by Anne Hébert
Possess this woman. Possess the earth.
I call to George Nelson. Yes, I’m the one who calls out to him through the darkness. The voice of passion seeks us out, lords it over us, lays us low. One thing that must be done. Only one. Let ourselves both be damned forever. Each with the other. Each by the other. And me, the malicious and sinister stranger . . .
Is this what sleeping will be like from now on? A couple of hours, at best, racked by horrible dreams?
A wooden cabin, standing in the middle of a flat, deserted landscape. Off on the horizon, the edge of the forest. The cabin is filled with people. All of them worried about some little pet of theirs that’s roaming loose. Such frightful things will happen to it unless they find a way to bring it back right now. Everyone turns and looks at me. Everyone, without exception. They beg me to “call” the animal home. And I’m struck with terror. I know what they mean by “call.” I know the awesome power I possess, and it makes me shudder . . . From every side they press me, urge me on. Every second could mean the death of the little creature still on the loose out there . . .
A cry escapes my lips. (This power of mine won’t let me hold it back.) A cry so harsh, so terrible, that it tears at my chest and leaves me stunned, transfixed. Echoes on and on all through the countryside. I can’t make it stop, can’t keep it from surging and swelling, out of control . . . Suddenly all the beasts are on the move. The wildest beasts of the forest and plain. Swooping down, attacking the cabin. Every last one of them, stirred by my call. And men and women too. The cruelest, the most vicious. Charmed, drawn out of their hidden lairs of would-be virtue. And Doctor Nelson is with them. His white teeth, sharpened to a point, like fangs. And I’m wearing a black chignon that sits on top of my head and comes unpinned. With great thick locks falling down around my face . . . A witch. I’m a witch. And I’m calling out, summoning up all the evil from men and beasts. Wherever it can be found . . .
In which of my dreams did I call them both back? Not only my love, but the other one too. My husband. As if I couldn’t call one without the other. All the beasts of the forest. All of them, summoned . . . This cry, deep in my chest. This call . . .
Now there are two of them at night, riding past my windows. One sleigh, then the other. Antoine chasing George, in a tinkle of sleigh bells and women’s laughter. Brandishing his whip up at my window. Bellowing out his drunken joy.
“I want to get something to drink for my dear old classmate.”
The neighbors, roused from their slumbers, don’t know what to make of this mad, outrageous romp through the night. And by two young men of such excellent breeding.
I fall asleep long after the clash and clatter disappear. Leaving my frenzied mind filled with the hazy vision of men on horseback. Chases, confrontations. Horses pawing and trampling each other, and rearing up for long moments at a time.
The worthy citizens of Sorel, awakened by night, are bored by day. Thanks to us they’ll get their taste of life and death, in a dizzying whirl that frightens them off yet lures them on. Blessed are we through whom the scandal cometh . . .
Never before have there been so many parties, one after another. And everyone vying with everyone else to invite that poor dear Madame Tassy, whose husband is sowing his wild oats here in Sorel. Right under her very nose. With a creature named Horse Marine. Why not invite that young American doctor too? The one who speaks such excellent French. We’ll make him come out of his shell. Leave his books and his patients behind for a while. He has some kind of special power, no doubt about it. You see Madame Tassy? See how she trembles? Well, watch her come to life the minute he’s near her.
“He’s such a quiet fellow, and not the least bit friendly. Why, until just recently he’d never accept an invitation. Not from anyone.”
“Have you noticed how that dark face of his lights up as soon as he sees Madame Tassy? And would you believe he’s only twenty-five? . . .”
Which one of them insists that my husband should be invited too? That he is the squire of Kamouraska, after all, and that it wouldn’t be right to ostracize him from society . . .
One evening, when he’s had his fill of Horse Marine, Antoine will appear in the Kellys’ drawing room. Or the Marchands’. Bursting in, bumping into the guests. His hat cocked behind his ears. And on his pink face, lost in disbelief, I’ll watch the realization of the truth slowly, laboriously dawning in his dull-witted brain. He’ll kill us, I imagine. That is, unless . . .
