The minutes were speeding by; I asked, "How does a boat go under?"
Monsieur Elie was pleased to enlighten me. "A sinking boat," said he, "slopes and slopes until it is almost upright in the water." He used his fountain pen to show me how and held it, point down, suspended over nothingness. "Then—suddenly -it plunges into the depths of the ocean. It is engulfed forever. Nothing, perhaps, disappears as completely as a ship sunk in the depths of the ocean "
"But the people," I cried, "what happened to the happy people, the Vanderbilts?"
"They had gotten the women and children into lifeboats," said my uncle, "but a number of these upset; the poor wretches thrashed around for a while in the icy water "
"But the children? Did the children, too, plunge down into the depths?"
"We should talk about other things," Maman said, after having glanced at me. "It's late . . . you should have been in bed long ago... "
I acted deaf. When stories were dreadful, and very interesting, sometimes Maman forgot to carry through with her orders.
"From some distance away a freighter could have come to their rescue," remarked my uncle, "but the wireless operator on the freighter, after receiving from the Titanic a message saying 'No cause for alarm/ laid aside his earphones. And so
the Titanic's SOS wandered about in the darkness, without at first finding a single listener. . . ."
"Yes," said Monsieur Elie, "from time to time God punishes human presumption in terrible ways."
"All the same," my uncle pointed out, "that has not stood in the way of building even larger and sturdier ships since then ... and men are constantly getting more skillful at flying through the air. Who knows? . . . Tomorrow perhaps men will journey to the moon ... or as far as the planet Mars "
"Lord in Heaven," sighed poor Clementine Elie, "I'd rather die than see such things happen!"
"Perhaps it's inhabited," argued my uncle Majorique. I crept over close beside him. He lifted me to his knees. He stroked my hair. "As for me," he said, "I'd like to live a long while; I'm curious to see what men will attempt."
God the Father, though, was in the clouds. Would airplanes climb as high as that? Would God let them by? ... Would He want man to go as far as Mars? . . . Everywhere, within us, around us, it seemed to me we were plunged in fog.
The Gadabouts
Toward the middle of the Provencher Bridge, Maman and I found ourselves surrounded by sea gulls; they flew low over the Red River. Maman took my hand and clasped it tight, as though to convey to me a movement of her soul. A hundred times a day Maman got a lift of joy from the world around us; sometimes it was nothing more than the wind or the flight of a bird that delighted her. Leaning on the parapet we watched the gulls for a long while. And all of a sudden, on that bridge, Maman told me that she would like to be able to go whenever and wherever she might choose. Maman told me she still longed to be free; she told me that what died last in the human heart must be the liking for freedom; that even suffering and misfortune did not wear thin within her this inclination toward liberty. . . . Maman quite frequently spoke to me of such notions, perhaps because I was too young to see anything wrong in them, perhaps also because she had no one else to whom she could speak of them.
Yet in the past Maman had already spoken of being free, and the only outcome had been even more children, much more sewing, much more work. As tied down as she was, why indeed did Maman never cease to wish for freedom ?
As she watched the gulls, she began to smile, and she said to me, "One never knows! So many things happen! . . . Before I get really old, perhaps I'll travel, live through some adventure "
"You're already old," I told Maman.
"Not that old," Maman replied, a little put out. "You'll see yourself, when you're forty-nine; you'll believe you still have a few good years ahead of you." "Oh I" I protested, "I'll never be forty-nine!" And Maman agreed that she was rather old, that it was late true enough, to obtain from life all that she had wanted from it. But what was it she had so much wanted from life? I had asked her. Was it not a house, her husband, I and the ojher children ?
Maman said no; that, at least during her earliest youth, those were not the only things she had wanted; though—she
added—her husband, her house, and her children she would not exchange for anything in the world.
