Two Solitudes

by Hugh Maclennan

  Driving home from Sainte-Justine after seeing McQueen and Yardley off on the train, Athanase was troubled. McQueen had appeared forcibly excited when they reached the falls and he saw their potential power. He was a peculiar man, hard to estimate. You could laugh at him because of his ponderous appearance and fumbling movements. But there was nothing fumbling in his manner when he had stood looking at the water tumbling over the rocks. He had said nothing for several minutes and the other two had stood watching him. Then he had given a precise calculation of the height of the drop and a careful guess at the number of cubic feet of water that poured over the precipice per hour. He had indicated the exact location where the turbines should be stationed. The other two men were tongue-tied in his presence. For the first time Athanase realized how it was that McQueen had made his way into the hierarchy of business families in Montreal, a group of men regarded by all French-Canadians with a mixture of envy and suspicion. Dollars grew on them like barnacles, and their instinct for money was a trait no French-Canadian seemed able to acquire.

  He spoke softly to the mare and she responded by increasing her pace. He had many times wondered about the power in the falls himself, but his mind was not in the habit of running through technical and business channels. Now McQueen’s possible plans held his interest more than he liked to admit. Some day the government would be certain to take away his right of toll on the bridge. They would make some compensation, but it would not be much. Then his income would drop sharply. There was also another reason for his interest in McQueen’s possible plans: his own growing restlessness. It was impossible to pretend that his political career was anything but a failure. Unless he attained cabinet rank, a member of parliament fooled himself if he fancied he wielded a tenth as much influence on the country as a man like McQueen. French-Canadians were always inclined to rely too heavily on politics as a means of exercising influence. They talked too much while the English kept their mouths shut and acted.

  McQueen was right. Unless they developed their own resources they would soon have none left to develop. The English were taking them over one by one. If the process continued indefinitely the time would arrive when the French in Canada would become a race of employees. Perhaps because they were a minority, perhaps because their education was not technical, they had no real share in the country’s industry.

  Well, he was supposed to be one of the leaders of his people in Quebec. Why didn’t he do something about it? He frowned and spoke to the mare again. It would be no simple matter to start a factory in Saint-Marc. McQueen might understand the machinations of Saint James Street in Montreal, but he knew little enough about the French. Quebec was tenacious. She had always hated and opposed the industrial revolution. Priests like Father Beaubien preached ceaselessly against the evils of factory towns. It was their intention to keep their people on the land as long as they could.

  As though his thoughts about the priest had caused the man himself to materialize, Athanase looked up to see Father Beaubien standing in the village road a short distance ahead, obviously waiting for him. When he went into sharp action to rein in the mare, Father Beaubien came up to the side of the carriage and Athanase looked down into his serious face, clouded by the darkening twilight.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Father,” he said. “Dansereau hasn’t sold his land yet.”

  The priest was offended by the abruptness. He preferred conversations to move slowly, with hints and suggestions leading only by degrees to the main point.

  “However,” Athanase went on, “if the gentleman makes up his mind to buy, I shall certainly advise Dansereau to sell.”

  The priest’s fist tightened on the seat-rail of the carriage. “But Mr. Tallard! The man is English. He is Protestant!”

  Athanase smiled. “I like the man very much, Father. If he buys he will probably pay cash. And cash”–he nodded toward the grey mass of the church–“has been a rare commodity around here lately.”

  Still dogged, the priest continued to grip the rail of the carriage. “Something else must be arranged. An Englishman in the parish, owning land…that would be a very bad thing, Mr. Tallard. Now you…you could buy Dansereau’s land maybe, if he must sell it.”

  Again Athanase nodded toward the church. “All wells, Father, have bottoms. I have invested heavily already.”

  The priest did not take his eyes from Tallard’s face and it was the older man’s glance that shifted first. Part of his superior attitude toward the priest was caused by his greater age, but most of it was a development from the instinctive antagonism latent in their characters. Yet at bottom they had much in common; they were both Normans, and they were both notably stubborn.

  “Listen, Father,” Athanase said. “Suppose this Englishman buys the land. He’ll be able to hire labour. Now I ask you something very serious. How much do we need someone to hire our able men and keep them in Saint-Marc? What will happen to Pit Gendron unless he gets a job? He’ll go to the city, won’t he? The same way Oliva Masson did. You warned us yourself only last Sunday that anyone who goes to the city is in imminent danger of losing his soul.”

  The priest made no reply. His mind chewed slowly on Tallard’s words and held on doggedly through the insult to the main point. If Pit Gendron, the youngest son of a large family, were forced off his native land, Father Beaubien would feel it as a personal failure. Yet there was no work for surplus young men in Saint-Marc. Something would have to be done to keep them from the city.

  Suddenly more courteous, Athanase said, “You worry yourself too much, Father. This Englishman is as old as I am. He has no sons and he won’t keep the land forever. While he’s here he won’t hurt anyone. Maybe he won’t want to stay. But if he does come, I don’t want anyone to interfere with him, for I tell you something…he’s a good man.”

