Two Solitudes

by Hugh Maclennan

  Anger choked Athanase. “I won’t stand for this. Who do you think you are–giving orders to me?”

  The priest’s large knuckles whitened as he clenched his hand on the seat-rail of the carriage. “All right, Mr. Tallard…I’ve done the best I could.” Without taking his eyes from Athanase’s face, he nodded sideways. “Those people there–my parishioners–they’re watching us. They aren’t fools. They know a lot more than you think they do. They’re waiting to see what will happen.”

  His lips a straight line, Athanase continued to stare at Father Beaubien’s set face.

  “On Sunday, without naming names,” the priest said steadily, “I shall tell the people the truth about you. I shall tell them that you are no longer a good Catholic. I shall tell them that you are a bad man and a bad example. I shall warn them against having any further dealings with you. It will be known to every voter in your constituency that you no longer consent to receive the sacraments of their Church. They will know that God will not bless them if they elect a man like you to represent them. I think you know as well as I what this will mean to you, Mr. Tallard?” He stopped. “Do you still want to take your choice?”

  Athanase felt the blood rush to his head and his hand clenched on the whip-handle. “I will not be talked to in this way!” he shouted. “Not by anyone!”

  He raised the whip and the watching men, seeing his shoulder rise with it, were appalled by the thought that he was going to strike the priest. Father Beaubien stood absolutely still, watching him. Then, still with the whip above his head, Athanase said between his teeth, “No one has ever dared talk to a member of my family like this in our own parish…not in more than two hundred years. You keep away from me! You keep out of my affairs, or by God…”

  With a quick turning movement he swung around and brought the whip down with a crack on the mare’s flank. The animal reared in the shafts and plunged wildly, then went down the road in a gallop, and Athanase bent forward holding the reins. By the time his gate was reached the mare had slowed to a trot. The welt made by the whip lay in a long, ugly line along her chestnut flank.

  As Athanase took the harness off the mare he made up his mind. He would not remain in the position where anyone could presume to talk to him as Father Beaubien had talked to him this summer. Ever since the death of his first wife this moment had been coming. But he was finished with being between two stools now; he was finished with it for the rest of his life, and he would show the whole world that he was to be left alone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Late that afternoon, John Yardley came back from the village walking slowly and seeing no one. He turned into the path leading up to his house, and when he limped up the steps he nearly stumbled over Daphne and Heather, who were playing with a child’s cart on the veranda. Daphne was sitting in it and Heather was pushing from behind, and the wheels made a steady rumbling back and forth across the porch. The children stopped playing and said something to him. He mumbled an answer and went inside, then upstairs to Janet’s room.

  He found her by the window reading a story in The Saturday Evening Post. He hated mourning on any woman, and Janet seemed to him withered by the black dress and black stockings she wore. She looked at least a dozen years older than she had a month ago. Her lips were pressed thin and the lines on either side of her mouth had become severe, making her nose appear long, sad and disdainful.

  Yardley sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the floor. “Janet…there’s something I’ve got to ask you.”

  She folded the magazine and tensed herself. During the past month her silence had been constant. If she cried at all, it was when she was alone during the nights. When they had gone into town together to attend the memorial service for her husband, she had maintained the same frozen calm that had horrified Yardley when the news of Harvey’s death had first arrived.

  “I’ve got something to ask you, Janet,” he repeated. “Maybe there’s not a damn thing in it. But I’ve got to make sure.” His foot tapped the floor; then, lifting his lantern jaw, he faced her squarely. “Did you tell those policemen where the Tallard boy was?”

  Her eyes snapped open in defiance. “So they did find him there!”

  Yardley kept on looking at his daughter, and his pale eyes slowly filled with tears.

  “Why shouldn’t I have told them? They were police, and they asked me.” Her voice was high and strained. “Why should these people be allowed to get out of it? Harvey didn’t.”

  The bitter, uncomprehending anger in her voice made Yardley feel sick. “What’s come over you, daughter?” he asked quietly.

  “He was a cheat,” she said. “That’s all he was–a cheat.”

  “You don’t understand these people here. You never tried to.”

  “I understand this much–something you forget about. If we let people like them have their own way we’ll lose the war. It would serve them right if they did. If the Germans came here they’d soon see!”

  Yardley held her eyes. “They’re our neighbours, Janet.”

  “They’re not my neighbours.”

  “They’re good people–all of them.”

  “After what the war did to you, I’d think…” She bit her lip. “Decent men give their lives, while they…” Her face began to flush as she worked herself up. “It makes me furious, all this pampering of them. It’s time they were brought to heel.”

  Yardley shook his head wretchedly from side to side. “Daughter…daughter! What kind of talk is this? Where did you ever hear people say things like this?”

  Her flush mounted as she pressed her lips together.

  “It’s not natural for you to talk thet way. You’re only repeating some stuff some damned fools thought up to make themselves feel important. Janet, a few more words like thet and…”

  “If you’ve got no patriotism…” She stopped and again bit her lip.

  Yardley removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. Then he rubbed the glasses slowly on the end of his necktie. His voice was soft and sad. “It wasn’t right, Janet, what you did. It wasn’t a natural thing to do. Not all the wars in the world could make a thing like thet right.”

  He put on his glasses again, slowly hooking them behind his big ears. Janet continued to look at her father severely, her face not so much angry as stubbornly uncomprehending and righteous. Realizing that there was no sense in talking to her any more, he got up and limped to the door, closed it behind him and went downstairs. The tears were still in his eyes, and as he went out into the hot air of the afternoon he felt more empty than he could ever remember having felt before. He had lost something. He was unable to describe its nature, but it was something he had always assumed to be his.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Paul was frightened. Something had happened in the household which he couldn’t understand but felt was a disaster. Julienne had been crying, his mother had been crying, his father had been shouting at everyone. Now, without explanation, he and his father were going to Montreal on the train.

