Two Solitudes

by Hugh Maclennan

  Now, at nine o’clock, after having nibbled at dry toast and sipped some tepid coffee, Janet got out of bed and went to the dressing table. On the way she put on a sheer black negligee and the black jet beads she wore at all times to hide the scar on her neck where a goiter had been removed. Carefully she creamed her face, patted the skin with an expensive tonic, put on a layer of foundation cream, and then added a nearly-white powder. She refrained from using the merest touch of the rouge she generally wore.

  As she studied her face in the glass she decided she looked ghastly. She wasn’t well, and no wonder. She sat very still and listened intently to the beat of her heart. She sighed heavily, and slowly began to arrange her hair. As the brush swept back and forth fifty times, her mind examined every aspect of her immediate problem. She felt she was studying it with deliberate craft, softly entering into every corner of it, like a cat discovering a strange room.

  She had taken too much for granted all her life, that was her trouble. Because she had sacrificed her entire life for her children, she had naturally expected a dutiful affection in return. And now she was faced with this! If Harvey were alive…

  Tears stood in her eyes and she allowed them to rest there; they brimmed and overflowed and she sat quite still watching them erode the white powder on her cheeks. She was not well. She was all alone in the world and unwell, and at this particular moment Heather was deliberately taking advantage of her. All her life she had tried so hard; so hard she was really quite exhausted. She had always been ten times more careful to do the right thing than anyone else she knew. It was utterly heartless of Heather to disregard her at a time like this, only a few months after her two grandfathers had died.

  Janet enlarged on the picture of her own desolation. One by one they had left her. First her mother, then Harvey. Then Daphne: she might as well have died as gone off to England. Then the general, her own father, and now Heather! Last of all Huntly McQueen had abandoned her.

  A fury of rage shook her body as she thought about McQueen. After all these years–good heavens, after a quarter of a century! Who was Huntly McQueen, anyway? Where would he have been today if it hadn’t been for her? He owed his entire social position to her and to the Methuens. He thought he was very clever, but she knew, she could see through him. And now, just because Rupert Irons was being laid away in state…

  She had learned her lesson, and she wouldn’t be fool enough to believe what anyone told her after this. She was a sick woman, and she had to think of her health.

  Janet gave a final pat to her well-combed hair and went back to bed. She arranged the sheet, the blanket and the counter pane neatly across her extended legs, smoothed the folds of the negligee across her flat chest, and then picked up the phone beside the bed. She asked the desk-clerk if her daughter could be found and sent to her at once. While waiting for Heather to arrive, she counted her pulse.

  When the door opened, Janet’s head was on the pillows and her hands were lying limply at her sides. “Come in, dear,” she murmured. “Shut the door and sit down. I–we must have a talk. It’s too late to put it off any longer. I didn’t sleep all night.”

  Heather’s voice was quick with sympathy. “Mummy!”

  “I don’t want to frighten you, dear. Now sit down and don’t worry.”

  Heather’s voice showed alarm. “Mummy–is anything the matter?”

  “No. No, I don’t think…Please sit still and I’ll be all right. I’m sure I will.”

  Heather sat down. “I didn’t sleep much either, I’m afraid. It makes the morning after feel pretty rocky.”

  Janet sighed heavily, and her escaping breath had a break in it. “I’m glad you’ve been thinking things over too, dear.”

  “Mummy–you’re really all right, aren’t you?”

  Heather looked at her mother anxiously. Janet’s face was like chalk and her eyes staring out of it were unnaturally large.

  “Now dear, before…but I’d like you to tell me something first.”

  “First?”

  Janet made a movement with the fingers of one hand, as if she were too weak to do anything more. She forced the beginning of a smile. “I’d like you to tell me that you didn’t really mean what you said to me the other night. I felt sure you’d think much better of it, once you realized how impossible it was.”

