Kamouraska

by Anne Hébert

  My daughter, Anne-Marie. Still there. Still trying to pull me out of the darkness, all the way.

  “The priest wants to tell you good-bye before he leaves. Papa is asleep . . .”

  My clouded image in the mirror. After this endless night. Rub the mist clear with the back of my sleeve. Recapture my youth . . .

  At Sorel my dear little aunts look after me, ply me with flowers and sweets. Shed torrents of tears.

  I wait for a letter that never arrives.

  “The child is sick. See, she can hardly stand on her feet.”

  I try to save my strength to wait for a letter. Try not to move. Pretend to be living. Learn little by little what it’s like to die. Wait for a letter. With all the right gestures, the look on my face, the clothing inside and out, the hair on my head, the shoes on my feet . . . Like a real living creature. And yet I’m dead. Only hope in my veins. The hope for a certain letter, still beating.

  I wait for a letter that’s not going to get through, that will never arrive. Yes, I mean, it will. But later, so much later, after years and years lost in those piles of papers on the magistrates’ desks. Too late, too late . . .

  Time, time. Goes by, spreads out, enfolds me, drags me along. And silence, doubling time, drawing it out to its merciless length. I learn what emptiness is, day after day, night after night. In the bedroom on Rue Augusta, living the life of a prisoner again. With no one to venture near my bed. No one, that is, but my lawyer, my mother, and the three little creatures who have sworn to save me or go down with me in the attempt.

  Maître Lafontaine bends over my bed. His face hovers over me, goatee and all. And he keeps repeating something about an involved exchange of letters between the judges in Canada and the United States. My husband’s killer . . . Extradition still pending . . . My own case, continued from session to session . . .

  I put my faith in the guardian angels that stand watch in the shadows about me. I straighten my clothes, black with mourning. Ask to have my children brought in. A nice little stroll with them through Sorel for all to see, and I know the perverse joy of throwing the whole town off my scent. Pale and pathetic, learning my widow’s role . . .

  Two years go by. See, Aurélie, now you’re free. They’ll never extradite Doctor Nelson. Charges withdrawn.

  What can I hope for from a man who treats me as if I were dead? Dead and gone so long himself. Dying once, twice, over and over, again and again, until that one last time. That’s what life is, after all . . .

  Jérôme Rolland calls for his wife. Wants her there beside him. Anne-Marie says her father is better, completely cured, now that he’s had the last rites from the priest . . .

  The medical student has a head of thick, red, curly hair. Shaking like a banner flaring in the breeze. Between my clasped fingers, I watch the hostile glints of sun . . .

  “Anne-Marie, my dear . . . Yes, I’ll go right down. First, get me a handkerchief. There, in the drawer.”

  Anne-Marie disappears for a moment. The young student’s head of hair flashes above my bed. He speaks in a whisper.

  “Four months ago I began to study medicine with Doctor Nelson. On the sixth of February, late at night, he came to my room and woke me up. In Madame Léocadie Leprohon’s house, where I live. And he made me go with him to his office. He told me he had to leave the province for good, that he could never come back. He just stood there, leaning against the wall. With his head in his hands. And he began to cry, and his body began to tremble and shake all over. In all my life I never saw a man in such a state. Then he said, in English: “It’s that damned woman. She’s ruined me . . .”

  You’re talking in a foreign tongue, Doctor Nelson. No, of course I don’t know this man! I’m Elisabeth d’Aulnières. My first husband was Antoine Tassy, the squire of Kamouraska, the one who was murdered. And my second is Jérôme Rolland, notary in the city of Quebec. Like his father before him, and his father’s father, for countless generations . . . I’m innocent! See how George Nelson accuses me? See? “That damned woman!” That’s what he called me . . . If your love shocks you so, rip it out of your heart. Which one of us betrayed the other first? I’m innocent! Let him go home, back to the country he should never have come from . . . My love ran away. Deserted me, left me alone to face the whims of justice. Yes, let him go home. An outcast in his native land. Back after thirty years. Exiled forever in the land of his birth. A stranger wherever he goes, to the end of his days.

