IT STILL ISN’T clear whether the Canadian diplomat Dr. Hugh Keenleyside talked himself out of a job or not when he snubbed the German banker, Dr. Hjalmar Schacht, at a recent public reception in Indonesia. Our hunch is that he did. Dr. Keenleyside has been variously employed by the government of Canada and by the United Nations and both these organizations must have been seriously embarrassed by his inability to pretend, as all good diplomats should, that anyone who is not a current, active and declared enemy must perforce be treated as a loved and trusted friend.
SO THAT was Europe and this is England! It is strange after twenty-five hundred miles of motoring on the Continent to get on the English roads where almost no one blows the horn and motor coach drivers courteously signal when it is safe to pass.
WITH an Ontario election this month, a Quebec election next year, it’s evident that federal Liberals have written off both the big, rich central provinces more or less permanently. They have no hope of beating either Leslie Frost and his Progressive Conservatives or Maurice Duplessis and his Union Nationale, and they don’t bother pretending otherwise.
In forty-three years Toronto has paid five sets of planning experts to tell it what’s wrong with the city — and taken no notice of any of them. So its traffic, residential and industrial headaches have grown from bad to worse till now it’s a hopeless jumble of thirteen governments bickering like Balkan states, most of them fighting the one step that’s necessary to start repairing the damage. Here’s a dramatic lesson for the other fast-growing Canadian cities who seem to be in danger of following Toronto’s horrible example
TORONTO has probably had more books, articles, poems, plays and gags written about it than any other city in Canada. It has been praised, panned, pitied and ridiculed. Its public transportation has been called the continent’s best, its gloomy Sundays the continent’s worst.
HEADLINES EXPLODED FOR THREE YEARS AROUND THE EXPLOSIVE FIGURE OF JACQUES DE BERNONVILLE, WANTED BY A FRANCE THAT SENTENCED HIM TO DIE AS A TRAITOR, UNWANTED BY A CANADA THAT FOUND HIM TOO SHREWD AND WELL CONNECTED TO GET RID OF. HERE, FOR THE FIRST TIME, MACLEAN’S TELLS WHAT HE DID IN FRANCE AND HOW HE STAYED SO LONG IN CANADA
ON AUGUST 17 last a fifty-four-year-old French nobleman with iron-grey hair, strong bullet-scarred features, erect soldierly bearing and a diplomatic air of composure, fled from Montreal to Rio de Janeiro after telling newsmen at Montreal Airport at Dorval:
As a tawny-haired teenager at Ontario’s Ingersoll Collegiate she won a gold medal for dramatics; in her fantastic Angelus Temple in Los Angeles and all over the world she held thousands spellbound as she preached a gaudy salvation. She made a fortune from her religious recipe of “incense, nonsense and sex appeal” and died after an overdose of sleeping pills
IN THE giddy Twenties and the ominous Thirties the most flamboyant evangelist on this continent was Aimee Semple McPherson, who was born on a farm near Ingersoll, twenty miles east of London, Ont. She summoned her faithful to prayer with all the artifice of a carnival impresario, using painted choir girls, golden trumpets, scarlet robes, syncopated hymns and, in her own frank words, “incense, nonsense and sex appeal.”
Alberta offers the opportunity of a generation for venture capital but Canadians still sit back cautiously studying reports while more imaginative Americans pour in millions. At present we have no better than a twenty percent stake in our own major oil fields but there’s still plenty of room on the ground floor
ONE DAY LAST YEAR a traveling Texan dropped in on Jack Oberholtzer, Alberta’s Deputy Minister of Industries and Labor. Just looking around, the visitor said; heard you folks had an oil boom. He chatted awhile and then went away. A day or two later he telephoned.
THE MOST successful night club in Canada is a swarming neon-spangled barn of a place called the Bellevue Casino which has consistently managed to choke its main floor and balcony with seven hundred customers, night in and night out, since it opened in downtown Montreal two and a half years ago.
There’s something about this city that turns normal people into Chamber of Commerce touts. Even Queen Elizabeth said she’d never seen anything like it. And if a man should leave Vancouver for the moneyed wasteland over the mountains he remains in love with her for life. Just like
THE LOVE AFFAIR which the citizens of Vancouver have with their town is a beautiful thing to see. Before it, Tristan’s passion for Isolde pales and Dante’s infatuation with his Beatrice seems pretty shabby. It is probably the most enduring mass honeymoon in history.
Alf Fuller, a rawboned Nova Scotia boy, got fired from his first three jobs so he set up a fifteen-dollar machine in a basement, started cranking out brushes and, on the side, invented the foot-in-the-door salesman. But he’s never laughed at any of the Fuller-Brush-Man jokes which helped him sweep up millions
FORTY-SIX years ago a rawboned youth from a Nova Scotia farm who was seeking his fortune in Boston wrecked a streetcar, forgot to currycomb a rich widow’s horse, and left an important parcel at the wrong address. After these misadventures had cost him his first three jobs he decided to be his own boss so nobody else could fire“ him.
THERE ARE times when you can only look at your son and say his name over and over in your mind. I would say, “David, David . . .,” nights when he was asleep the involuntary way you pass your hand across your eyes when your head aches, though there is no way for your hand to get inside.
Thousands of Canadians are. And new fully licensed shops are opening by the dozen to serve them. Even many people who can afford the soaring price of beefsteak have discovered that Old Paint is tender, tasty and half the price
WE CANADIANS have always been proud of our standard of living and, in our pride, we’ve tended to look down on Europeans for their willingness to use thrifty substitutes. But now it’s different. We’ve not only had to get down off our high horse.
A romantic who saw his dreams of high adventure come true, Churchill was never happier than when, cigar in mouth, he stood in an open car amid the cheering people. But his bodyguard also saw him when he was deeply despondent and once when he thought he might die
W. H. THOMPSON
WHEN I first went to work for Winston Churchill as his personal bodyguard—a position I held throughout the Second World War—it was with real trepidation. In the first two or three months I found it difficult to be at ease before his brusque, demanding manner.
HITLER indirectly helped Ken Johnstone, who writes about Montreal's Bargain Night Out on page 17, to sell his first magazine article. Ken was beaten up by Nazi bully boys one night in Berlin in 1934 and the story of what happened started a journalistic career which has made Johnstone one of the best-known magazine writers in the country.
BRIGHT VICTORY: The rehabilitation of a blinded ex-soldier (movingly played by Arthur Kennedy) is narrated with power and tenderness, although one or two of the incidents seem contrived. It's a picture that leaves a good taste in the mouth without using too much sugar.
DESCENDED as I am from a long line of shade-pullers, it has taken me quite a while to get used to life behind a picture window. Now I love it. Frankly, I didn’t know we were getting one when we sent away for our new house plans. But when our contractor started nailing on the roof while an outside wall was still missing I asked my wife, who understands blueprints, if there was a brick shortage.
There’s something I would like to know, Just where do all the snowflakes go? I try to catch them 'fore they land, But when I hold them in my hand, There's nothing there that I can get, Except a little bit of wet.
I think the story, The Runaways (Oct. 1), is the sweetest little love story I have read for many a day. I have read it through many times over and like it better every time.—F. Y. C. Serjeant, Victoria. We “Slayed” Him I just want to tell you that I laughed like crazy all the way through your wonderful piece of humor, How to Slay Them with Small Talk (Sept 1).
A WEALTHY lawyer in Hamilton, Ont., bought a Cadillac convertible and on his first test spin heard a jingling rattle somewhere under the seat. The dealer went over the car thoroughly, decided he’d ironed out the rattle and returned it to the owner.