“Hate you? I prayed for you last night. Always, I have done the best in my power to understand you. You won’t let me.”
The storm roared closer and the wind for a moment reached hurricane force. In a moment it had obliterated the quietness of the day. It screamed over the plain and bent the crops. It lashed cattle in the field and tore branches from trees. Grey driving rain washed the windows.
“Father Beaubien,” Athanase said, “no matter what you may think, we’re living in the twentieth century. A factory here is inevitable. Either we French develop our own resources or the English will do it for us. The population of this parish is larger than the farms will support. Unless our people are to be forced over the border into the United States, work must be provided for them here.”
“The war is also a part of the twentieth century.” Thunder roared and the priest had to stop until the sound died away. “Is that also good?”
The storm was now directly overhead and Athanase’s answer was drowned in the next thunder-clap. Rain struck the windows a solid blow. Then for a moment the air seemed breathless, as though they were in the hollow core of the storm.
“Let me tell you something,” Father Beaubien said. “In the place where I was first curate no one owned anything but the English bosses. There were factories there, but the people owned nothing. They were out of work a quarter of a year around. Good people became miserable and then they became cheap. They forgot about God. Some of them even tried to leave the Church. There were many illegitimate children because of the poverty and wretched examples the people had to see.” He looked straight at Athanase. “And all the time simple Catholics who served God as they should were never rewarded. They saw English managers throwing money about while prices rose and they grew poorer. They blamed the priest for not being able to do more for them.” His voice rose. “Always that’s the story! You accuse me of disliking the English. As a people I have nothing against them. But they are not Catholics and they do our people harm. They use us for cheap labour and they throw us aside when they’re finished. I won’t let you do that here, Mr. Tallard. I won’t let a man like you spoil this parish. And I don’t think the bishop will either. Marius has told me things about you. Some of them I knew anyway, some I had not dreamed possible. Now I tell you in plain language. You are a good Catholic or you are not. You cannot defy the Church and God’s own priest and feel no effects. If it comes to a fight between me and a man like yourself…”
The storm was rolling its way down the river valley but the rain continued to wash the windows. Imperceptibly the light was growing in the room. Athanase kept his eyes on the priest, no irony in them, but defiant with anger.
“Just what do you imagine you can do to stop this development?”
Father Beaubien’s eyes had never left Athanase’s face. “Do you think the people here will follow your lead when they know what sort of man you are? When they know you are a heretic?” Suddenly his words snapped at Athanase’s brain. “Do you think they’ve so easily forgotten your first wife?”
Athanase stared at him. For a moment his lips hung open, then closed.
“She was a saintly woman. She suffered unspeakably because of you, because of your sins and wicked thoughts and your sneers at religion.”
A deep flush spread over Athanase’s face, pushing into his white hair. “Did Marius…?”
“You remember when your first wife lay dying?” The priest’s relentless voice went on.
The flush faded from Athanase’s cheeks as quickly as it had come. His hands were shaking, whether in anger or in fear it was impossible to say. He got to his feet. “This is enough,” he said in a choked voice.
Father Beaubien also rose, still holding his eyes.
“Do you hear me? This is enough. I ask you to leave.”
For a long moment the priest stood and watched him. Then he said, quietly and almost sadly, “Mr. Tallard…please come back.”
When Athanase made no movement and gave no sign that he understood the import of the words, the priest turned and walked out of the room. When he had gone Athanase dropped limply into a chair, closed his eyes and let his arms hang loosely. Until this moment he had always felt utterly confident in his own brain. Because of it, he had been convinced of his superiority to the priest. And then Father Beaubien had reached out and touched the most secret and private memory of his life. With that touch, his strength was gone.
Inexorably his thoughts returned to the priest’s final words. He felt his mind floundering to escape his childhood training, the sense of guilt aroused in him. He felt now that if Father Beaubien had remained a minute longer he would have collapsed before him. How explain to an ascetic what had happened the night Marie-Adèle died? How explain to anyone? How tell even himself that there is any logic in human life after such a night?
Her little nun’s face lay on the pillows as white as the linen, pinched in against the upper jaw with two hectic red spots on the cheekbones. He stood there gripping the bedrail and behind him Marius was on his knees, sobbing and praying alternately. On the other side of the bed were Marie-Adèle’s mother, and her sister, who was in the Ursuline Order. The confessor was there, the doctor was standing near the door, holy water and flowers stood with candles on the table. The priest had administered the last rites. He saw her girl’s figure frail under the sheets and her eyes appearing to blaze out of her head, yet obviously blind, seeing nothing. He stood at the bedrail remembering the futility of their life together, the pity of it, and then the whole fragile aspect of human existence rose before his eyes and dissolved as his mind was dissolving, and he thought he could smell death. Then he could stand it no longer. He groped like a blind man to the door, and the doctor took his arm and led him out. “It’s all over now,” he heard the doctor say. Then he left, went down the corridor alone, out of the hospital into the street.
As he walked the streets of Montreal that night he did not feel the cold, even though it was fifteen below zero and trees were cracking in the frost. He walked for hours. The lobe of his left ear froze and he did not notice it. Finally he remembered Kathleen and went to find her. She came away with him and they walked together back to the hospital.
