by Anne Hébert
My legs are like cotton. My eyelids droop in spite of myself . . .
Sorel again. The house on Rue Augusta, open to the lovely October sun. They’re expecting me. The russet leaves fill the tree-lined street with their splendor. A gentle breeze wafts its colors on the light.
No neighbor sweeping up the leaves outside his house. No children running, laughing. No woman’s voice. No bird singing. They’ve emptied the town. Like a squash with its insides hollowed out. Only my house left standing. No life but the bare essentials. Just what’s needed for my trial.
The dead leaves crinkle along the garden path. The threshold is bathed in light, dappled with the fluttering shadows of the leaves. The hall looks like an old abandoned station, just as it always did. No time to pride myself on how I can avoid the drawing room — the black piano, the needlework left unfinished. Already I feel myself being pushed toward the stairs by an overpowering force. There’s someone waiting for me at the top. Someone in petticoats, her tiny feet planted squarely on the floor.
Aurélie Caron is there to welcome me. I don’t like that sly little grin of hers. She knows the way the story goes. Swears my intentions are anything but pure.
“Madame knows just what’s going to happen. No need to act so innocent.”
“I’m sick . . . I’ve come back home to rest. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s perfectly natural . . .”
“If Madame would kindly step into her old room, please?”
Aurélie laughs and dashes off. Her sprightly steps on the bare floor echo through the little corridor.
Why have they taken up the carpet? And my old room? No, nothing seems changed. And yet . . . It’s all so neat. Everything almost frozen in place. Like a museum. Look, those drapes of pink percale hanging around the bed I slept in growing up. The flowered quilt. The doll, stuffed with bran, sprawled out on the pillow . . . I don’t dare step over this wall. Rising, invisible, all about me.
“Go on, Madame! That’s all you have to do. Come back to Rue Augusta and begin again. Just after your return from Kamouraska. As if the first time never even happened. That’s one thing the judges are adamant about. Ab-so-lute-ly a-da-mant!”
She makes a display of hammering out each syllable. That gap-tooth grin. That impudent air. Her scrawny arms gesturing me on. Again and again.
I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. As if I were wading through some strangely thick, resistant water. I collapse on my bed. Flat on my face. My head in the pillow. Sobbing, sobbing my heart out. A moment later, Aurélie tiptoes out of the room.
The patter of little feet around my bed. Plaintive whispers . . . My three little aunts! They’re here! I let my tears flow free, more than I really need to do, to feel the flood of pity my aunts will lavish over me. I’m even afraid to open my eyes, afraid I might not find them still alive. Adélaïde, Angélique, Luce-Gertrude . . .
A stifling smell of withered roses. A stench of mice, poisoned, down behind the baseboard in the hall. My dear aunts, broken-hearted, dead from grief. One after another, a year apart.
“This child will be the death of us. Good God, what a calamity in Kamouraska!”
Their clothing, black and dull. Their amethyst and silver jewelry. Three dead birds, stuffed in all their faded feathers.
I clap my hands together. (Where do I get the strength, the burst of energy?) To chase away the ghosts. Dispel my fears. Arrange the dream. Maintain a kind of balance. The past, relived, but sensibly, and only on the surface. Everything just as it happened, in proper order. Without trying to live it over from start to finish, all at once. Like a mad bird, flying the length, the depth, the breadth of all that life’s eternal desolation . . . To rear up at the slighted hint of death along the way, like a horse when it changes direction. To find my aunts alive again. Yes, I have that power. And I cling to it with all my might. To make the most of this sudden burst of strength.
Whatever else, to keep from standing trial! Not right away! Postponed, delayed. Then taking the offensive. Making accusations of your own. Raising your right hand and saying: “I swear.” Saying: “Antoine Tassy is the guilty one!” Under oath. Repeating: “He’s the one who . . .”
“The child’s not happy. You can see how thin she is. The air in Kamouraska must be bad for her.”
“And her hair! Did you see her hair? So dull, so woolly.”
“Yes, we’ll have to wash her hair. And give it a rinse with camomile.”
My mother joins her sisters. Four virtuous ladies of excellent background, assembled to condemn Antoine Tassy to death. So much black, so much mourning. And the blinding white of collars, cuffs, and bonnets. Bare hands lying flat on their laps. Rosaries entwined about their feeble wrists.