We continued on our way toward Winnipeg's large stores, where, at the beginning of each month, we went to spend Papa's money; and almost all of it, alas, went for mere nothings, for things we could not do without. But the gulls accompanied our thoughts ... as far as Eaton's ... to the yard goods department. Maman had paused to look at a piece of navy-blue cloth. She unrolled a length of it which she held against herself from shoulder to hips; and standing in front of a mirror, Maman studied the reflection of the material alongside her face. She asked me what I thought. "Wouldn't that make a fine suit for a trip?" she asked.
But I was annoyed that Maman could want for anything except being eternally chained to me and the house, and I displayed little enthusiasm; all the same her features next to the new cloth seemed to me a trifle less tired—but maybe it was Maman's smile, her timid yearning, which changed her whole appearance.
That time we did not buy the cloth; perhaps it was the following month . . . I'm not quite sure any longer. We went back to the yard goods counter, and now there wasn't much left of the material Maman had liked so much. The saleswoman assured us that within a week there would certainly be none. So Maman had a good quantity cut off the bolt; carefully she supervised the clerk while the woman measured the required amount. Then my mother carried the bundle off under her arm, and we set out on foot; we had two miles to go, and I was tired of walking. But Maman, with her package close beside her, moved along briskly. Almost never had I seen her buy something for herself alone, and I couldn't get over my surprise. I was none too overjoyed to see this change in her, to see her think of her own tastes, indulge a whim; and yet I cannot say that I was displeased to see her walking without fatigue, her head held high, smiling to herself. Probably I wanted to hold captive those I loved, but I wanted them happy in their captivity.
I asked to take the tram, but Maman explained to me that we had spent a crazy sum of money and that now we should have to make up for it by pinching pennies. We recrossed the bridge, and the sea gulls greeted us with their little cry—so sharp, so strange! What good will it do Maman, I asked myself,
to have a traveling suit? Certainly neither I nor my father nor the other children will ever let her go!
Papa was away. Often he was absent for a whole month or more. Papa was a highly considered man, an honored one; yet it could not be denied that the house was much gayer when my father was not there. Papa could not endure having the least debt hanging over him; his first concern was to pay debts off, before anything else, and so much so that he rarely had time to be concerned over anything else. He also insisted that we tell him the precise truth, and nothing at times is more misleading than a precise truth; he did not like noise, and he wanted meals served on time, order in the house, the same things—always the same things—at the same hours, day after day.
Maman began to sew. The "in-between" girls came to see what she was making; when they saw that Maman was sewing for herself, they lost interest and trotted off, one to swing outdoors in the hammock, the other to read in her room. I alone remained near Maman, worried over what harm the freedom stirring in her heart might bring us.
Maman made her suit in two pieces: a skirt rather tight at the bottom, and a long jacket with two large accordion pockets, adorned with tabs of the same material, and on each tab there was a button; in addition, Maman added a "half-cape," as she called it, which hung down her back as far as the elbows.
When the suit was all basted together, Maman tried it on and asked me whether I thought it made her look like a traveler.
I said yes, that Maman looked just like a coachman. Whirling in front of me, she made the cape billow out as though the wind were in it.
She looked so free that I couldn't restrain myself from pouting a bit.
Then, out of the trimmings that remained, by dint of piecing them together yet following the weave of the cloth, Maman succeeded in making me, too, a traveling jacket, exactly like hers, with accordion pockets, a very high, stiff little collar, the cape, and everything else. For the skirt we had to go back to Eaton's; by very good luck some of the cloth remained, but so little Maman got it at a reduction. From that moment on, I was no longer inimical to freedom. v
Once our two suits were finished, Maman said to me, "I have an idea; let's go show ourselves to Mrs O'Neill, as though we were all ready to leave. I have an idea she'll be tempted.
Lets put on our dress jackets and walk by Mrs O'Neill's just as though we were going a lot farther H
Mrs. O'Neill had come straight from Ireland to live in a house on Rue Desmeurons, two minutes away from ours, and she was bored to death, spending her time in her parlor gazing at etchings and engravings that depicted hazy landscapes, pale lakes, meadows so wet that when you looked at them you felt as though you wanted to sneeze. To someone come from such a country, our small city of wooden houses and sidewalks must have seemed very dry and dull. There were even moments when my mother, who had spent almost all her life there, found it tedious. Indeed, all the adults I knew in those days seemed to be bored. As for me, I was not bored. Probably I still possessed something I didn't know I had, but which, once you have lost it, you try all your life to rediscover!