He had engaged two extra rooms in the hospital on the same floor with Marie-Adèle, one for himself, the other for Marius. Now, with Kathleen beside him, he entered the room where Marius was sleeping. The boy lay utterly still. He turned and went out, closing the door softly behind him. Then he entered his own room and Kathleen sat down on the bed beside him. He looked at her and she held his eyes, and with an understanding as simple as a child she gave herself to him that night. He cried himself to sleep in her arms and she lay awake holding him. When he woke the next morning he was alone in the room, the sun was coming up over the roofs of the city for another day, he saw it glittering on the snow crystals, and as he looked out the window he knew that he could now go on living. In the night just passed he had swum upward out of death. And he thought: Marie-Adèle never lived for life, but in order to die, in order to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. And he thought: God rest her soul there, for her purpose is now fulfilled and her purpose never had anything to do with me anyway. She was at peace now, or she was nothing. But he was alive and had to go on living. And that morning he felt so grateful to Kathleen that he knew he would always be her debtor for what she had done.
He breathed heavily. His breath came in quick gasps as he looked at the bookshelves beside him. So Marius had known! So this was the thing that had lain between them all these years! And now Father Beaubien knew also.
Athanase forced himself to his feet. That night had made a profound difference in his life, more than he had ever been willing to admit even to himself. He had done something which almost any man, regardless of his religion, would consider heinous. But in his own instincts he could not condemn himself for it, nor could he admit the authority of anyone, priest or ordinary man, to condemn him.
Looking out the window he saw that the storm had
passed and that brilliant sunshine was pouring down on the wet earth through a hole in the clouds. Then he knew that his head was screaming with pain. He put his hand against his forehead and sat down. He lay still in the chair for a long time, his head pounding, his eyes closed. When he next opened his eyes he saw Kathleen standing in the doorway. How long she had been there he had no idea.
“You look awful,” she said. “What is it? You look sick.”
“It’s my head again. Another headache, that’s all.”
“What did Father Beaubien say to you?”
“He–he spoke about Marius, that’s all.”
“Oh!” She looked at him, and knew it was not all. “Have they put him in the army yet?”
“Not yet.”
Raising his eyes, he saw Kathleen’s face bending over his, then closing in. The warm softness of her lips touched his own.
“Athanase…what happened?”
“Don’t be frightened.” From somewhere out of his subconscious a new set of words came. They were quite unpremeditated. “No one should be frightened of God.”
She drew away from him with a puzzled look. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
He rose, passed his hand over his eyes, and walked out to the hall. “I’m all right,” he said. “Don’t bother about me.”
He went upstairs at a normal pace, and she followed. He undressed slowly, calmly, and she stood by and picked up his clothes, one piece after another. Undressed, he relaxed in the coolness of the sheets and kept his eyes closed. He felt her hand on his forehead, then heard her steps receding and the sound of her door quietly closing.
It was good to be alone again. His blood pressure had given him quite a scare for a moment. But no, he was not ready to die yet. He would sleep, and by morning he would be fine. Too many problems were unsolved for him to die now. If he put his mind to them he would manage all right. A stubborn smile wavered across his grey lips and away again. No, he was not beaten yet, changes would come and he would guide them; he would hang on and no childish thoughts of guilt would stop him, he was not beaten and never would be.
TWENTY-ONE
That afternoon as the earth dried out Paul worked with Blanchard hoeing up potatoes. He kept at it for three hours and had blistered hands before Blanchard ordered him to stop. He went into the kitchen with Blanchard, and Julienne brought beer for the man and barley water for Paul. The bottle and the pitcher had been cooling under the well-cover and now they sweated in the heat of the kitchen. She gave them apple fritters, and Paul ate so many he had no appetite left at supper time and all he took was a glass of milk.
He went to bed immediately after supper very tired, and lay on his back with his sore hands clasped behind his head. He was happy about nothing in particular. Only last week he had moved into his brother’s room because it was larger than his old one, and he liked it. Marius’ room had shiny white wallpaper with a fringe of bluebirds around the cornice, and it made Paul feel older, being in the room with all his brother’s things still there. In one corner there was a shotgun and on the side wall a pair of snowshoes hanging crossed over a nail. In the cupboard Marius had left some suits and sweaters, a suitcase, and a sleeping bag he sometimes used in the fall when he went hunting. Above the bed was a bronze crucifix, and facing it the altar with the candles and the cross. Near the photograph of Marie-Adèle was a picture of Jesus with blood dripping down His forehead from the crown of thorns. It was the only sacred picture in the house except for the ones Julienne kept in the kitchen.
Paul had taken two books to bed with him. One was The Three Musketeers in French, the other Treasure Island in English. Captain Yardley had given him Treasure Island only a few days ago, and he wanted very much to read it because it was about the sea. He spoke English as easily as French, but he found it very difficult to make any sense out of the words when he read them, for he could not spell English yet. And anyway, he was too tired tonight to read anything. He lay awake in bed until the light began to fade and the swallows were swooping around the window. There was a nest of them under the eaves, and this was the main reason why he had wanted the room; also, it gave a better view of the river.