I’m telling them about my life in Kamouraska. Crying. Sobbing. Dissolving in tears. Twisting my hair. Biting my fingers.
My mother is the first to speak. Breaks the heavy silence that follows my story. Pulls off her rosary. Rubs her wrist, like a prisoner whose handcuffs have just been removed. Says that all this praying is getting on her nerves. Tries to get back to the subject.
“It’s no good for a woman to stagnate in the country with her husband.”
A cloud comes over her face. Again that faraway look in her eye. Seeking, off in her distant past, a curious dream in which every married woman first gives birth to a daughter, and then becomes a widow as soon as she can.
“Too bad the child didn’t have a daughter . . .”
The three little Lanouette sisters echo a sigh. Sorry too that the dynasty of solitary women isn’t going to continue forever, here in the house on Rue Augusta.
We’ll keep the child with us. Her and the children, nice and safe. As for her husband . . .”
“He can go back to his mother’s in Kamouraska?!”
“Eating and drinking the way he does, he won’t last long!”
With the vision of a man not lasting long — an excellent solution — my dear aunts let their thoughts go running wild. Say to themselves “Dear God, please let him die!” Then panic at having dared bring God into their wicked fancy. Quickly correct themselves. Embark on another prayer, one they can allow. At night, kneeling beside their convent beds: “Dear God, please let him repent and be converted.”
Rosaries, novenas, stations of the cross, in endless succession. Day after day. A flurry of little aunts, to and fro. Frilly bonnets tied round with ribbon bows. And rosaries clutched tight. Going from the house on Rue Augusta to the church. Casting a kind of pious spell. Thousands of sly Hail Marys, all in vain. So many poisoned darts, bouncing off Antoine Tassy’s impervious heart.
“Our little Elisabeth will take her old room back, the one she slept in as a child. You, Monsieur, can sleep in the guest room . . .”
Poor saintly ladies of Rue Augusta. You really don’t understand a thing. By day I’m more than willing to weep on your shoulders. To vote for the villain’s death. To play the decoy, nothing more, with mournful voice and haggard eye. Set out to bring the hideous husband tumbling down.
“See what you’ve done . . . Your lovely little wife . . . You ought to be ashamed! . . .”
But by night, again Antoine’s accomplice. Though it disgusts me to the core. Drives me mad with fright.
The bed I slept in as a child. So narrow. Made up for the final sacraments, or so it seems. White feather coverlet . . . The door is never locked. Despite my aunts and all their warnings. A man comes fumbling his way into the room. One night in three. Whenever he’s not too drunk. The saintly ladies have piled up chairs out in the corridor, against my door. Just so Antoine can go bumping into them. Sometimes, with that drunken sailor’s gait of his, flat on his face . . . Then a volley of foul and angry language. And I can’t help laughing, frightened as I am. Sure that my dear little aunts are wide awake, crossing themselves and trembling all over. They learn so much at night. Drunkenness, blasphemy, violence, love, disdain . . .
Sometimes, at night, the child will moan and groan. In pain or pl
easure. No matter, the crime is all the same. The man is guilty. He stole away the smiling, sunny little one we love. The days and months are going by. Antoine is spending his money on every whore in Sorel. He’s drinking and gambling. We’re all the talk of the town.
Elisabeth has been bewitched. She’s under his spell. The devil must be cast out . . .
That time. That one time. A certain time of my life, moved back to, moved into like an empty shell. Enclosing me again. With the sharp little click of an oyster snapping shut. I’m forcing myself to live within this narrow space. I’m settling into the house on Rue Augusta. I’m breathing its rarefied air, an air I’ve already breathed before. I’m taking the steps I’ve already taken. There is no Madame Rolland. Not anymore. I’m Elisabeth d’Aulnières, the wife of Antoine Tassy. I’m pining away. Dying, dying. I’m waiting for someone to come and save me. I’m nineteen years old . . .
In honeyed tones my mother treats her son-in-law with feigned solicitude.
“You’ll be more comfortable on the corner of the table, with those long legs of yours . . .”