Maman must have been a good judge of character. Mrs. O'Neill, who was sitting on her porch that day, the moment she saw us coming jumped up from her chair; she opened the screen door and came a few steps to meet us.
"My gracious! What lovely costumes you have! How well they'd suit me and my little Elizabeth!"
"They're not so much," said Maman; "I made them myself." "How clever you are!" said Mrs. O'Neill. "Oh dear! Turn around a little," she asked me, "so that I may see how that charming little cape is made. ... It puts me in mind of my uncle Pat and the macfarlane he would wear to go to town.... Couldn't you make two other suits, just like them?" she asked Maman. "One for me and one for my little girl ? And I'd also like those big pockets ... you can put so much in them! ..."
Maman then explained that the design was by way of being a creation, in short, an idea completely out of her own head, and that, generally speaking, one does not repeat creations.
"Oh! I'll gladly pay you whatever is necessary," said Mrs. O'Neill. "Oh, please!"
Maman had a few qualms of remorse at having accepted Mrs. O'Neill's order. "Perhaps it was not right of me to have done that," she said; "the Lord alone knows what I may have put in Mrs. O'Neill's head. It's unlikely that the suit, even when she has it for her own, can carry her back home to Ireland. Yet, on the other hand," Maman added, "I'll have fifty dollars from Mrs. O'Neill for the two creations and for the dresses I shall mend for her. So I'll not be using your father's money for the trip I'm going to take."
And she explained to me: "If God affords me the means to make enough money to leave, it's because He wants me to go."
God must have favoured my mother's ideas, for at the same juncture she received ten dollars from her brother Majorique.
At night, when all her other tasks were done, Maman made Mrs. O'Neill's and Elizabeth's suits; she made them of bottle green with black braid on the cuffs and collars, so that they were creations in themselves, perhaps even prettier than our own. In that way, said Maman, she was repairing the injury she had perchance done Mrs. O'Neill.
"Then, too," said Maman, "it's almost impossible, when one repeats the same piece of work, not to do a little better each time."
Maman's eyes were inflamed from having sewn so much at night. I realized that the desire for freedom ruled her almost as harshly as the duties of her condition in life.
Papa suspected nothing. He returned from Saskatchewan worn out and almost disheartened. His Dukhobors had stripped themselves naked and in that state had wandered all over their village, because the government wanted to force them to live like everyone else; and the Dukhobors had replied that God created us without a stitch of clothing. My father seemed weary of the human race, and he looked upon us with a trace of envy.
I remember that day we were all in the large, sunny kitchen, and each of us seemed busy at what pleased her—Maman sewing, Alicia embroidering; a saucepan was jiggling slightly on the stove; I was playing with the cat. And Papa said, "I don't know if all of you realize how lucky you are! A good roof over your heads; enough to eat; peace and tranquility. I wonder whether you appreciate your good fortune."
Maman looked a bit defiant. "Certainly," said she, "we appreciate what we have; yet all the same, from time to time, it would be nice to get away from the house."
She went on to explain. "There are times, Edouard, when I'd trade my life for yours: to travel, see new things, wander over the country "
As she talked, she became carried away; her eyes began to glow. I saw nothing in this so greatly to annoy Papa, but now he began to berate mother as a gadabout, a gypsy, an unstable person.
A little offended, Maman replied that it was all very well for a man to talk that way; that a man, because he had the
luck to get out of the house, imagined that the house was a sort of paradise.. ..
Then Papa really lost his temper; he accused all Maman's family, saying they were a race of gadabouts, people who had never been able to settle down in one place. Whereupon Maman retorted that in all families there were tales to be told; that perhaps it was a good thing we did not know Papa's people, because among them, too, there were certainly faults to be found.