  Heather pulled a package of cigarettes out of her purse, extracted one and lit it. Janet watched every movement closely. Heather exhaled the first breath of smoke and said quietly, “I’d have been quite willing to tell you about Paul. But you didn’t ask, and you showed as clearly as you could that you didn’t want to discuss him. Instead you had to call Huntly down from Montreal and make some plans of your own behind my back. I don’t want to be unpleasant, Mummy, but that’s exactly what you did. I don’t think you’d have appreciated it if your mother had done the same thing when you told her you intended marrying Father.”

  Janet’s right hand moved with a spasmodic jerk to her left breast. She clutched herself and an expression of sharp and sudden agony flashed across her face. “How can you! How can you say such a thing to your own mother!”

  “It seems quite a natural thing to say. Mummy–what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know.” Janet’s voice seemed to be forcing itself out through an excruciating pain. “I’m…I’m…in pain! It’s…” She whispered, “It’s my heart!”

  Heather went to the bed and laid her hand under her mother’s left breast. She felt the beat; it was distinct and regular. “It’s probably the lobster you ate last night,” she said. “Would you like some soda?”

  Janet began to moan.

  “Please, Mummy! Please–don’t go to pieces so easily. Tell me what it is and I’ll do the best I can to help you.”

  “How can anyone be so callous!” Janet cried at her. She sat straight up in bed. “Such a tone of voice from my own daughter! I’ve done everything for you all my life. How can you!”

  Heather frowned as she looked at her mother more closely. “Mummy–please! I can’t help how my voice sounds. I’m sorry. I thought you’d excited yourself. Where’s the pain?” She placed her hand over her mother’s stomach.

  Janet shrank away. “Don’t! Don’t touch me! Please sit down. It will pass in a moment. Sit down, Heather, and don’t be so fidgety. I–I must talk to you–in spite of it.”

  Heather still watched her. “Would you like a doctor?”

  Janet shook her head from side to side. “No. I don’t think so. Sit down. Don’t stand like that.”

  Heather sat down and her mother swallowed heavily, coughed slightly, and then lay back with her eyes closed. Presently she opened them and sighed. “The pain is a little better now.”

  “That’s good.”

  After another moment, Janet said, “Huntly telephoned last night.” As Heather made no reply she continued, “I’m afraid he’s very upset. He has so much on his mind these days, and it was such a pity that–that rudeness and ingratitude should make it worse for him. Huntly’s always been so sensitive–much more than people realize.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” Heather said.

  Janet’s eyes were quite normal now, and so was her voice. “He got in touch with the Tallard boy, exactly as he promised. Something exceptionally good turned up in British Columbia–a school. Huntly offered him a fine position there, teaching French.”

  “At a thousand dollars a year?” Heather asked quietly.

  “He didn’t mention the salary to me. Your young man was so rude I very much doubt if Huntly even mentioned it to him. He practically told Huntly to mind his own business.” Seeing the trace of a smile on Heather’s lips, Janet raised her voice. “He actually refused to discuss terms with Huntly at all. Huntly is furious and I certainly don’t blame him!”

  “Did Paul give any reason for his refusal?”

  “How can you expect me to remember everything Huntly said over the telephone? As if I didn’t know anyway! That kind of a person–I’ve always said those
French-Canadians were all the same. Oh, Heather…” Her voice trembled. “As if I didn’t know! You’re well out of it. Very well out of it indeed!”

  Heather’s hands were clenched tightly on her purse, but her voice was quietly controlled. “What reason did Paul give for refusing the job, Mummy?”

  “What difference does it make? The point is, he’s shown himself in his true colours. He’s ungrateful, and he…Your grandfather always used to say that blood and breeding will tell every time. Let’s both be thankful you found him out in time.”

  Heather’s face was expressionless. “What else did Huntly say?”

  Janet shook her head from side to side. “Heather dear–can’t you see this is all for your own good? It would have been such an awful mistake for you to have made–a mixed marriage like that. I’m quite sure he’s quite a decent boy–among his own kind. You’re…” Janet’s hands were drumming on the spread. “You must know this, Heather. I’ve devoted my whole life to your happiness. You’ll make a really brilliant marriage one of these days. I’m sure of it!”

