Two Solitudes

by Hugh Maclennan

  Marius returned quietly to the room. Taking the tray filled with bottles and instruments off the table by the bed, he set it on the floor. The nurse watched uneasily, but she continued to support Athanase’s head and wiped his cheeks and forehead regularly with the cloth. This was a normal coronary case. There was nothing she could do except make the patient as comfortable as possible. There was no need yet to wake the doctor who was resting in the next room. She watched Marius wipe the table clean and set it up at the foot of the bed. He left the room again and returned with a vase of white carnations and another empty vase in his free hand. He separated the flowers, putting an equal number in each vase, and then he set them on the back corners of the table. He left the room again and returned with two candles in holders, which he set between the flowers. Then he placed a crucifix between the candles and went away again. This time he was gone more than half an hour, and Kathleen guessed he had left the house. When he returned his ears were red with cold, and he carried two basins of water. He placed them on the front corners of the table and stood off, looking at the whole arrangement. Then he raised his eyebrows and glanced at the nurse. She nodded quietly back. The patient’s condition had not changed. She looked again at the table and noticed that a feather lay in the water in the basin on the right hand side. She supposed it was holy water, though she could not think how it had been consecrated.

  Marius nodded to her to come to the door with him. She laid the cloth down and went quietly around the bed, then into the hall.

  “How much longer?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I can tell better when the Cheyne-Stokes breathing starts.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well…” She frowned.

  “It hasn’t started yet, this…?”

  “It may any time. I doubt if he’s conscious now.”

  “Isn’t he asleep?”

  “I wouldn’t call his present condition sleep.”

  Marius turned away from her, the strain showing in the set of his shoulders. “Father Arnaud should be here soon. He said he…”

  The nurse, supposing the priest was coming to confess the patient, frowned again. “He should have been here yesterday, Mr. Tallard. Your father won’t be able to speak now.”

  Marius smiled calmly. “He’ll speak.”

  He left the room again, going downstairs. In the library he switched on the light and picked up a book, but he could not read it and within a few minutes was pacing the floor. A wild, excited exultation filled him. His father would speak. His father would come home. His father would be saved. He had been right all along, and now on the edge of darkness his father knew it. He would die in the Church, after purification he would rest in God. Marius could hear bells ringing in his mind and the voices of choirs, high soprano voices soaring into glorious golden light because his father was coming home. No matter what the nurse thought, his father would speak because he must.

  Marius walked the floor for a half-hour until he realized that the reading light beside the armchair was pale. Outside, the snow was catching the first light. The light spread, doubly magnified by the sky and snow as it spread into the room. Marius went upstairs again, and found the doctor standing by the bedside counting Athanase’s pulse. The doctor finished and withdrew his hand from the limp wrist, the nurse met his glance and they understood each other. There was nothing more to be done. This was perfectly normal, there was no disorder in nature, there never was.

  When the doorbell rang, Marius jerked about and started down the stairs. But it was not the priest he saw arriving; Yardley and Paul were in the lower hall. Marius returned to the sickroom while they took off their coats.

  Paul’s eyes were large as Yardley ushered him into the room where his father lay. He stopped just inside the door in sudden fright. His father lay like a dead saint in a picture, and the candles on the table flickered in the draft made by the opening door. Kathleen put her arms about him and drew him toward the bed. He dropped on his knees beside her and stared at the flickering candles, not daring to look at his father. But all the time that he tried to pray, the noise of his father’s breathing so filled his ears that he could think of nothing else. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looking up, saw it was Yardley. At a nod, he rose and followed him out the door.

  In the hall, Yardley said, “It happens to everyone, Paul. It’s just as natural as living.”

  “Is P’pa dying?”

  “He can’t see us. He can’t feel any pain. He’s just falling asleep.” Yardley’s artificial foot slipped on the first step of the stairs and he had to clutch the banister to regain his balance. “You and me’d better go downstairs and get something to eat,” he said.

  They sat in the dining room and the maid brought them breakfast. Paul ate, tasting nothing. His nostrils were constantly aware of a peculiar smell. It was close, a little acid, a little dank; he had never smelled it before. He wondered if it was the smell of death.

  “Eat your porridge, Paul,” Yardley said quietly.

  Paul ate a few spoonfuls, but his mouth seemed filled with the strange odour. He wished it were all over and that his father were dead. Then death would take its presence out of the house. He wished things would not take such a long time to happen, then felt sinful for having had such a thought. He laid his spoon down again. The memory of the room upstairs wiped everything else out of his mind. The sound of his father’s breathing was audible even here. It haunted him because it was so unnatural. Everything was strange. It was strangest of all that his father was helpless. Then he remembered the candles and the crucifix.

  Looking at Yardley, he asked simply, “Are we Catholics again?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Paul. Seems like somebody’s got thet in mind, though.”

  Tears filled Paul’s eyes. “Will P’pa go to hell now?”

  “No, there’s no chance of thet happening.”

  “When he stopped–being a Catholic…” Paul’s words stumbled out, and he felt them like concrete objects slipping out over his tongue. “He said there wasn’t any hell. Now if he’s a Catholic again it means there is…doesn’t it?”