And Papa said, 'Truth to tell, you ought to have been born in a gypsy caravan."
"You know, Edouard, that wouldn't have displeased me a bit!" Maman replied.
Then immediately she changed the subject. She became sweet and gentle. "Come eat, Edouard," said she. "I've made you a fine cabbage soup."
That day the meal included all Papa's favorite dishes. Later on, when Maman saw that Papa was serene once more, she launched a flanking attack: "You may rest assured, Edouard, that I shall never ask you for money to take a trip ... you who are so thrifty and work so hard! . . . But if you could get me free passage . .."
Papa must have been less restored to good temper than she had thought. He exploded at once. "Never," said Papa, "never shall I ask the government for any favors so that you may take a pleasure trip. ... If there had been a death in the family . . ." "Still, one doesn't travel merely to look at corpses," Maman complained. "Madame Guilbert had a pass to go see her relatives
in the Province of Quebec I don't see why..."
"No," said my father, "I shan't have you go off on a jaunt at the country's expense."
"If you think that will impoverish the country . . ." Maman said, and she made Papa a prediction: "Do you want me to tell you something, Edouard? We shall always be poor; you will always be poor; you are too honest!"
They discussed the subject a while longer, but it was useless. Papa did not understand Maman . . . and perhaps Maman did not adequately understood that Papa, leading a wandering life, needed to find at home a stable, firm base, unchanging from year to year—if both of them were to be given full justice.
Papa once again departed for Saskatchewan to try to make his Dukhobors see the light. Seemingly he was making progress—by means of gentleness and patience. The Royal Police had
gat nowhere with prison. Later on I learned that in the new settlements Papa was altogether a different man from what he was at home, very understanding with his poor Slavs. Off there he was frequently jolly even; in a tent on the prairies, with his people, Papa was forever humming a tune. He traveled a great deal in a wagonette harnessed to a gray mare, and the tall grasses on either side of him must have billowed, while the partridges flushed from their small swamps. How sad! For had Papa behaved with us as he did with strangers, and Maman with him as she did when he was away, would they
not have been perfectly happy together? . . .
Papa returned to his post, and the sea gulls returned tD fly through our dreams and our thoughts.
II
But in order to break away, Maman had so many bonds to sever that she became upset over it. I then perceived tliat freedom, too, grants the human heart small repose. Maman bad to part with Gervais; whom she sent to boarding school. At the convent she asked to see Sister Edouard in the parlor. This was our Odette, who now bore a new name. Maman asked her to pray for a project about which she could tell her little, but which was close to her heart. A risky project, said she; God would perhaps view it askance. But Odette promised to pray in any case-Then the middle girls had to be disposed of. We took them to Saint Anne-des-Ch€nes; the sisters at this convent had made Maman a very reasonable price for the two of them together — Alicia and Agn&s. Both of them had handsome long hair; im those days it took Maman a good hour each morning to comb, brush, and braid their tresses. For a woman who valued freedom, what chains she had forged herself! The two middle girls also had dresses covered with flounces, made with small, tight pleats and wide starched collars; to wash and iron those dresses meant a good day's work for Maman.
The Sister Superior of this Saint Anne-des-Chenes convent at once declared that in her institution they did not permit complicated dresses or long, cumbersome hair.
Maman promised that Alicia would help her sister braid her hair, and that Agn&s would then help Alicia.
"Between two strokes of the bell!" said the Superior. "It's obvious that you are not acquainted with life in a convent!"
The Gadabouts $S
She served Maman with an ultimatum: "Cut your girls' hair or take them back home."
"You are harsh," said Maman; "it's as bad as though they were taking the veil."
She asked that scissors be brought, and then some newspaper, which she spread on the convent's varnished hardwood floor. But just as she thrust the scissors into Alicia's hair, Maman said, "No, I can't do it . . . let's go back home together. . . ." All Maman's other daughters were blonde, their hair at least light brown. But Alicia's was extraordinarily fine, and "of the loveliest jet black," as my mother described it.
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