Once while they were thus chatting as they walked, they became aware, though at a considerable distance, of a couple strolling in front of our house.
"Now," said Madame Guilbert, raising her eyes and shading them with her hand against the setting sun, "who on earth is that man out walking with Odette?"
"A man with Odette would certainly be a great surprise to me!" said Maman.
At the same time, though, my mother pushed Madame Guilbert a little with her elbow, trying to make her turn about: but since this tactic was unsuccessful, she sought to call her attention to the tallness of the wild hay, to a low-flying bird. Madame Guilbert kept marching straight toward our house. She now had a better view of our part of the street, and in horror she exclaimed, "Do you know who it is with Odette, my poor friend? Your Negro! I'm sure of it! it's not yet dark enough for me not to make out that dusky face "
"In that case, never complain of your eyesight," said Maman; "it is still better than mine."
Then, quite calmly, as though upon reflection the event was to her advantage, she said, "Indeed, it's quite possible that Odette should be out walking with the Negro; the child has such a big heart!"
"What!" exclaimed Madame Guilbert. "I tell you that your daughter is out walking with a Negro for any and all to see, and you simply say, 'Oh!' "
"That's exactly it," said my mother, "in plain sight of everyone. .. " Then she went on, "In plain sight of very few persons, I'll have you notice, Madame Guilbert; in plain sight of just precisely the two of us."
All the same, Maman was annoyed. Cutting short her walk, she returned to rebuke Odette a little. "That you should chat with the Negro on the porch, in the parlor—well enough! But do you have to do it before the eyes of the whole neighborhood?"
"The neighborhood! M repeated my sister, tightening her lips. "What neighborhood?"
Now Madame Guilbert's Negro was a small, quiet man, formerly from Alabama, who also was attracted to music. Gisele in those days played four-handed pieces with Odette; when she was left in the lurch by my sister, who now sought the Negro's company, she began endlessly repeating, until well into the evening, a composition by Schumann, which I seem to remember was called "The Well-Beloved." While her mother and mine sauntered in front of the Guilbert house, Gisile played for their Negro, who in his turn, step by step, had finally achieved the parlor. Maybe Madame Guilbert suspected it, but probably she preferred to know that they were in the house rather than on the porch, in plain sight of everyone.
However this may be, when Madame Guilbert stopped sulking at Maman and came over one evening to "pick her up" for a little stroll, she would not hear of going in her own direction, preferring our end, which she suddenly said was more airy and less unsociable.
So it was in front of our house that they promenaded back and forth. At the other end of the street there likewise passed to and fro a man and a woman who seemed well matched in height and gait; dusk was falling; Maman could not make out the faces of this happy-seeming couple. Around the Guilberts' the shade of night fell sooner than it did around our house because of the heavy thickets surrounding theirs.
"So your Gisele has a suitor?" asked Maman, with a touch of envy. For though she seemed to approve Odette's keeping young men at arm's length, actually it pained Maman, especially when she saw Gisele's beaux going up our street with little bunches of flowers in their hands.
"She has no lack of admirers," said Madame Guilbert proudly. "I assure you, dear friend, it makes no sense; when it isn't one,
it's another It's a good thing for a girl to be popular, but, as
I keep telling Gisele, 'Daughter, if you encourage too many of them, you'll set them all at each other's ears '"
"And God alone knows what might happen then ..." Maman continued, cheerful once again.
"What's more," said Madame Guilbert, "I find her behaviour more natural than your Odette's. Odette's rather pretty, you know; I think she'd go far if she did not feel herself obliged to chase all the men away ... except, of course, your Negro "
"But a Negro," said my mother mysteriously, "does not turn a girl away from a vocation . . . quite the opposite... . Come to think of it, though, I do believe it's the first time I've ever seen this beau of Gisele's Can it be a new one ..."
"I didn't know she was expecting someone this evening," Madame Guilbert admitted. "Let's see, who could it be? . . . There's Dr. Tremblay, who's crazy about her. . . . And the notary . . ."
"This evening, however," said Maman, "I think it's the Negro "
"My Negro! With Gisele! In plain sight! ..."
"I haven't got my glasses," said Maman, "but from here, it looks very much like a black face—or rather, brown, since your Negro is only a mulatto. . . ."
She had no time to add anything further; Madame Guilbert was on her way toward the other end of the street, and in her haste she beat her arms a little, as though they were a pair of wings.
A little later, severed from his companion, the Guilberts' Negro came to the parlor to join forces with ours, who was singing to Odette's accompaniment. Then Gisile appeared and sat beside my sister on the piano bench, and the two young girls supported with four hands the voices of the two Negroes, who launched into lovely improvised harmonies; one voice as deep as the night, the other no deeper than the dusk, they poured out of all our open windows, they rolled forth, mingled with the glints of the moonlight, and made the grasses quiver.
On the porch, my mother sat rocking in her chair.
Alas, it was at the very moment when our lives might have become who knows how much more interesting that our Negroes were summoned away by their sleeping cars, one to make the run between Halifax and Montreal, the other, I believe, obliged to return to Calgary.
And for a long time, for years even, Rue Deschambault missed its Negroes.