  The priest knew that the subject was finished. For a few seconds the two men were silent in the gathering twilight as they exchanged glances. Then Father Beaubien gravely said good-night and walked slowly back to his presbytery, his soutane swishing vigorously with each step.

  FOUR

  It was a month later before Athanase Tallard came back to Saint-Marc to spend another weekend at home. Ottawa had become a depressing place to him and he was glad to be out of it. There he was at the focal-point of his unpopularity with the other members of parliament from his own province, who still refused to realize that the English-speaking provinces would have imposed conscription on the country even without what he had said to help them. So his stand in favour of a full war program had been completely useless to both sides of the controversy.

  At the moment everyone in Ottawa was worried because the war was going badly again. Canadian troops under a British Commander-in-Chief were dying like flies in the mud before Passchendaele. Athanase felt a real resentment against the British, as though they had let him down personally. He had compromised his position with his own people in an effort to make French-Canada agree to conscription, and then the British made a mess like Passchendaele. No wonder the French-Canadian press roared against conscription when they saw thousands of casualties listed as the price of a few acres of mud.

  As usual, he felt better now that he was back in Saint-Marc. The ground was dry and hard and the trees were bare, sharply silhouetted against a sky almost winter-blue. The whole country had a waiting aspect. The geese had gone south weeks ago, the fields were manured, the fodder was all in. Any day now, the first snow would come.

  After dinner he drove down to Polycarpe Drouin’s general store to buy some tobacco and listen to the men talk. The store was always crowded on Saturday night, and this week it seemed to have even more than its usual quota of customers, for farm-work was at a standstill. Three checker games had been going on for two hours, and when Athanase arrived he noticed that a few of the men were already warmed by whiskey blanc.

  Tonight the discussion was not about the war but all about Captain Yardley. Ten days ago he had bought the Dansereau place outright and had moved in immedia
tely. Dansereau had gone to live with his sister’s family down the river. Last Sunday, Yardley had gone to church and sat through the whole of High Mass, though he had not genuflected to the altar or tried to cross himself and had not known when to kneel or when to stand. Afterwards he had been seen entering the presbytery with Father Beaubien, and it was rumoured that he had given the priest twenty dollars for his poor box. The captain came into the store nearly every day and he paid cash for whatever he bought. He spoke French, but with terrible grammar and a queer accent mixed with many English words…worse than an Indian, Polycarpe Drouin said.

  Athanase listened to the conversation without any comment. He never mingled with the villagers man to man, and it would have been resented had he tried to do so. Yet whenever he was with them on their own ground a special kind of friendliness established itself; it was as though they recognized each other and confirmed the fact that they were separate branches of the same tree.

  Now Athanase realized that those who had met Yardley had not been able to help liking him. They admitted, almost defensively, that he was very different from their notion of an English-Canadian. He was friendly, there was nothing high and mighty about him, he was ready to ask them for advice. Apparently he knew a good deal about farming, and this seemed most peculiar in a sea captain. The priest had already arranged for Pit Gendron to work for him, and Pit said he was a good man for a boss. But the priest had made no comment, and in speaking about the captain to Athanase the men were all cautious and indirect, not committing themselves.

  Athanase spent nearly an hour in the store listening to the talk and asking about various members of the men’s families, and then he drove home. As the mare’s shoes clopped along in the dark he smiled to himself. Yardley certainly had a way with him. French-Canadians had salted down the Dansereau fields with their sweat for more than two hundred years; it was bound to seem to the collective instinct of the parish a kind of robbery for a foreigner to take over land like that. But apparently Yardley was going to get away with it. If he lived in Saint-Marc for the rest of his life he would always be regarded a foreigner, but there was no doubt that those who met him wanted to feel free to like him.

  Athanase decided he was glad. It was peculiar for a man like Yardley to want to live in a place like Saint-Marc, but no doubt he had a good reason and in time it might be known. Tomorrow he would call upon him formally and make sure they were seen together. Since the priest had made no overt objection, his own acceptance of the captain would more or less settle his status in the parish.

  Next morning he selected a heavy walking stick from the rack in the hall and started down the road to Yardley’s place with Paul trotting by his side. Athanase walked vigorously, his long thin legs shooting out fast in nervous strides. It never occurred to him to walk more slowly for the sake of the boy. Paul sniffed the air like a puppy, smelling the smoke from burning brush that had drifted a mile down the wind from the place where Blanchard was clearing away the last debris before snow fell. When they turned off the road they could see their neighbour putting new weather-stripping about the sashes of a window. As they drew closer, Athanase noticed that he was very good with his hands and accustomed to working with them.

  Yardley heard their steps and backed down from the step-ladder, turning about with a smile when he reached the ground. He was wearing a turtle-necked sweater and a pair of worn overalls. “Hallo,” he said. “I’d been wondering how you were, Mr. Tallard. Things must be pretty hot in Ottawa these days, judging from the papers. I guess you’re glad to be back.”

  Athanase shrugged his shoulders. “Not hot,” he said. “Just stuffy.” He shook hands with the captain. “I got back last night and we thought it was about time to welcome you.”

