And what solemnity! Reading l’Évangéline’s articles on the profound meaning of “this deployment of crowns, sceptres, gold spurs, and priceless dresses,” one could not do otherwise but take the ceremony seriously. To begin with, the ritual dated back more than a millennium, whence its archaic nature, and then there was the unshakeable quality of the crown: “a symbol dominating differences of religion or political affiliation.” The woman who had been carrying Baby M. in her womb for more than three months took the time to read these long articles on the allegory of the crown. She knew in advance that she would not understand it all, but she enjoyed abandoning herself to the thrust of knowledge; she compared the experience to the comforting effects of a good cup of tea. Every day at this hour, she thanked the heavens for blessing her four children with the gift of the siesta, and her husband with a “social vocation in the form of a journalistic calling.”
And so it was that Baby M.’s mother learned that the three-hour ceremony would be divided into five parts: the Introduction, comprising the Recognition and the Oath; the Consecration; the receiving of the royal vestments and insignia resulting in the Coronation; the Installation on the throne and the Homage; and finally, the celebration of the Holy Communion. Having vowed to govern the Crown territories according to their respective laws and customs, the future sovereign would receive the unction, which alone allowed her to take up the insignia of royalty and the crown. During the Consecration, the archbishop officiating would touch the queen’s hand with the sabre of memory as a reminder “to render justice, halt the progress of iniquity, protect the Holy Church of God, aid and defend widows and orphans, restore that which has fallen into ruin, maintain that which has been restored, punish and reform that which is not in order, and confirm that which is in good order.” After the Coronation, the archbishop would declare: “God crown you with a crown of glory and right, so that, possessing a just faith and the fruit of numerous good acts, you may be granted the crown of an immortal realm by the grace of Him whose kingdom is everlasting.” The article being read by Baby M.’s mother went on to explain that, although the mass had been replaced by a “symbolic service” and “priests of a Christian heresy” had replaced the Roman bishops, the ceremony continued to reflect, in large part, the Catholic history of England, which had crowned its last Catholic king, James II, in 1685- In fact, throughout the ceremony, the word Protestant would be pronounced but once, whereas the word Catholic would be spoken twice: once as the archbishop of Canterbury placed the ring on the fourth finger of the right hand, saying: “Receive the ring of royal dignity and the seal of the Catholic faith.” Furthermore, the “Veni Creator,” the “Gloria in Excelsis,” the “Sanctus” and, following the last blessing, a “solemn and triumphant ‘Te Deum’ “ would be sung. Catholics would also be gratified to witness, immediately after the ceremony, the presentation to the sovereign of a Holy Bible, “the most precious object the world can give.”
In a subsequent article, l’Évangéline explained that, although the queen “does not rule over us by divine right, nor even by our choice, we participate in her dignity without conferring it on her.” And though there exists “no precise information regarding what the queen can do” beyond her three rights within the British constitution (the right to be consulted, the right to offer encouragement, and the right to give warning), the kingdom continues to recognize in her “a source of honour” and “a source of justice.” As the ultimate symbols of selflessness, the king and queen are the guardians of that “rare gift of making us feel instinctively their innate goodness,” thereby winning the respect and affection of their subjects. Also, “they have all eternity to accomplish their important destinies . . . guided by stars only they can see.” As a matter of fact, many of these attributes were in evidence in the photograph of Elizabeth II wearing the royal vestments, the imperial crown, and the purple robes: “in her left hand, she held the globe, emblem of sovereign power, and in the right the sceptre with the cross, symbol of royal power and of justice.” On her wrists she wore “the bracelets of sincerity.”
***
As one observer put it, the work of a monarch is no sinecure. At the time of Edward VIII’s abdication, there were those who suggested that George V’s heir had never really wanted to rule, and that his love for Wallis Simpson was nothing more than a pretext to extricate himself from the colossal responsibility. No such rumours ever circulated regarding Elizabeth II, of whom it was said that she appeared to possess all the necessary qualities to fulfil her role. In 1952, immediately following the death of her father, she took the affairs of the realm in hand, so that even before her coronation, her bravery, composure, and courage, as well as her social, democratic, and familial sensibilities, were already generally recognized. People spoke also of her charm and her enviable beauty, which reflected an inner “spiritual and moral beauty,” her extraordinary resistance to fatigue, and her profound sense of duty. At the age of twenty-seven — already wife, mother of two children, housekeeper, business woman, and landlord — Elizabeth agreed to take her turn as “one of the pillars of the axis on which the universe turns.”
Sitting in her rocking chair in the corner of her kitchen, her feet up on a stool and a cup of tea in her hand, Baby M.’s mother tries to imagine the life of the new queen, whose age is identical to hers. The brand new washing machine hums beside the sink as it chews on its fourth load of clothes of the day. As they do every day after lunch, the children are sleeping in the next room. Their pregnant mother will lie down too, as soon as this last load is done. This fifth pregnancy is really what finally convinced her to buy — on credit, of course — the Connor Thermo washer. She did not choose this particular brand because it was “the most beautiful washer on the market,” as the ads claimed, but rather because it was available at Lounsbury’s, where it was more convenient to deliver her monthly payments. The cost of the machine was certainly a problem — she was not in the habit of buying the most expensive brands — but she managed to convince herself that, in this case, her decision ‘was justified.