  Yardley tried to pretend he had not heard the question by buttering a piece of toast vigorously. But when he lifted it to his mouth he saw Paul’s eyes on his face and he knew he had to answer. He laid the slice of toast down and blew his nose again. The noise he made, brazen as a bugle call, seemed to break the spell.

  “I tell you how it is, Paul. Your father being a Catholic again–if thet’s what it means, the candles and the things by the bed–well it means he got lonely and wanted to be what he’d been all his life, I guess. Or maybe it means something else so big I can’t understand it.”

  Paul said nothing to this, and Yardley ate his toast in silence. Then, after many minutes, Paul spoke again. “Do you think there’s a hell, Captain Yardley?”

  “Well,” Yardley said reflectively, “me being a Presbyterian, I wouldn’t take any chances on there not being one. If there’s no hell, I don’t know where a lot of fellas can rightly be put.” Realizing that Paul might misunderstand him, he added quickly, “Your father’s not one of them, Paul.” He choked, and felt tears blinding his eyes. “He’s been as good a friend and I guess in his own way he’s been as good a man as ever I knew.”

  The doorbell rang and Yardley welcomed the opportunity to drop the conversation. Telling Paul to stay where he was, he went out into the hall and closed the dining-room door behind him. Father Arnaud entered a small room off the hall and presently came out wearing a surplice and a violet stole. He was a great square man with a dominant nose and a head like a tree-stump whitened by light snow. He carried the Sacrament before him in a rosewood pyx, and the stairs creaked under his weight as he went upstairs after Marius, his surplice rustling in the silence. Yardley waited in the lower hall until he heard the door close upstairs. But it opened again almost immediately and Kathleen, Marius, the doctor and nurse came out, leaving Athanase alone with Father Arnaud and the Sacr
ament. Kathleen and Marius dropped on their knees in the upper hall, the nurse stood self-consciously by the door, the doctor took a quizzical glance around and cleared his throat heavily, then walked downstairs. He joined Yardley and the two men entered the dining room, closing the door behind them.

  Paul could not tell how long it was he remained in the dining room with the two men. The doctor ate silently and the captain kept talking, appearing to speak to them both but really talking directly to Paul.

  “One time I was shipwrecked. Not much older than you, Paul, I guess I was. We foundered off the ledges of Halifax County in a January gale and all the crew went down with the ship except me and the dog. He was a big Newfoundland, and he swam ashore with me hanging onto his hair. Me being a little fella then, it wasn’t so hard to do. He dragged me up out of thet water across the ice clampers and the rocks into a sort of cave, and then he lay there in the mouth of it stopping the wind, and when fishermen who’d seen the masthead sticking above water came around in a dory a day later looking for us, he barked till they could hear him. Been kind of a religious man ever since thet day, Paul.”

  Yardley passed from this story to another, and the time went by. Then the door of the room opened and the nurse appeared and nodded to them. The doctor preceded her upstairs, and by the time Yardley and Paul reached the upper room they could hear the voices of Kathleen and Marius praying. Paul slipped his hand into the captain’s and both dropped to their knees, Yardley grunting heavily and having trouble with his wooden leg. Marius stood by the head of the bed. Paul watched the priest dip some raw cotton in oil and quickly anoint his father’s eyes. His deep voice rose over the snoring breath of Athanase. “Through this holy unction”–he made the sign of the cross–“and of His most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatsoever sins thou hast committed by sight.”

  Then, moving quickly and deftly, while Kathleen prayed with her eyes to the crucifix, the priest anointed the nostrils, the ears, the closed mouth, the palms of the hands, the insteps of Athanase’s feet. The feet looked very pale and thin, they seemed strangely solitary, poked out into space below the raised blankets. Paul watched, each one of Father Arnaud’s movements burning into his brain. He remained on his knees through the prayers that followed, his eyes blurred. Ultimately he heard the priest’s voice resonant with confidence: “Through the most sacred mysteries of man’s redemption may God Almighty remit unto thee the pains of the present and future life, open to thee the gates of paradise, and bring thee to everlasting joys. May God Almighty bless thee; the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Having made the final sign of the cross, Father Arnaud stood back from the bed. Marius with a quick motion came forward and seized one of his father’s limp hands and kissed it. Then both hands were crossed and folded over the chest.

  They went downstairs. The stillness within the house was broken only by the breathing of the dying man. Paul sat in a frozen stillness in the library. Yardley remained with him, and now made no attempt to talk. Then Marius came in and sat down with them. His voice was high with exultation.

  “Paul…it was a miracle! Papa confessed. He was able to speak. Father Arnaud performed a miracle!” Marius got up and crossed to Paul. “Now you’ll never have to go back to that school again. You’re not English any more. You’re in the family again.”

  Yardley tapped Marius’ shoulder and shook his head. Marius accepted his glance, but his face was radiant as he returned to his chair. Outside the door they heard the heavy feet of Father Arnaud coming out from the small room off the hall where he had changed. They heard his voice speaking to the doctor, and the doctor answering, “I’m afraid he’s got nothing. Too bad…they tell me he was cleaned out completely.” A pause. “That’s what did it, finally.”