Antoine gives a foolish smirk. He’s just caught sight of the rabbit stew steaming on the table.
“I’ll bet there’s plenty of white wine in there!”
My gentle voice bounces against the intimate tête-à-tête Antoine is having with his rabbit stew.
“At least it’s a change from the eels and buckwheat cakes we have in Kamouraska.”
I seem to hear him chewing his every mouthful. He doesn’t bother to wipe the gravy dripping down his chin.
I’m sure my mother is trying to sound pathetic now.
“I’ve gone to Angélique Hus and ordered Elisabeth three dresses. Some shoes too, and some chemises. Really, Monsieur, the child doesn’t have a thing to wear. And the babies need new clothes, new underthings . . . And you know, Monsieur, Elisabeth is beginning to cough. She really should see a doctor . . .”
Antoine asks for another helping. Gulps it down. Then struggles to pull his legs out from under the table. With a roar.
“Elisabeth, go pack your bags. And get the children ready. I won’t stay here another minute and be insulted!”
Aunt Angélique clears her throat, tries to give a little substance to her voice.
“You’ll go back to Kamouraska by yourself, Monsieur. Elisabeth and the children are staying here, where we can take care of them.”
“But I’m the squire of Kamouraska! I’m entitled to some respect . . . I’ll go back down the river, back home where my word is law. And everyone will bow low . . . And then I’ll kill myself, you hear? I’m going to kill myself, Elisabeth. In Kamouraska, on the beach . . .”
Antoine pours himself a drink. Sits there sobbing, crying his eyes out. My mother tries to catch her breath. Buries her face in a lace-trimmed handkerchief, heavy with the smell of camphor.
Antoine pretends he’s leaving for Kamouraska. His leather valise, tawny brown, hastily buckled. With a white shirttail sticking out. The initials A. T. shining bright. He goes out, slams the door . . . But look, first thing in the morning, here he is, back again. Valise and all. Just as my aunts are leaving for their five o’clock mass. Antoine stands gazing at this frieze of tiny ladies all cloaked in black and ruffled in white. He picks one out at random. Throws his arms around her. Lifts her off the ground. Kisses her on the checks. For a fraction of a second two little feet kick at the air.
“Well, well, Sister Adélaïde . . . Have a good day now! Have a good mass! And pray for me, won’t you? You know, I’m out of my mind, Sister Adélaïde! . . .”
Scarcely does she touch the ground when Angélique, peeved at being taken for her older sister, protests with a vengeance:
“Angélique . . . I’m Angélique . . . My name is Angélique Lanouette . . .”
Antoine sits down on his valise. Begs pardon in his humblest, most correct of tones.
“Excuse me, Sister Angélique. My mistake. But one little nun looks just like another!”
“Good morning, Madame. You slept well, I hope?”
Quick as a wink, Aurélie has put the pitcher of hot water down on the washstand, next to the flowered blue basin. Pulled the curtains open with a sharp tug. Light comes streaming in, intense, like a tide of rolling waves, breaking against my bed. I hide my face in the covers. The light is unbearable, brighter than the sun. Aurélie is mumbling as she sets my clothes out for the day.
“Can’t go on living in the dark. What will be, will be. Your really big scenes are coming up, Madame. You’ve got to live them over out in the daylight.”
The first thing I do, back in Sorel. Hire Aurélie Caron. Despite my mother’s and my aunts’ entreaties. To play Milady and her maid. Until . . .
“They say you have yourself a merry time, Aurélie! Down by the river, out on the islands. Is it true? Tell me, what do you do? Tell me everything! . . .”
All petticoats and ribbons and fancy shoes, the typical soubrette . . . Aurélie stands at the mirror, looks at herself, enthralled. Turns toward me. So awfully pale. That sudden yellow spark, flashing from between her eyelids. With muttered words and knowing winks. A volley of chatter. Breathless, disjointed, brazen, uncouth . . . Then voices from my solitude. My own. One confidence deserves another, tit for tat. And here I am, whispering in her ear.
“Really, you know, I’m married to a beast.”
“Good God a’mighty! You mean you didn’t know they’re all of them like that? Sooner or later, just give them time . . .”