  Heather rose to her feet, her eyes cool and sceptical. “You needn’t go on, Mother. I happen to know Paul better than any of you. Unless you can tell me what reason he gave Huntly you haven’t told me a thing that matters.”

  Janet shook her head and twisted away with an expression of acute distaste. “Oh, he said something or other about writing a book. Of all the absurd excuses! Then he actually had the impertinence to tell Huntly we’d be at war before he could even get out to British Columbia. As if a French-Canadian would join the army anyway! And can you imagine the impertinence–a boy like that trying to tell Huntly McQueen about a thing like the war! Huntly’s been confident all along there’ll be no war. He did very well to wash his hands of the young man…and after all the trouble he had years ago with his father, too!” She sat up in bed and put her hands to her hair. “Heather dear–I think perhaps I’ll get up for a little while. Would you mind handing me my slippers?”

  Heather appeared not to have heard her mother’s last words. She stood very quietly in the middle of the room. “So his work is going well at last! How wonderful!”

  Janet stared at her.

  Heather began to laugh quietly. “I’m so glad you’ve told me all this, Mummy. It makes everything clearer than you know. I’m going home on tonight’s train.”

  “You’re what?”

  “If he refused Huntly, his work must be better than he dreamed it could be. He has so little time left. Maybe I can help by looking after him, or copying his stuff, or–”

  “Pull yourself together!” Janet said.

  Heather looked at her calmly. Janet stared back.

  “I forbid you to go.”

  Heather held her mother’s eyes for a long minute. Then, breathing deeply, she said in a low voice, “I’m Paul’s wife, Mummy.”

  Through the window the slow surge of incoming waves made the only sound.

  “I didn’t want to tell you like this, but you’ve made me. Paul and I were married before I left Halifax–two days after Grampa’s funeral.”

  A low cry, half moan, issued from Janet’s lips. Her eyes shut tight, and choking sobs began to pulse out of her throat. Tears flowed down her cheeks, staining the white powder. Her right hand clutched spasmodically at her left breast as if trying to reach through to her heart; then, like an independent claw, it jerked to her forehead, flattened out, passed back and forth through her hair. She made one single violent movement from side to side, then straightened out rigidly and lay utterly still. Her face was as white as flour, with long canals worn by tears through the powder that covered it.

  Heather watched in horror. She bent over Janet, murmuring soothing phrases as she tried to push the hair back from the flushed forehead. She laid her head against her mother’s lips trying to catch her breath, but detected nothing. She picked up one of her mother’s wrists, tried to find the pulse but in her fright missed it entirely. When she dropped the arm it fell like a weighted pendulum, swung over the edge of the bed and hung dangling.

  Afterwards, Heather had no recollection of reaching for the telephone and calling the doctor. An hour later she was sitting alone in her own room, still numb with fright. She had seen her mother upset before, but never like this. Dozens of times she had seen her mother break down and cry hysterically, but the fits had never lasted long. Janet’s pride and willpower had always returned quickly.

  There was a knock on the door and the doctor entered. He was a white-haired old man with rather shaky hands, little eyes bright behind thick glasses and a furry voice. Heather knew little of doctors, for the Methuens had all been healthy. She did not realize that her mother was the first patient this guest of the hotel had seen in five months.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid your mother’s a very sick woman, Miss Methuen.”

  “What’s the trouble? What is it?” Heather’s eyes fixed themselves on the old face.

  “Well…” The doctor cleared his throat. “Well…there’s a certain condition of the heart. Nothing to worry about, perhaps…one of those things we all have to reckon with as we get older. One of those things. And at her age…” He patted her hand and she drew away. “Your mother must have absolute rest and quiet for a week or two. Then we can have tests made. But she mustn’t be disturbed in any way whatever.”