  Father Arnaud’s reply was inaudible, but the two men continued talking.

  It was quiet in the library. Snow had fallen in the night and now as the sun rose over it the new crystals flashed and glittered. Paul looked out the window and saw figures passing on the sidewalk, women in black Hudson seal coats with their hands in black muffs, men with fur caps and hands in their pockets, the hands occasionally jumping out to rub cold ears. A milk sleigh passed, the horse straining as it pulled up the hill, steam rising from its back and flanks. Three students from the university fraternity house at the upper corner came by with books clamped under their arms, their breath puffing in quick, disappearing clouds of vapour ahead of them. Then the stairs creaked once more and Kathleen entered the room. The skin was red about her eyes, but the rest of her face was white under the blackness of her hair. She came over to the sofa and sat down, putting her arms about Paul, her movements as indolent as ever.

  “Poor boy–don’t worry, don’t fret! It’s you and me now. Just the two of us!”

  “Is P’pa…” Paul began, and stopped, biting his lip.

  “He’s asleep, Paul. He’ll just slip away from us in his dreams.”

  She turned from him with a swift movement and began to cry, silently letting the tears flow down her cheeks.

  From the other side of the room Marius spoke in French. “You’ll come with me now, Paul.” He looked sharply at Kathleen. “Yes…once I finish college you and I…”

  Kathleen flashed around, her arm about Paul’s shoulder. Her eyes seemed on fire. “He’s not yours!”

  “He’s my brother!”

  Paul sat wretchedly with his head hanging. Yardley cleared his throat to say something. Then a loud voice broke the tension in the room.

  “Stop this, both of you!”

  They looked up and saw Father Arnaud standing in the door, his great nose dominant in his heavy face, his hair very white against his dark skin.

  “This is no way to go on!” he said. Then he crossed the room and laid his hand quietly on Paul’s head. “Don’t be afraid, my son. Your father is in God’s hands now.” He looked once more at Marius and left the room. Shortly afterwards they heard the outer door open and close. Paul sat frozen while Yardley in the armchair smoked quietly and Kathleen and Marius avoided each other’s eyes. Upstairs the noise of Athanase Tallard’s driving breath was loud, the house seemed to thunder with it, all that was left of him now for Paul. After another hour, it stopped. Kathleen’s low cry was audible through the whole house, and then everything was silent.

  THIRTY

  Paul drew aside the curtains of the bay window in the living room and looked at his mother walking down the street to the shops. She was wearing a black silk dress and a light black coat trimmed with white. Her black hat with its white trimming was almost gay. She walked with a fresh, expectant movement. Paul let the curtain drop and stepped back into the room. After the bright sunshine in the street, the apartment was very dark. The folding doors at the back of the living room were open. Dimly beyond them he could see the rumpled sheets of his mother’s bed. Beyond that was the kitchen.

  Paul sat down on the sofa, looking at the opposite wall. There was not much to see on it: just a stretch of wall on either side of the hearth. On one end of the mantel was a small photo graph of his father, taken ten years ago. On the other end was a companion photo of his mother.

  Paul and Kathleen had been living in this apartment for two months now, ever since moving out of the large town house Athanase had rented before his death. As he had died bankrupt, the mortgage on the house and land at Saint-Marc had been foreclosed. Nearly all the furniture of the town house had been sold to pay debts. What was left was crowded into these three rented rooms. Kathleen had saved the red mahogany dining-room table and the eight chairs that matched it. She had kept a sofa on which Paul slept at night in the living room, and a double bed so large it almost filled her bedroom. The rooms were so crowded with furniture that even Paul had to squeeze between some of the pieces. One small shelf of books stood in a corner behind the armchair; these books and the chair itself were all that survived from the old library in Saint-Marc. The books were carefully selected. Yardley had picked out those he thought Paul
would want to read during the next few years, and some he hoped he would want to keep all his life.

  Looking for something to do, Paul took out his old Homeric picture book from the shelf and carried it over to the sofa by the window. As he read the book, he was able for the moment to forget where he was. He wondered what Achilles’ face had really looked like when he had quarrelled with Agamemnon, whether his lip had lifted and he had talked out of the corner of his mouth, or whether his whole face had exploded with frank rage. It had always puzzled Paul why a second-rate man like Agamemnon had been in charge of the heroes anyway, why Homer took him so seriously. He must have had a dry kind of voice, and a smile that showed his teeth instead of his feelings. But apart from him, there seemed a sea-green freshness about all of Homer’s people, a beauty you never found any more, the men like athletes in their white tunics and the women tall and queenly with blue-bordered robes trailing the ground. The air they breathed was so pure it sparkled, the days were sunny, and wherever you looked you saw the sea. He stopped at a picture of Troy by night, with Helen on the wall and the two Trojan elders sitting in the shadows out of her view. It must have been wonderful to live in a city like that where you could come up to the wall and see the whole of it at a single glance and know everyone inside it. You could look out over the plain and see the camp-fires of the enemy; but beyond them was the gleam of moonlight on the Aegean, and the danger made the moment even more beautiful than it was anyway.