and darkness and “green nests of love”? Much of this poetry comes out of that period of Nelligan’s life when I suspect he was wandering the mountain behind his house.

Almost all critics have seemed to have assumed that the “green nests of love” were full of heterosexual couples. This strikes a false note with me. Even today – post-sexual-revolution, post-pill, in an age where the parks are better lit and better policed – most women would think twice about following a man onto trails into Parc Mont-Royal at night. Women in Nelligan’s time were even more vulnerable.

Meanwhile, most of the prostitution at the time seemed to be going on in indoors, in the semi-tolerated (heterosexual) brothels in the red-light district. Most arrests for heterosexual prostitution I’ve found in this period in my research took place in “disorderly houses.”

At the same time, most arrests I’ve found for gay sex took place in public. It was tolerated nowhere, so the safest option was the parks and other dark places outdoors – far from everyone.

This concatenation of possibilities doesn’t actually prove anything. But none of these possibilities are farfetched. I’d even argue that it was likely that Nelligan spent at least some of his night walks wandering the mountain behind his house, and the cruising likely already going on up there was mentioned in his poetry – mentions that seem to include him implicitly.

One of the things Nelligan biographers have to wrestle with are the bizarre contradictions in his personality. Several of his biographers tell us that Nelligan was a Catholic so devout he gave up on romance with women, but also a bohemian whose favourite authors were the most irreligious crowd: Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine, and Charles Baudelaire. Réal Bertrand, tells us, “He wanted, more than anything, to imitate Rimbaud.”

These are extremely odd choices for a devout Catholic. Rimbaud, Verlaine, and Baudelaire were enormous critics of the Catholic Church.

There’s another connection between these authors. Rimbaud and Verlaine male lovers who went into exile, and fill the same place in France’s mythology of homosexuality that Oscar Wilde fills for Britain’s. Baudelaire, meanwhile, wrote frankly and openly about lesbianism. All three were required reading for anyone entering Montreal’s gay community just twenty years later, as the next few entries will show.

Then there’s the near-total lack of women in his life – only three or four in his circles of friends, and none of them seem to have been lovers. There’s a Gretchen mentioned in his poetry –a beautiful immigrant from Westphalia in Germany – but no one has ever connected her to a real person, and it’s as likely she’s as much a fiction as the perfect shepherds and beautiful salons in his other poems.

Sometimes, the fact that he wrote about being in love with women in his poems is taken as proof of his heterosexuality. But of course, it was a pretty common strategy for gay men from Marcel Proust to Oscar Wilde to disguise real-life same-sex relationships as heterosexual ones in fiction, and this held true for gay writers well into the 20th century. And even twenty years later, Elsa Gidlow would agonize over whether she should talk openly of her relationships in poetry, when lesbianism wasn’t technically illegal.

Nelligan liked scandal, he liked playing up the role of the rebel youth and the wounded lover – but there’s never a known romance of any kind in his life. It seems a strange gap for such a romantic. Meanwhile, his biographers all feel the need to inform us that all the men in his life – from the poet Louis Dantin to a painter who was a roommate of his friend – were beautiful. Dantin himself calls Nelligan “un éphèbe” – a beautiful young man – in his introduction to his works.

There are also the odd sexual notes in some of his poems written after he was committed to the asylum. In a rewrite of his most famous poem, “Le Vaisseau d’or,” usually taken to be about his insanity, he changes the famous lines, “And the horrific shipwreck sent its hull/To the depths of the Gulf, inescapable coffin” to “And the horrific shipwreck sent its three nudes [the sailors]/To the depths of an abyss in repulsive joy.”

Again, nothing here proves anything. Nelligan may indeed have been a celibate straight teenager, in love with the bohemian way of life.

But the theory that he was gay has a nice Occam ’s Razor feel to it. It explains why he was “celibate” in spite of being a bohemian, and it explains his obsession with Rimbaud and Verlaine and Baudelaire in spite of his Catholicism. It also fits all the imagery around breaking hearts easily into the life of a man who hardly had any women around him at all.

Most scholars just resort to platitudes like “He was a poet” or “He was insane” to explain these contradictions. The theory that he was gay covers all the contradictions much more elegantly. And while that doesn’t make it true, it means that it should not be so easily shoved aside. That Nelligan experts are quick to attack the theory probably tells us more about them than it tells us about our poet.

Frank Oliver Call

If you’re lucky enough to find Frank Oliver Call (1878-1956) mentioned anywhere, he’ll be praised as a “pivotal” figure – and that adjective is always used – between Victorian and Modernist poetry. That’s usually it. This being Canada, even the pivotal figures get forgotten. Call doesn’t have an entry in Canadian Encyclopedia, in Dictionary of Canadian Biography, or Wikipedia – all of which can be trusted to have at least a tiny article on the most minor of Canadian figures.

If you dig deeply enough, you’ll discover a few other things about Call. His parents names were Lorenzo and Sarah, he was educated at what’s now Bishop’s University in Lennoxville, Quebec, McGill University. He also studied in Paris and Marburg, Germany. He taught Modern Languages at Bishop’s, and there he was a mentor to a much more famous poet, Ralph Gustafson. He served in World War I. He had a cottage and a garden in Knowlton, where he specialized in irises and peonies. We also know from the manifesto at the beginning of his second collection of poetry that he wanted to strike a balance between modern and traditional poetry.