Though Baby M.’s mother was often obliged to make decisions that affected the lifestyle of the entire household, she never thought of herself in the glorious role of queen of the household. Nor was she conscious of having been selected by some “divine favour” for her role as Catholic mother, at once “nurse, prioress, educator, martyr,” and “queen.” If she was conscious of anything, it was of the concrete work of a housekeeper, work that the most elementary activities of family life will nullify in the wink of an eye. Nevertheless, Baby M.’s mother did not minimize the importance of her position or her role in the hierarchy. She was perfectly aware that everyone had the same duty: to look after their own. Whether it was Baby M.’s mother’s devotion to her household, her husband-the-scriptor’s to the Acadian nation, or Queen Elizabeth II’s to the Empire, all applied themselves to honour and protect their own. Their tasks had been clearly designated and all dedicated themselves without hesitation; no doubt because each, in their respective domain, realized that nothing was guaranteed, that at any moment life could come apart, and that God himself would not suffice to make it better.
***
The threat of dissolution came from everywhere. It came in such varied forms that one could never stop learning how to understand and recognize it. Which meant that one had to examine everything twice. The result was a kind of long, slow trial. And such hard work. Who to believe? What to believe? That letter from a reader, for example, denouncing the publication in l’Évangéline of “several articles with historical pretensions expounding in servile manner the glories of the [English] nobility.” Unable to sit idly by while there “subsists in the midst of the twentieth century an illusion that has cast its malicious shadow over centuries throughout history,” the offended reader felt compelled to set the record straight by pointing out that “there is but one true nobility . . . that of the heart [and that] the only difference the Creator made between hum
an beings is that of woman’s submission to man.” Suddenly, Baby M.’s mother felt a mouthful of tea freeze in her throat.
And what about Julius and Ethel Kosenberg? Treacherous spies or saintly innocents? They had been waiting almost two years to be taken to the electric chair in Sing Sing’s death house, while their execution was continually delayed. Even Einstein and Pius XII had called for the commutation of their death sentences. Finally, following reprieve upon reprieve, the Rosenbergs expiated their atomic crime on June 19, under “a blazing sunset.” That same day, President Eisenhower had refused their final appeal for clemency, arguing that “the crude design of the first atomic bomb” they traitorously delivered to a Russian agent “could one day cause the death of millions of innocent people.” In the preceding months, it had been suggested that the Rosenbergs be offered in exchange for the freedom of American prisoners, including the Associated Press correspondent in Prague, William Oatis. Which only goes to show that journalists did carry some weight, though not enough to have the suggestion adopted. This time, the kick that Baby M. delivered to the uterine wall was felt by her mother, who experienced a gurgling sensation in her womb.
Journalists were, in fact, often victims of the war they waged on ignorance. But though they were blamed for their mistakes and ridiculed for their determination, no one would deny them their role in the development of the twentieth century. UNESCO had consecrated the profession in 1948, in a judgement as clear as day: “henceforth journalism is a profession, and the condition of journalist is considered honourable.” Lester B. Pearson — who, in 1953, was Canada’s minister of foreign affairs and quietly moving towards the position of secretary general of the UN and the Nobel Peace Prize — also recognized the importance of the profession. He complained, however, that “news reports were so efficient that the results of diplomatic discussions were sometimes made public before they were actually conducted.” As for President Eisenhower, he generally fostered a spirit of camaraderie with journalists. He allowed them to call him Ike, publicly declaring that this familiarity in no way diminished his presidential dignity.
Although journalists were widely respected, from time to time it was nice to hear that someone had put one in his place, just so their heads would not swell up too much. The husband of famed soprano Helen Traubel was among those who, in 1953, afforded the non-journalistic masses an opportunity to avenge, if only slightly, the tension caused by the constant presence of the pen, the microphone, and the eye of democracy. When a reporter wanted to know if director Rudolf Bing had put Madame Traubel out of the Metropolitan Opera “for good” because she had been singing in night clubs, her husband called the man an imbecile. Madame Traubel’s husband’s exasperation in the face of this rather harmless question demonstrates the extent to which the omnipresence of journalists had begun to annoy people. Cardinal Spellman of New York had his own small moment of glory in this respect. Arriving from a three-week tour of Europe, he was obliged to correct reports of his having been ill during his trip on the continent. When he explained that the source of these claims was a reporter who had examined him with a pencil rather than a doctor armed with a stethoscope, everyone understood.
***
And that’s the way it was. No matter what end of the social fabric you took up, you could never be sure you were holding a solid thread of knowledge, whether popular or scientific. Even Pius XII found it necessary to intervene twice during the year. He dealt, first of all, with the excesses and lacunae of psychoanalysis, arguing that this sort of research ought not to “reduce man to the level of a beast, on the pretext of sounding the depths of his nature.” Later he denounced eugenics, the new “daring science of heredity” that raised the threat of intervention to perfect the race.