  “It–it isn’t a stroke, is it?”

  “Well,” the doctor said, “there are strokes and strokes. On the whole, I wouldn’t say so. Not yet. But at the moment rest is the main thing. I’ve given her a sedative now, and I’ll be calling regularly to watch her.”

  “I see.” Heather hesitated. She looked at the man sharply but got nothing from his eyes. “I’d planned to return to Montreal tonight. It’s rather important that I be there tomorrow.”

  The doctor shook his head as he conveyed a strong suggestion of moral disapproval. “By no means! By no means whatever! I must absolutely forbid it.”

  “Is it really that serious?” Heather scanned the grey face desperately. “Are you sure there’s anything I can do here?”

  “She asked constantly about you, Miss Methuen. You must realize–a shock at a time like this might be extremely serious. Your mother’s health to a large extent rests in your hands.”

  “I see,” Heather said. Her voice was flat and lifeless. “I’ll do whatever you think best.”

  The doctor nodded and went downstairs to join a bridge game. After a while, Heather walked out onto the beach alone.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Just after midnight, in the early morning of September first, Paul was sitting at his desk when his neighbour’s radio announced through the wall that German troops had crossed the Polish frontier. Beside his desk was a pile of manuscript two hundred pages high, almost half his book. At his feet the wastebasket was full. He sat very still for several minutes listening. The radio had fallen quiet, there were no noises in the lodging house, he could hear no street sounds through his open window. He picked up the manuscript, tapped its edges even, and put it carefully away in his drawer. Then he put the typewriter in its case, locked it and dropped the key in his pocket. Everything was silent.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Thirty-two hours later Paul was with Heather on the beach of Kennebunkport, Maine. They sat side by side on the sand while the sun glittered off the sea. They watched long waves roll slowly in and break, sluice back and roll up again, each one making a hissing sweep across the hard sand.

  “Now tell me about your book, Paul.”

  He shook his head, still staring seaward. “There’s nothing to tell about it. It’s half finished. I may be able to complete it in spite of everything.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not. I don’t know.”

  The waves continued to ride up the beach in endless monotone.

  “Mummy’s determined to hear Chamberlain when he speaks this morning,” she said at last. “They’re all sitting around the radio now, listening to anything that comes over. They say even th
e King is going to speak.”

  Paul rose slowly, still staring out over the water; then he dropped his hand and helped her to her feet. “Exactly what is the matter with your mother?”

  She let her eyes rest on him as he continued to stare out to sea. His face looked tired and set, older than it had a few months ago. His eyes were narrowed against the glare, his hands hung at his sides.

  “The doctor won’t say anything definite.” Her voice was lifeless. Numbness in her nerve-ends, the skin of her face taut and dry, before her the sea, behind her the continent drugged with sun, in Europe the first bombers taking off…. “Oh Paul–I feel so helpless. Smaller than I know I am. And ashamed.”

  “Never mind,” he said. He continued to stare out over the water. Then his voice, calm, factual, “Are you sorry you married me?”

  She slipped her hand through his arm, her cheek brushed his sleeve, pressed against its harsh tweed. “Don’t!” she whispered. Then, more calmly, “When I saw her lying there I couldn’t leave her, Paul. I’d told myself my life was my own. That I was free. I’d sworn to myself I’d never let her hurt you. Then–” She stopped; added simply, “I was afraid she was dying.”

  For a moment he did not answer. “Has she done this often before?” he said at last.

  “She’s never been strong. Poor Mummy–she’s had such a wretched life. Paul–why don’t you curse me for being such a helpless little fool?”

  “Has she honestly had a wretched life?”

  Heather took his hand again. It closed strongly over her fingers. Her voice said, “She’s always tried to be something she never was.”

  “Like many others.” Suddenly he faced her. “I want to speak to the doctor. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. He’s usually playing bridge at this hour of the morning. Today I suppose he’s listening to the radio with everyone else.”