  “Thet’s mighty nice of you.” Yardley dropped his hand onto Paul’s shoulder. “I’ve been watching Paul go by and wishing he’d stop and see me sometimes.” He looked down at the boy’s shy face. “Come on in. I got something to show you.”

  The place was bare inside. In what appeared to be the living room a fire of birch logs burned brightly on a large stone hearth. A Quebec heater stood black and gaunt in the middle of the room, with a black stovepipe joining it to the chimney. Large wooden boxes lay on the floor with their tops pried off. There was no furniture except a table and two chairs.

  “Not got the place fixed up yet,” Yardley said. He pointed to the boxes and added, “Books. I got a lot of them. Been alone so much, if I didn’t read I guess I’d go crazy. Pretty near learned Shakespeare by heart.”

  From a shelf in one corner he picked up a large block of white pine, smooth and carefully planed. “This is going to be yours one day, Paul.”

  The boy stared at the wood, not understanding what the captain meant and too shy to say so. His hands opened and closed and then he took the block when Yardley held it out to him.

  “When I finish, it’s going to be a three-master. Know what thet is? A full-rigged ship, like we used to build down in Nova Scotia, but what they can’t build there any more. She’ll have a full suit of sails on every mast from the course right up to the skysails when I’m finished with her.” He took the block of wood and put it back on the shelf.

  Athanase looked pleased. “But that will take up too much of your time, Captain?”

  “Give me something to do winter nights,” Yardley said. “I guess they’ll be long enough, out here.” He turned to the boy again and indicated the open boxes. “How about you taking those books out for me and stacking them on the floor? Me and your father want to talk. Leastways, I got the idea your father wants to talk to me.”

  Yardley led the way to the porch and when they were seated on either side of the top step he said, “I like thet boy of yours, Mr. Tallard. Missed having a son myself. You’re fortunate. He’s not the only one you got, is he?”

  Athanase was silent for a moment. He got up and they strolled together around a corner of the house toward the barns. “Why do you ask that, Captain?” he said at last. “Some of the people in the village must have been gossiping about my family.”

  “No,” Yardley said. “Not to me anyway. I guess I thought I heard you had more than one child.”

  “Don’t make a mistake. If anything is really important–something with money in it, something deep inside a family–our people keep their mouths shut like clams.” Realizing that he was sounding mysterious and feeling a little foolish, he added, “I have another son, older than Paul. By an earlier marriage. He’s called Marius. The name was his mother’s idea, not mine. He’s in his first year at the university in Montreal.” Suddenly looking straight into Yardley’s eyes he asked, “Has Marius been out here while I was away?”

  Yardley stood balancing on his stick, aware of a tension he did not understand. Behind his glasses his blue eyes were serious. “I wouldn’t even know, Mr. Tallard,” he said. “I guess maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Athanase made a gesture of impatience. “It’s nothing. You see–this province, Captain–it’s not an easy place to understand. You English, you say and do what you like and people forget easily. Here nobody ever forgets anything. Most of our people are quiet. They mind their own business and all they want is to be left in peace. But some have never forgotten their grievance against the English, and my elder son is one of them. He’s a nationalist. With the war, and my stand on it…” He stopped abruptly, as though afraid of giving away too much.

  They entered the barn together and smelled the sweet odour of stacked hay, the sour stink of manure and disinfectant. Athanase pointed to the loft and then to the stalls with his stick. “I see you bought the whole place, stock and all.”

  Yardley nodded. “The stock he had was pretty good. I’ve been thinking I’d try to get together a herd of Jerseys, but I’ll wait and see how things pan out with what I’ve got first.”

  They looked through the barn and Yardley indicated the improvements he intended to make. When they emerged into the sunshine again Athanase surveyed him wit
h obvious curiosity. “One thing I’d like to ask, Captain. What brought you to Saint-Marc? Was it McQueen’s idea, or your own?”

  “Thet’s a pretty long story, Mr. Tallard. When I sit down nights in front of my fire and start thinking how I got there, I feel mighty queer sometimes.”

  Athanase said nothing, sensing the loneliness in the man and respecting it.

  “I guess it’s a lot easier,” Yardley went on, “to remember things than to figure out why they happen. A sea-faring man keeps himself steady by thinking he’s got a home some place ashore. But when he goes ashore for good, he generally finds the only home he’s got is the friends he’s made. And man, they’re as like as not scattered all over the whole world.”

  “McQueen mentioned your daughter. Is she living in Montreal?”

  Yardley’s face softened. “Yes, and two granddaughters. I guess I couldn’t ever get used to living in Montreal, though.”

  They came back to the front of the house again, Yardley limping heavily. Paul appeared in the door, opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again, waiting until the men had stopped talking. Yardley said, “You finished with the books already?”

  Paul shook his head. “I left them ’cause the floor makes them dirty and there’s no place else to put them.”

  “Guess thet’s right.” Yardley turned to Athanase. “Thet’s a noticing boy you got.” Paul wandered off in the direction of the barn and Yardley took out his pouch, offered it to Athanase, then stuffed his own pipe with tobacco when Tallard refused, and slowly lit it, puffing steadily and completely hiding the flame of the match in his hand.