Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming

      The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of

      the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program.

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which

      last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

      We acknowledge the Government of Ontario through the

      Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.

      We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada

      through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

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      Printed and bound in Canada

      And in all the difficulties, all the pains, and all the vicissitudes of our situation, let us always remember that love is better than hatred, and faith better than doubt, and let hope in our future destinies be the pillar of fire to guide us.

       Wilfrid Laurier, January 4 , 1894

       Contents

1 October 1933

2 July 1896

3 August 1896

4 December 1896

5 Spring 1897

       6 Summer 1897

       7 August 1898

       8 October 1899

       9 Winter 1900

       10 Spring 1900

       11 Autumn 1900

       12 December 1900

       13 Winter-Spring 1901

       14 Autumn 1901

       15 December 1933

       Author’s Note

1

       October 1933

      This story owes its existence to an act of destruction. And so, this act of creation.

      Although the story is my own, I appear only occasionally. What are we to make of that? A sad commentary on my significance! Yet I’ve always felt in danger of disappearing. Surrounded by the great and the near-great, I’ve sought my shadow within theirs. Perhaps this explains why I was so noisy, so obnoxious.

      My father would have preferred I disappear altogether. My conduct, my very existence, embarrassed him. If only I’d been considerate enough to marry some nice respectable girl and move away to some obscure respectable town, where I could practise whatever law one practises in such places, too busy fathering children and supporting a growing family to make trouble, he’d have been far happier.

      But I did nothing of the sort. I insisted on a public life. Ran for office numerous times, occasionally won. Wrote political manifestoes, essays, newspaper columns, editorials, letters to the editor— idealistic and scathing, hectoring and lecturing. Joined in founding the most principled newspaper of our age, in this or any other country. Married but had no children, never to become a plump and prosperous paterfamilias: but then there’s no money in either journalism or politics, at least if one is honest. I married a woman who was barren—or was the flaw in myself?—and whose own father turned out to be a small-time swindler and jailbird. But where’s the shame in that today, when the ancient civilizations of Europe are putting hoodlums, thugs and buffoons in charge of their destinies?

      And so I’ve remained uncompromised, owing nothing to anyone but God. With no one to protect. Free to set down this story of the great and the near-great, who have so much to protect, so much to hide.

      In the process I’ve set myself a single standard. I can’t say whether it’s a literary or a moral one, but in either case it’s necessary. It is this: while describing people and events—people and events that may be familiar to you—I will write about them with rigorous objectivity. I will tell the truth, as revealed to me over time by those most closely involved,