What you won’t find are any references to a wife or children, although I did finally in an American biographical dictionary that confirmed he was unmarried – a detail not in any Canadian source I have access to.

Unlike Émile Nelligan, whose personal life has been picked over endlessly in spite of the gaps, Call’s is almost a blank slate for us. The claim that Call was gay comes entirely from his poetry, particularly his anthology of homoerotic verse published in 1944, called Sonnets for Youth that included references to Greek myths such as the myth of Hyacinth. We’ll come back to this collection in a future article.

Interestingly, Call’s sexuality has once again sparked interest in his career. Since his inclusion in Seminal, when he’s discussed at all it’s usually as a gay poet.

During World War I, Call was already publishing. His first collection was In a Belgian Garden (1917) and his newer published poems came out in Acanthus and Wild Grapes. While these two books not as explicitly homoerotic as Sonnets for Youth, there are already hints of what’s coming later.

Beauty in Call’s first two collections is reserved entirely for the male, frequently disturbingly young. He focuses on the beautiful eyes, the “sun-browned skin,” and on their voices. Attractive young men singing appear again and again. His love poetry is quite erotic by the standards of the time, but always in the second person, carefully avoiding any revealing pronouns. And like Britain’s gay war poet Wilfred Owen, Call is very focused on the youth and beauty of the young men sacrificed to the war.

Meanwhile, Call’s poetry is largely an all-boys club. When he promises he’ll “sing of the men of the Homeland,” it certainly seems to be true. Women aren’t absent but they are rare. In his first collection, they are mostly old women or nuns, and strangely disembodied. In his second, Beauty gets personified as a beautiful woman, but none of the more real ones do.

The Work to Be Done

Researching which poets of the 19th century may have been homosexual or bisexual, one runs into the immediate problem that Canadians do very little to remember their poets of the era, even though poetry commanded so much respect in previous centuries.

When Elsa Gidlow describes the Montreal artistic scene a mere twenty years later, homosexuals and bisexuals seem to be a central part of it. We have no key yet to let us into the earlier period when Nelligan was writing, or before. But it is very doubtful that one of the few professions that was kind to homosexuals and bisexuals in the West was lacking queer members, even in Canada.

It certainly wasn’t in Gidlow’s time. In the next two articles, we’re going to look at Gidlow – openly lesbian poet, co-founder of the first Canadian magazine of poetry and gay liberation (in 1917!), and first inside chronicler of a gay community in Canada.

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Sources: This may be the first article in this blog I actually have the formal education to back me as an “expert,” since I did my degree in Canadian literature. The first source and inspiration for this article is Seminal: The Anthology of Canada’s Gay Male Poets by John Barton and Billeh Nickerson. For Nelligan’s life I used numerous biographies and scholarly studies. Most useful to me were Réal Bertrand’s Émile Nelligan, Reading Nelligan by Émile J. Talbot, and the description of him by his friend Louis Dantin reprinted in the 2008 Typo editions of his complete works – which is also my source of his poems. I also used Poemes Et Textes D Asile, a collection of his work put out after he was committed to the hospital. All translations here are my own – I’ve tried to be scrupulous. I should note that I’ve tried to err on the conservative side. I haven’t noted that the phrase I translated as “fertility festival” – rogations – is actually a Catholic mutation of the Roman festival of Robigalia, which celebrated the fertility of crops, and (inexplicably) male prostitutes. It is doubtful though not impossible Nelligan knew this, just as it’s doubtful but not impossible that he knew the homoerotic Greek myths surrounding the cypress tree and the swan, which appear frequently in his poems. Dantin dismissed Nelligan’s learning and says he got it all from other poets, but his vocabulary was impressive and includes a great many obscure words you’re not even going to find in most Larousse dictionaries, and obscure facts you’re not going to find in the encyclopedia. For the mountain and “The Jungle,” see “L’Aventure sexuelle clandestine: le cas de mont Royal” by Luther A. Allen in Sortir de l’Ombre: Histoires des Communautés lesbienne et gaie de Montréal. I rounded it out with a trip up the mountain – starting from Nelligan’s home at 3958 avenue Laval – and comparing what I saw with what was in his poetry. The cruising ground on the Champ-Marshas been mentioned in a previous article. A note to anyone researching this subject is that there’s a purely fictional set of notebooks for Nelligan written by Bernard Courteau – but you’ll only learn they’re fiction by reading the endnotes. They make Nelligan seem like a postmodernist who’s read far too much Julia Kristeva, though Courteau claims it’s extensively well-researched -and I was sad to learn they’re fiction as they supported my case quite well. As for Call, researching him almost exhausted my talents, and my schooling had prepared me well for digging up obscure Canadian authors. Tiny biographical blurbs can be readily found online, but they’re vague and copy each other. My best source was a set of primary texts – articles, photos, etc – put up online by his nephew at frankolivercall.org, as well as his own books of poetry and the brief blurb in Seminal. Some details – such as his having been unmarried – can be found in Who Was Who Among North American Authors – no author or editor for this excellent resource, just credited to the Gale Research Company. There was information there not in any other print or online source.