George greets me with a little bow. I look down at his hair, so thick and black. He talks without raising his head, in a low, gentle voice. Almost pleading. As if what he was saying had some hidden meaning, some mournful importance.
“Are you going to the ball at Saint-Ours next Sunday? If you’d do me the honor of coming in my sleigh, I’d be the happiest man alive . . .”
“And I’d be the happiest woman. . .”
You never hear her coming in. Then suddenly there she is. As if she could walk through walls. Weightless and transparent . . . Look at her there, spreading my brand-new party-dress out on the bed. Stroking the beautiful velvet, cherry-red, with a kind of gluttonous envy mixed with awe.
“Good God a’mighty, what a pretty dress! I’d give my soul to have one just like that!”
Aurélie sighs. Rekindles the fire. Arranges the room. Her every movement seems so strange, so disturbing. And that high-pitched voice of hers, driving me to the very limits of my resistance.
“Aurélie, please, be quiet!”
“But I’m talking so people can hear me, Madame. . .”
My mother’s dressing room. No air at all in here. Impossible to breathe. That musty smell. It’s making me sick . . . The green cloth on the dressing table, ragged and frayed. The real world is somewhere else. On Rue du Parloir, by my husband’s bed. And yet I let myself sit on the stool. So nice and meek. In front of the mirror, all covered with spots.
Aurélie shakes out the ivory comb and brush, yellowed with age. Blows off the dust.
“I’ll just give the mirror a wipe . . .”
I draw back with a start.
“No, no! For goodness’ sake, don’t touch the mirror!”
A kind of sudden break in Aurélie’s voice. Blown glass drawn thin, shattering with the last bit of breath. Now she speaks in a whisper, almost too soft to hear.
“Just a touch of the cloth. There. That’s all. Madame has to look herself right in the eye . . . See that pretty face. Those lovely shoulders. I’m going to fix Madame’s hair for the ball. Madame should be able to see for herself . . .”
The mirror, come to life like a bubbling spring. My youth, smooth and clear. All those curls piled high seem a little absurd . . . Queenly bearing. Viper’s soul. Lovesick heart . . . A single thought fixed firmly in my head. A flower in my hair. My left eye quivering madly. My eyelids drooping. The lashes brushing against my cheek.
A man comes rushing in. Stands next to the woman decked out so ornately. His breath, coarse against the woman’s bare shoulder.
I don’t have time to be amazed. How on earth did Antoine get in here? I thought the house was so well protected. And what about my aunts? And the servants?
A man and a woman, side by side. Husband and wife. Hating each other. Tormenting each other. By gentle candlelight. Two candles aglow, on either side of the mirror.
“You’re not going to that ball.”
“I said I would go, and I’m going.”
“A married woman, a mother . . . It’s absolutely indecent!”
“What does it matter to you? My life is none of your business now. I’m not your wife and you’re not my husband. Now get out, or I’ll call for help!”
A shattered look comes over Antoine’s baby face. Not rage, not amazement. But a meek look of utter desolation. Spreading over his features. I gaze unmoved at this man’s reflection. Watch him in the mirror as he comes undone. And the strength of my voice surprises me, as fear tightens its grip about my throat.
“Everyone f
rom Sorel is going together. One long line of sleighs from here to Saint-Ours.”
I read Antoine’s reply on his lips more clearly than I hear it.
“I’ll come and get you. You’ll go in my sleigh with me.”
“I’m going with Doctor Nelson. He asked me to join him. It’s all arranged.”
Now the mirror is blurred. Someone is blowing out the candles. This scene is more than I can bear. I can’t watch anymore . . . And Aurélie’s voice, going higher and higher. Shrill, like a squealing child. Spreading through every inch of space. Filling the darkness. Then sinking down to the timid murmur of the confessional.
“Monsieur gave Madame a punch in the ribs. I saw her there, all doubled up with pain. Then Monsieur left the house. Right away, before anyone could stop him. And on his way out the door he was swearing something awful. And he kept saying: “I forbid you to go to that ball. I forbid you to . . .”