Petite Misere
Shortly after I came into the world, my father, because I was of frail health or because he himself -then old and sick—had too great a pity for life, dubbed me "Petite Misere"—"Little Miss Misery." Even when, stroking my hair, he used the name affectionately, it annoyed me and made me unhappy, as though it foreordained me, because of him, to suffering. I bridled and said within myself, "Oh no! I am not misery. Never shall I be like you!"
But one day he hurled the hateful name at me in anger. I don't even know any longer what can have deserved such an explosion; probably some mere trifle; my father went through long periods of dark moodiness, when he lacked all patience and seemed overwhelmed with regrets—perhaps also with too heavy responsibilities. Then, from time to time, a mere peal of laughter, breaking in upon him, penetrating him in the midst of his somber thoughts, aroused in him an outburst of irritation. Later on I understood that, constantly fearing for us both the least and the worst of evils, he especially wanted to put us early on guard against too great a yearning for happiness.
His distorted features, on this particular occasion, had seemed terrifying to me. He threatened me with his upraised hand; but, powerless to make up his mind to strike me, he hurled at me as an everlasting reproach: "Oh! Why did I ever haye any children!"
/ Parents may think that such words, well beyond the under-(standing of children, do them no harm; but precisely because / they are only half intelligible to them, children ponder them v^nd make of them a torture.
I fled; I ran up to my attic, where, face against the floor, I tore my nails over the rough boards and tried to dig my way into them that I might die. Pressing my nose and mouth against their wood, I attempted to prevent myself from breathing. I believed that one could stop breathing at will, and thus leave evil behind, whenever one wants to, because it is evil.
Hours passed, and I turned over on my back; my face-down position was really too uncomfortable.
And then, through the attic window, which was just in my
line of vision, I beheld the sky. It was a windy June day ... and very handsome, very white clouds began to pass before my eyes. It seemed to me that the clouds we
re displaying themselves for my sole benefit. Over the roof, so close to me, the wind whistled. Even at that age I loved the wind in high places, attacking neither men nor trees, doing no harm, a simple traveler who whistles as he goes. Two large elms planted by my father thrust their highest branches to the edge of my window; by stretching my neck a little, I could watch them sway; and that, too, must have been for me alone, since I was the only person perched high enough to espy the upper branches of our elms.
Then, more than ever, I wanted to die, because of the emotion that a mere tree was able to arouse in me . . . sweet, traitorous emotion, revealing to me that sorrow has eyes the better to see how lovely is this world!
For a moment my attention was wholly enthralled by the sight of a spider lowering itself toward me from a ceiling rafter, at the tip of its silken path. Because of it, I forgot to cry. But strengthened by having eluded me for a few moments, my sorrow returned and filled all my soul, while at the same time I studied through my tears this poor, tiny insect life, which I could cut short with a tap of my finger.
And I said to myself: "My father wanted no part of me. No one wanted any part of me. I should not have come into the world." (Occasionally I had heard my mother referring to some poor woman already burdened with children and in ill health, who had just brought another into the world, remark with a sigh, "It's hard, but that is duty. What can you do? She certainly must do her duty!") That day I dug the word from my memories, seized upon it, and, not yet aware of the terrible meaning it contained, I repeated to myself, "A child of duty! I am a child of duty!" And the very sound of this word sufficed to make me weep anew, for sorrows I did not yet know.
Then I rediscovered the blue sky, sailing past the window. Why did the sky seem to me so beautiful that evening that never since, in any portion of the world, have I seen any like it ? Was it because it was so indifferent toward me, who looked upon it ?
As I was about to begin weeping once more, I heard steps resound along the hall on the second floor, beneath my attic. Then the door at the foot of the stairs opened. A voice—my 16 Street ot Riches
mother's voice—called out: "The table is set; supper is ready. Enough sulking—come eat."
Despite everything, I was hungry, and that very fact, the shame of being tempted by food in the midst of my sorrow, made me deny my hunger and assert that I could not eat, that I never should be able to eat again.
At the foot of the stairs my mother said to me, "Well, if you want to sulk, sulk ... but later on you won't find anything left to eat."
And she moved away with a resilient, still-youthful step.
Later my brother came to the foot of the stairs to cry out to me that he was going fishing in the little river ... would I go with him? ... make up my mind! He was not referring to the Red, our valley's important river, but to our small Seine, a narrow watercourse that twisted its way onward like a snake between thickets filled with rose haws, a tiny river buried in the grass, muddy, secret, of little danger to us, even were we to plunge into it headfirst... my pretty river, green as cats' eyes!
It was very difficult for me to resist, but once again the idea of joy being possible in a life corrupt with sorrow made me rebuff my brother and cry out that I wanted to be alone.
He also moved away at a rapid pace; I heard him trot down the length of the hall and then gallop down the main stairs leading to the lower floor of the house.
Then there was a silence.