  And me. A stranger, a soul possessed, pretending I still belong in the land of the living . . . Faithless Elisabeth. Turning your back, betraying your sacred trust. Too late now, you say. Too late for a life of delirious passion. The fire is dying. No use to stir up the embers. Should have taken my stand before. Gone off with George. Been cast out together. To the innermost depths of the earth’s damnation. No longer just a foreign land. One whole foreign world. An exile, utter and complete. A madman’s solitude . . . See how they point their fingers at us. Yes, I’m the one. The one who pushed you to the ends of the earth. (I stood back, off by the side of the road, while you . . . There, in the cove at Kamouraska . . .) Through all that crime and death. Like a boundary to cross . . . And then you come back. And your face, your look against mine. Unknowable, now, for ever and ever. So frightful . . . No, I don’t know this man! Found out, Doctor Nelson! You’ve been found out! Murderer. Stranger . . .

  And what if he’s there, in Burlington, waiting in his cell for a letter from me? Oh, let me be sure. I’d be so happy I would die! My God, just to run to his side. Beg them to hitch up the horses, take me to the border. Get out of the carriage. Find him alive. Fling myself into his arms. Say to him, “Look, it’s me, Elisabeth.” And hear him answer, “It’s me. It’s George . . .” Together for life, the two of us. That cry in my throat . . .

  Can it really be he’s still alive? Or married? No, no! That’s more than I could bear. I’d sooner see him dead, lying at my feet. Rather than let some other woman . . .

  Nothing to do now but act so nicely that no one can doubt me. Pull the mask of innocence over my face. Against the bones. Accept it like some kind of vengeance, some kind of punishment. Play the cruel game, the tedious comedy, day after day. Until the perfect resemblance sticks to my skin. No joy on the long, bitter road. Only my haughty pride, here and there . . .

  “Jérôme Rolland wants to marry the child. What a nice young man! He says he’s sure he can make her happy, make her forget . . .”

  Adélaïde, Angélique, Luce-Gertrude, my mother . . . They couldn’t be more delighted . . .

  Jérôme Rolland, his lordship meek and mild, lies propped up against a pile of nice cool pillows. The smell of candle wax floats through the bedroom. Darkened, shutters half closed. Florida, standing about like a vestry nun. Folds a white tablecloth. Madame Rolland’s eyes, all puffed and swollen.

  “Where were you, Elisabeth? I kept asking them to call you.”

  “It’s that powder the doctor gave me. It made me sleep and sleep . . .”

  A faint smile flickers over Jérôme Rolland’s lips. Madame Rolland moves by his bed. And he whispers, still smiling. Tells her how happy he feels now, how much at peace.

  “I’ve had the last rites, Elisabeth. The Good Lord has cleansed me of all my sins.”

  Madame Rolland looks down. Wipes a tear from her cheek . . .

  Then all at once the nightmare breaks again. Dashes its winds against Elisabeth d’Aulnières. While on the surface everything seems so calm. The model wife, clasping her husband’s hand in hers, poised on the sheet. And yet . . . Off in a parched field, under the rocks, they’ve dug up a woman, all black but still alive, buried there long ago, some far-off, savage time. Strangely preserved. Then they’ve gone and let her loose on the town. And all the people have locked themselves in. So deathly afraid of this woman. And everyone thinks that she must have an utterly awesome lust for life, buried alive so long. A hunger growing and growing inside the earth for centuries on end! Unlike any other that’s ever been k
nown. And whenever she runs through the town, begging and weeping, they sound the alarm. Nothing before her but doors shut tight, and the empty, unpaved streets. Nothing to do now but let herself die. Alone and hungry . . .

  Wicked Elisabeth! Damnable woman!

  “You’ll never know how frightened I was, Jérôme.”

  “Don’t worry, Elisabeth. I’m here . . .”

  Madame Rolland clutches her husband’s pallid hand. A fragile thread that still holds her to life and might break any moment. Her eyes fill with tears.

  And Léontine Mélançon whispers (unless, perhaps, it’s Agathe or Florida):

  “Just look how Madame loves Monsieur! You see, she’s crying . . .”