But that evening, when the sleighs set out for Saint-Ours, Madame went off in Doctor Nelson’s.
Perched high on its open-frame runners, that American sleigh can fly like the wind. And that black horse . . . There’s not an innkeeper all along the southern bank, from Sorel to Kamouraska, who’ll fail to marvel at his great endurance and his matchless beauty.
We try not to look at each other. Both of us sharing the same tender warmth. Wrapped in our furs. Sitting up straight. So unconcerned. No sign of emotion on our faces. Blank stares. Heads erect. Outlined against the winter sky.
We’re riding at the end of the long line of sleighs. Our puffs of white breath, mingling and swirling. And the horse, loping gently along . . . So far, not a thing between us. We’re innocent . . .
More than his passion, I want to excite his anger. When it’s clear just how awful his anger can be. So easy to imagine it, all of a sudden, exploding . . .
Whispering now, my head on his shoulder. My face buried in the collar of his coat. Telling him that my husband came back to the house, that he forbade me to go to Saint-Ours, that he hit me in the stomach with his fist . . . All eyes, I watch the expression on George’s face. Watch as his lips turn pale. A cadaverous gray . . . I’d like to soothe him now, calm his temper. Apologize for his frenzy of indignation . . . Yet all the while an unspeakable joy wells up within me. Sets my heart pounding with gratitude and hope. All of my hatred, a part of him now, joining together this man and me. Both of us bound by one single, ferocious passion.
He leaps to his feet. Grabs the whip and brings it smashing down across the horse’s back. The beast goes galloping over the bumpy snow. Off in the other direction, away from Saint-Ours. I’m tossed from side to side. I plead with George. I try to hold his arm, make him stop whipping the horse . . .
Over goes the sleigh, upside down in the snow . . .
All at once, that frantic ride behind me. And I’m caught up in the silence and the darkness. No sound but the horse, snorting his fright. Snow down my neck. My fur bonnet, lying on the ground . . . George covers the horse with one of the blankets. Then comes toward me. Without a word. Takes me in his arms. And we go rolling, head over heels. Rolling in the snow. Down the embankment. Like little children, all covered with snow. Snow down my neck, in my ears, in my hair. My mouth full of snow. His icy face against my face. His warm, moist lips against my cheek.
Breathless. Tongue-tied with the cold and with our laughter. We sit by the side of the road. Then one of us, very slowly, pronounces some words between two gasps: “Antoine is a very nasty man.” I shake the snow from my bonnet, against my knee. A voice, inside me. (It can’t be my own, I’m much too happy.) Telling me loud and clear: “We’re sure to go to hell now, all three of us.” And my love, embracing me. Saying he loves me “more than anything else on earth.” And I tell him that he’s “my very life.”
We’re still in the snow. Lying on our backs. Looking up at the sky, dotted with stars. Shivering with the cold . . . For a long time I try to keep my teeth from chattering.
I struggle out of my fur coat and my woollen mufflers. Then I just stand there, not daring to move. On view in the public square. The wet snow has spotted my velvet dress. Great blotches all over. A bunch of hairpins, fallen between my breasts. My curls, unpinned, are hanging down my back. A man is with me. I think he has me by the arm. Keeps telling me not to be afraid. Clenching his fists . . .
Dancers and chaperones suddenly freeze, holding their breath. What a sight in the doorway! Madame Tassy and Doctor Nelson, their faces red from the cold, standing there shivering. And their eyes fixed straight ahead. Defiant, though there’s no escape. That curious pleasure, that bitter victory. Delirious joy, on the brink of despair.
The thing to do is to walk across the room. Probably face Antoine. Perhaps even both get killed . . .
“We took the wrong road . . . Turned over in the snow . . .”
A big black net, thrown over my head and shoulders. They’ve taken me prisoner. Dragged and pushed and pulled me away. Captured. My three little aunts, atremble, spirit me over by the fire. Protect me, guard me. And here I am, wrapped in Aunt Adélaïde’s gigantic shawl, sitting in the middle of the tribe of chaperones. Delivered up to the scathing looks of old maids and widows.