Later still the little Gauthiers, my cherished playmates, all three perched on their plank fence which separated our two properties—though I do recall there was also a vague field between them—kept calling me for a long while. As was our custom, they intoned their summonses to the bird tune of "Fred—er—ick—hast—thou—seen—me." But at exactly the same time, the bird itself was likewise singing. I had to make a real effort to distinguish between its brief phrase of song and the chanting of my friends: "Chris—tine—will—you—come -and—play? At—store—keep—ing—come—and—play? At -bear—train—ing—come—and—play?" At last they varied their recitative a bit; because this was the game I liked the best and because by this means they hoped they might coax me out of the house, they called out plainly, "Come and let's play funerals!"
With that, I could not master the desire to look at them; I drew close to the edge of the window, and I saw them below, all three in a row on the high fence. Yet suddenly reflecting that
Petite Afis^re 17
they were children better loved by their parents than I was by mine, I quickly ducked my head before they could discover me, since, in an obstinate effort to find me, their small faces were scanning all the windows of our house. I turned around, lay down on my back, and stared at the dismal ceiling.
For a good while longer, without catching a glimpse of me anywhere, the dear children called me, in all their youthful despair at seeing so fine a summer evening lost for play. They were still calling me when it was almost dark. Their mother told them to come in and go to bed. I heard their protests and then their mother's insistent voice. But before giving me up, the three of them lined up on the fence cried out very loud, and with how deep a regret: "Good—night—Chris—ti—ne! Are—you—dead—Chris—tine ? So—long—Chris—ti—nette! N
Now in the attic window the sky was dark. And my sorrow was reborn, but far more mysterious and unknown. I felt as though it were the future—the whole, long, terrible future of a child—that weighed upon me . . . and I cried in broken sobs, without knowing exactly why. Perhaps because I sensed within me, as among adults, enough cowardice to resign myself to life as it is . . . and perhaps life held me even more firmly in its grasp through curiosity.
I could still hear on the floors below certain sounds that informed me of the goings and comings in the house. Doors slammed. On the porch and then on our narrow cement path I heard my mother's footsteps, in her new shoes. True, this even-ing she was supposed to play cards at some friends'. She was in a hurry; her feet seemed to run ... and I was miserable that—this evening—she could leave with a free heart to indulge herself in anything so futile as card playing.
The night seemed to rise toward me from the dark floors below. The big house was now wholly silent... maybe empty.... And my sorrow was beyond bearing, abandoned by all save by myself, save by my solitary concern—far too young, far too weak to understand that sorrow; and without any longer knowing its cause, I wept for sorrow itself, which is perhaps no more than a child alone.
Then my ear close to the floor heard the dragging, the overburdened tread of my father.
Gently he pulled open the door at the foot of the stairs. There he remained for a long while, without speaking. Perhaps he thought that I did not know he was standing with one foot raised to take the first step. But I could hear his breathing . . . 18 Street of Riches
and maybe he could hear mine, so poignant was the silence between us.
At last he called out: "Little one! Petite Misfere!"
Oh, how my throat tightened! Never after did I ever feel such a knot, drawn tight to the point of choking me. And it is possibly a good thing while very young to have suffered a terrible sorrow, for afterward sorrow no longer has the power really to astound us.
My old father tried again: "Child!"
Then, since I still gave no answer, my father said to me, "You must be hungry."
And later on, after another silence, he said to me, so sadly that even today, finding its way amid memories as crowded as a forest, the exact tone of my father's voice comes back to me: "I've made a rhubarb pie. .. . It's still hot. . . . Would you like to eat some?"
It's beyond me! Ever since that day, rhubarb pie has never tempted me; but before then, it seems I adored it, even though I was sick every time I ate any. That was why my mother made it only very rarely, and when—rarely—she served one, she would forbid me to take more than one tiny little piece. So, then, my father must have taken adavantage of my mother's being out that evening . . . and I could see him rolling up h
is sleeves, searching for the flour, for the lard—never, indeed, could he succeed in laying his hand on anything around the house—lighting the stove, keeping an eye on the pie as it baked. ... How could I have uttered an answer! What was the sorrow that all evening had kept me from my usual games compared to the sorrow which now held me in its grip! Was it then the same with sorrow as with the mysterious paths in my book of the Thousand and One Nights, where each led on to a broader avenue and disclosed ever-widening vistas ?
I heard my father sigh. So slowly did he close the door that I barely was aware of the click of the latch. He went away.
Those slow, disheartened footsteps!
And yet I waited a few minutes, a long time it seemed to me. Then I smoothed out my wrinkled clothes. I patted my cheeks to remove the marks of my tears; and with the hem of my dress I tried to repair the smudges thus left on my face.
I went down, stopping at each step.
The table in our large kitchen was laid as though for a feast ... a very sorry feast, for on the white cloth there was
placed, at the center, only the pie, and at either end, far removed from each other, our two plates.
We took our places, my father and I, without having as yet exchanged so much as a glance.
Then my father pushed toward me the pie he had cut beforehand into such huge pieces that abruptly I burst into fresh tears. But at the same time I began to taste it.
Often during halts on his rough trips through lands being opened to colonization, when he had gone to settle immigrants there, my father had improvised his own meals over glowing embers under the stars of the prairies, and from those days he had cherished the illusion—certainly linked to nostalgia for the open spaces and the purity of that life—of being skilled in the kitchen. My mother, however, said that my father's pies were lead.
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