Like all good journalists, although more or less unschooled in these fields, Baby M.’s father never lost sight of his role in the chain of knowledge. Everything he reported would shed some additional light on a world that so fervently distrusted obscurantism. Thus, between an article entitled “Yugoslavs Accuse Italians” (the Trieste Affair) and another entitled “Russians Want to Rest” (after the Stalinist regime), one learned “What the French Think of Americans,” which was that “the Americans are like big babies who won’t mind their own business.” This sort of article made one smile and was easy to read straight through to the end. One discovered that, despite this flaw, the French liked the Americans more than they did any other people, except the Swiss. And even though the average Frenchman felt the Americans were “hypnotized by their fear of Communism,” when it came to welcoming a stranger into his home, he would choose an American over anyone else. The article provided other details, among them the fact that more than half of the eight thousand French people who had been polled did not like jazz, and that an even greater majority disapproved of chewing-gum.
The Trieste Affair, however, presented a far greater interpretative challenge. Trieste, the Adriatic port under dispute between Italy and Yugoslavia, served as a kind of barometer of the Western world’s support for Tito’s regime. The democratic powers, having grown more tolerant towards the Yugoslav regime since the famous Marshall had distanced himself from Moscow, were hesitant to intervene militarily in the conflict. In 1947, the Treaty of Paris had created the Free Territory of Trieste, a neutral territory divided into two zones: one under English and American supervision, the other under Yugoslavian control, with the entire operation under UN authority. In 1953, when Yugoslavia threatened to retake the entire territory which it had occupied in 1945, Italian leaders remained calm but firm in the face of what they judged to be a form of blackmail. Nevertheless, the Italian army made ready to intervene in case Yugoslavia decided to execute its threat. The following year, Italy finally obtained its slice of the pie. The Free Territory of Trieste was divided once and for all between Italy and Yugoslavia, Tito’s government having agreed to give up the port zone coveted by the Italians.
Annals of popular knowledge (l’Évangéline, the diction-naire Robert des noms propres, a guide to the one hundred most interesting towns and villages of Italy) do not elucidate Yugoslavia’s motivation for this compromise. Perhaps the Yugoslavians realized that Trieste had never known prosperity, except under the rule of the Hapsburgs — that is the Austrians — and that neither the Yugoslavians nor the Italians would reverse this historical determinism. Or maybe, already conscious of its inability to halt the port’s decline, Yugoslavia had simply agreed to abandon Trieste to its destiny as a frontier city inclined, like so many others, to do as it pleases, come what may. If such an intuition did exist, it turned out to be pretty good, for even under Italy’s wing, Trieste continues to boast an identity entirely its own. The hour’s distance from Venice preserves Trieste from the international tourist traffic which floods Italy, and allows the few hundred thousand Triestans to live at a slower pace than the other city-dwellers of Italy. Their tourists are Yugoslavians who come across the border to buy the latest fashions in shoes and clothing. In addition to the merchants, many Triestans make an honourable living importing coffee for the roasters and espresso counters throughout the rest of Italy. Others specialize in writing insurance policies for distant clients. Today, thanks to its excellent university and its international institute of theoretical physics, Trieste aspires to a reputation as an international centre for scientific research.
***
It is also popular knowledge that the journalist’s trade is based on reality — that is to say on verifiable and verified facts. Those claiming to be journalists cannot simply say whatever comes into their heads; they must report what is. They can be more or less astute, but they must absolutely avoid distorting the facts to promote one point of view over another. Writing novels offers more latitude to someone who has difficulty sticking to the facts. Novelists not only have the right to fabulate, it is their duty. One can like or dislike, agree or disagree with a novelist’s point of view, but there is no denying his or her voyage into the imaginary. T
o do so would be, in Pius XII’s words, to “reduce man to the level of a beast,” to shackle what he called “the secrets of his nature.”
Nevertheless, in order to write, the novelist requires the raw material that is reality. He needs reality — and the language which is part of reality — to break through the wall that would enclose him, a wall that strangely resembles the wall of knowledge. In that sense, the novelist employs reality as a weapon in his assault on the wall. Described this way, writing a novel can seem quite dangerous. And it is, because there is always the danger that the novelist’s weapon, somehow or other, will turn against him. He is never safe from the reality — from the word — that wounds. Nor does the novel have the power to eradicate this wound, just as it does not have the power to eradicate reality. It can only hope to make it flower. If God deserves any praise, the fact of having tossed a handful of novelists into the universe surely has something to do with it. Thanks to this gesture, every event reported by a journalist for the greater good of democracy is doubled by an aura. The source of this aura is the possibility that the event will be taken up and rewritten by a novelist, for the greater good of humanity. Thus, fabulous Trieste, having drunk from many fountains, settled on coffee, theoretical physics, and insurance policies, and produced a cuisine which combined its Viennese, Italian, Hungarian, and Balkan heritages.
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