Mustn’t cringe and cower. Mustn’t even blink. Just look right over those motionless heads, hair parted down the middle, pulled back tight. All those frilly bonnets, those satin ribbons over their shoulders . . . Pretend to be gazing at one certain spot on the wall. Emptiness . . . A prisoner. I’m a prisoner . . . Steal a careful look all round the room. Wait for Antoine to come in. Imagine his insults, his blows. Maybe a knife, hidden in his vest? Or that heavy silver chandelier that . . . No, I’m falling! Have to gaze at the wall, that spot. Cling to it in my mind . . . I’m going down. The floor is slipping out from under me. My life is foundering, sinking . . . Someone is saying that Antoine didn’t come. Stayed away from the ball even though he was invited. Can’t let that good news make me drop my guard. Keep an eye out. Search the room bit by bit, for fear that my husband might come bursting in . . . They give me a hot drink that smells of cinnamon. Aunt Angélique whispers something in my ear.
“My dear child, what a thoughtless thing to do! To go riding at night all alone with Doctor Nelson! Just think of your reputation. Think of your husband. You mustn’t push that man too far . . .”
Little by little, the guests in the manor at Saint-Ours go back to their dancing. To the sound of the untuned piano. Heave a sigh of relief. And discover that, by some miracle, they’re once again intact. Filled with excitement, endowed with new life.
I know I’m a sinner, I don’t deny it. But you, my dear little wife, you’re damned to hell. I’ll never get over the shame of Saint-Ours. Don’t wait for me. I’m going to drown myself. It’s easy. Just break a hole in the ice and jump in. Like a well. You’ll see who shows up in the river next spring. Kiss the children good-bye for me. Your husband. Antoine.”
Sham drowning. Sham joy. Can’t trust Antoine. But I’ll play the game. Pretend to be looking for a corpse and to mourn him. To be waiting for a dead man, all dripping and cold, to be laid in my arms. But hardest of all is persuading my mother and my aunts not to call the police. Keep them out of our family problems. The brook and the river can’t be dragged until spring. Just wait until the ice gives way. In the meantime, nothing to do but live like a widow.
“Aurélie . . . Quick, Aurélie . . . That note the doctor told you to give me . . . Here, Aurélie, take back my answer. Right away . . .”
“Aurélie . . . Go have them hitch up the auburn horse . . . The doctor’s expecting me . . .”
“Aurélie . . . Make sure no one follows us . . . What a handsome coachman you make, Aurélie . . . I think we’d better bring the children with us . . .”
“Madame knows best . . .”
“Good God a’mighty, Madame! It’s Monsieur! I’m sure he’s following right behind us!”
“You’re wrong, Aurélie. Don’t you know he drowned himself a few weeks ago? . . . In
a big hole in the ice. Remember?”
Have to go back. Retrace my steps. Weep tears of rage. My husband is alive, stalking me like a dead man. Two times, three times, kill this corpse that keeps springing back to life . . .
At home in the house on Rue Augusta, I come down with a fever that sets my little aunts atwitter. I beg Aurélie to go for the doctor. She looks at me, eyes huge with fright. Her pupils, dilated like a cat’s. But she does as she’s told. Aurélie has no choice but to do what I tell her. No matter what.
“And if Monsieur tries to stop you on the way, tell him you absolutely have to get the doctor. I have an awful cough, Aurélie. You understand? You’ll tell him I have . . .”
I close my eyes. Trace out his face and his body in the darkness. With my hands, my lips. The way blind people do. So carefully. Each feature exact . . . For just an instant, the perfect likeness. His manly body, stunning in its nakedness . . . All at once, an enormous wave comes swelling, rolling in, and disappears. Sweeps up my love and carries him away. His head cut off! His body torn limb from limb! . . . I scream . . .
“Madame! Madame! You’re having a dream! See, I’ve brought the doctor.”
A look of concern on George’s face. His head bent close to mine. I fling myself into his open arms. My mother is taking a nap. My dear little aunts are at vespers. And I have just enough time to live. Careful not to undress completely, and not to light the lamp . . .