Aurélie squats down, fixes a fire. It’s morning. I’m nineteen now. I’m combing out my long curls, rolled up around strips of white cloth for the night. Life seems so natural, so calm. And yet . . . This silence. This disagreeable feeling that I’ve lived it all before. Most of all, the strange appearance of the fire. A kind of curious glare, cold and still. The look of fire, but a fire with no warmth, no brilliance . . . The linen bedsheets with their openwork borders. The fine weave of the cloth, so sharp and clear, as if magnified under a glass. The table by the bed, with its marble top. I’m sure I could trace out each one of the little black veins, follow them as they split and splinter their way along, smaller and smaller.
It’s not so much the clear precision of things themselves that staggers me now. It’s just that I’m forced, with every part of my being, to pay such close attention. Nothing, nothing must escape me. The real life, hidden beneath the past . . . There, tiny pinpricks all over the bedstead. Insect bites in the worm-eaten wood. Everything in the room has been gnawed away. Still standing by some kind of miracle. Already crumbled. Put back together just for this one blinding moment. Everything so precise, so clear . . .
This stillness mustn’t last. Or else it will spread its rot to every fragment of life around me. Weigh them all down in one great, final, ponderous silence.
I turn toward the impudent person standing there in front of me, stock-still, watching. A strange smile frozen against her teeth, stained with tobacco.
“Speak to me, Aurélie. Say something. Anything at all. Only speak . . .”
Aurélie raises her voice, forces it a little as if she were playing a part. Pretends to be talking to someone behind the wall.
“Oh, Madame! Good God a’mighty! Look at that mark on your arm, all black and blue!”
“Don’t shout like that, Aurélie. Please, not so loud. Someone might hear you! . . .”
“Oh, the things Monsieur does to you, Madame! I’ll go tell the cook. I’ll go tell the governess. I’ll go tell Madame d’Aulnières and her three little sisters. I’ll go tell the judges if I have to.”
“Stop it, Aurélie! Stop shouting like that! I’m so ashamed! If you only knew . . .”
“No need to be ashamed for a thing like that! Better to get ourselves pinched a little than never to have a man at all, don’t you know! And as far as being ashamed . . . Well, you’d better get used to it now. It’s just beginning. The worst is yet to come.”
Now no more looking. No more being looked at. I
push Aurélie aside. Storm out of my old room in the house on Rue Augusta. Go running down the stairs. Lifting my skirts high up off the floor . . . Now in the hall again. The outside door is shut, locked tight. The kitchen door too. Quick, the backstairs. There’s a door in the attic. Must be a ladder down to the courtyard . . . Up on the second floor. Can’t find the attic stairs. All the doors are shut. All but one. The one I forgot to close when I went dashing out. The room I slept in as a child. Pretty, all pink and white . . . I plunge inside, almost as if I were pushed in from behind. The bed has been changed, made up with care. (Though I’ve only been gone for a moment.) And the covers turned down. My mother is standing beside it. Telling me I’m sick and I have to go to bed. I shy away, look toward the door. Aurélie is there, blocking my escape . . . I obey my mother. Take off my clothes. Put on a chemise, trimmed with lace, set out for the occasion. And all the while my mother keeps assuring me that the doctor will be here any minute . . . Aurélie and her rollicking laugh. Rippling . . . She comes in now with a basin of hot water. A big round cake of perfumed soap. And a napkin made of Irish linen. My mother speaks to her.
“Put it down there, Aurélie. It’s for the doctor.”
Sophie Langlade is here too. And Justine Latour. They’re bringing me my slippers and my robe. Then a voice I can’t quite recognize.
“Now let’s reconstruct the facts the best we can, day by day.”
Aurélie Caron, Sophie Langlade, and Justine Latour are standing against the wall. My husband appears in the doorway. I’m sure that’s who it is. My mother is still standing by my bed. My aunts are sitting on the couch, pressed close to one another.
It seems to me my bed is higher than it ought to be. Raised up on some kind of platform, or so it seems. With great shafts of light falling from the ceiling, above my head. It’s as if I’m lying on an operating table. My mother, clutching my wrist, holding me down . . . Please, not an operation. Not a real one. This sickness inside me, plucked out like a violet. This hidden tumor . . . The silence is unbearable. I close my eyes.