It was after twilight when he heard the door click open and looked up to see his mother come in. She was carrying a cat in her arms. She entered with a soft rustle of skirts and smiled when she saw he was awake. She sat on the edge of the bed and as it gave with her weight he slipped over against her. She dropped the cat on the bed beside him.
“I brought you Minou,” she said. “Don’t tell your father, now.”
He sat upright, grinning, and made a catch at the cat with his hands. Minou leaped away and sat on the end of the bed, her back to Paul and Kathleen. Paul lay back against the pillows and she put her hand on his forehead. There was a faint odour of perfume as she bent over him, and he lay back and thought her beautiful and smelled the faint odour of her perfume and felt safe.
“Where have you been, M’ma?”
“With your father. He’s very tired and worried today.”
“Is everyone tired and worried when they grow up?”
“Oh, no–but your father’s a very important man and has specially big things to worry about.”
Paul thought about this for a moment. “M’ma–will Marius be sore about me being in his room?”
“Of course he won’t! What an idea!”
“He gets awful sore.” A pause. “M’ma–is Marius in trouble?”
“He’s all right. He’s a big man now.”
“But he won’t come home to P’pa. Why does he hate P’pa?”
“He doesn’t. Now don’t you think about things like that. Promise? Little boys shouldn’t think about things.”
“But–”
“Marius is a big man, and he’s clever, and big, clever men never get into trouble.”
He thought about this, his brown eyes grave. “Do you only get into trouble when you’re small?”
She smiled, picked up the cat and held its fur against her cheek, the cat settling comfortably on her shoulder. Then she lowered the animal gently to the bed, pressed her into the hollow made by Paul’s knees and stroked her into quietness. “There now,” she said. “There now. You and Minou can put each other to sleep.”
Her hand was still on his forehead when Paul closed his eyes. She remained until his breathing became regular, then bent and brushed his forehead with her lips, and left the room on tiptoe.
Everyone in the house was asleep when Paul began to dream that Christ hung from a cross in the sky and that light poured down from Him holy to the earth. But underneath the holy light there was darkness, and terror moved through it with a droning sound. The drone ceased, the darkness rolled up like a curtain, and soldiers staggered out of an underbrush that covered the ground, lurching forward with weapons to kill each other. There were soundless explosions that remained motionless in the scene as they did in pictures. Paul saw himself crouching behind a rock witnessing what was happening, both hands gripping the top of the rock and his mouth opening and closing as he begged them to stop it, but no sound issuing from his lips. Then he saw two soldiers stabbing each other and they were his father and Marius. He looked up and the eyes of Christ on the cross rolled, and then he was awake with a cry in his throat feeling a hand clamped down over his mouth and his brother’s voice sudden out of the darkness.
“Shut up!”
Paul sat up terrified. He saw the window pane a deep purple with stars behind it. The moon had already set. He saw a shadow move and then a match strike, light flare out from it and Marius’ hair hanging down over his forehead as he lit the lamp. Light welled out into the room.
“What’s the matter?” Paul whispered, trembling.
“What are you doing here?”
“They said it was my room now.”
“Oh, they did, did they!”
Marius crossed to the cupboard and then jumped suddenly, nearly knocking the lamp over. “What’s that?”
Paul
saw a dark shadow on the floor fading out of the circle of light. “It’s only Minou.”
“What do you want a cat in your bed for?” Marius opened the cupboard door. “Those cats are all lousy.”
“Have you come home?”
“I want some things, that’s all. Don’t ask so many questions.”
Marius undressed quickly, taking off all his clothes until he was naked. The lamp sent long shadows and lights up his body; he was so thin that every rib stood out and cast a shadow on the skin above it. He hung his old clothes in the closet and Paul caught their stale smell. Then Marius took out a suit and two sweaters and walked naked to the dresser, opened the drawer and took out some shirts. He dressed quickly while Paul watched him, thinking how fine-looking he was. Then he went to the cupboard again and came back with a suitcase and put the spare shirts and sweaters in it. He put on a pair of heavy boots, lifted the sleeping bag from its hook and rolled it up. He seemed to have forgotten Paul’s existence.
When he had everything he wanted he put on his hat and pulled it down over his forehead, then turned abruptly to Paul. “You keep your mouth shut about this–understand!”
Paul nodded. Marius crossed the room and took the shotgun from the corner. He broke it open and squinted down the barrels, pointing it at the lamp. Then he snapped it shut again and replaced it in the corner. “No good to me,” he grunted. “No shells for it.”
Paul was now sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs dangling. “You can’t go hunting anyway–not till fall.”
Marius came over and stood looking down at his half-brother with his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. “Listen–what did you eat tonight?”
“Only a glass of milk.”
“I mean, what did the rest of them eat?”
“Roast lamb, I guess.”
Marius gave a short laugh. “Well, I hope there’s some left.”
“What’s the matter, Marius? Where are you going?”
“Never mind where. And you didn’t see me here–remember that. You keep your mouth shut.”
Two Solitudes Page 20