  He sat on the edge of a seat in the day coach with his legs dangling. He was wearing his best suit and was making a constant effort to keep his hands from getting dirtied by the sooty covering of the seat. Opposite him, his father was hidden by his newspaper. He had been reading it for the past half hour, and Paul, sitting very straight with legs hanging and head turning occasionally to look out the window, felt cut off from him.

  His father crinkled up the paper and laid it down, and Paul sensed that a moment of some importance had come. Athanase cleared his throat and surveyed him, and his old face gave a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but was not. “Paul–there are some things you’re old enough to know. Do you understand about Marius?”

  Paul knew what had happened, but not from his father. The deliberate refusal to mention Marius’ name in the house had made everything seem ominous and unnatural.

  “Marius is quite all right,” his father said, still trying to be reassuring. He regretted never having been able to tal
k to children as Yardley did. He supposed there must be some special trick necessary in speaking to a child. “Marius hasn’t done anything bad. You’re not to worry about him at all. He’s all right.”

  Paul looked down at his feet as they dangled above the floor and vibrated with the throb of the train. Feeling guilty, supposing he was expected to understand something which he did not, he asked his father in a low voice what had happened to his brother.

  Athanase gave a forced laugh. “He’s going to be a soldier. We can all be proud of him.”

  “But P’pa–he didn’t want to be a soldier.”

  “It will be different now. When he gets into uniform he’ll like it.”

  Athanase wanted to get the subject away from Marius, but when he tried, he found himself floundering. As he looked at Paul, the boy’s eyes baffled him. “I suppose you’ve been wondering why we’re going into town, suddenly like this?” he said smiling.

  “Yes, P’pa.”

  “I’d better tell you. We’re going to join another Church.”

  He saw that Paul had no comprehension of the meaning of his words. The gap between himself and the boy seemed to grow much larger.

  “You see, Paul–there are many Churches in the world. All sorts. Everyone has to belong to one. You and I are going to change our Church, and that’s why we’re going into town.” A new thought striking him, he added eagerly, “You see, next year we’re going to live in town anyway. We’ll have to pick a Montreal church, won’t we? We can’t come out to Saint-Marc every Sunday for Mass.”

  Paul continued to look at the floor. It was dirty and stained with tobacco juice which had slopped over from a spittoon.

  Athanase went on. “Let me explain. You see, you’re going to an English school this fall. Mind you, that doesn’t mean you’re going to be English. You’ll still be French and you’re not to forget that. But…but you’re not going to be a Roman Catholic any more.”

  Paul continued to look at his dangling feet. “What will Father Beaubien say?”

  Athanase forced another smile. “He won’t have anything to say once we’re Protestants.” He continued rapidly. “In your new school you’ll study science. You will become”–he waved his arm toward the window as if to include the entire panorama without–“entirely different from all these people here.”

  “Won’t everyone know we’re not…not…”

  “Not what?” Athanase leaned forward and touched the boy’s knee.

  “Not Catholics?”

  Athanase shrugged his shoulders. “Well–yes, they’ll know that. They know everything like that in Saint-Marc. But it won’t make any difference. I’ll write to the bishop–perhaps even to Father Beaubien–and tell him we’re resigning from the Church.” He saw tears in Paul’s eyes. “Don’t worry. We’re not ordinary people, you and I.”

  “Won’t–won’t I go to hell, P’pa?”

  Athanase forced another laugh. “No–of course not!”

  “But I thought…”

  “That was different. Listen, Paul. You don’t imagine God would send a fine man like Captain Yardley to hell, do you? He’s not a Catholic.”

  The train clicked over the joints and Athanase leaned back in his seat and looked at his son. He tried to feel confident, but now that the rush of his anger at the priest had subsided he was so worried he was barely able to sit still. He repeated to himself that things had always been bound to come to this, that he had no choice in the matter. But what would now happen to the factory? He nodded to reassure himself. He mustn’t forget McQueen. He would put it through. The English went into many towns and built factories without being opposed by the Church. But if McQueen knew that he had quarrelled with his parish priest would he still desire him as a partner? He sighed heavily, with some relief. McQueen had little real choice in the matter. The contracts were signed, and if McQueen wanted to build the factory he would have to include his partner in his plans. Besides, Athanase realized that if he worked quickly enough he could probably get the written contract from the government to ensure that the railway spur would be built.

  More difficulties rose in his mind, and suddenly he was faced with the fact that he was acting like a complete fool. What was he taking Paul into town for now? They could hardly walk up to the minister of St. David’s Church and announce themselves as Presbyterian converts. St. David’s would accept them finally, but no Protestant minister would take a former Roman Catholic without much thought in the matter and a good deal of investigation. He beat his hand against his forehead. He was losing his grip, he was acting like a child. He would have to take Paul back to Saint-Marc tomorrow having accomplished nothing. Then he would have to return immediately to the city himself, and spend nearly a fortnight between Montreal and Ottawa making his arrangements about the factory, the railway spur and the change to St. David’s.

  He became aware of the boy’s round eyes looking at him, and guessed that Paul wanted to ask a question.

  “Is M’ma coming too?” Paul asked.

  Athanase picked up his paper to hide his face. “Your mother understands,” he said. But he knew he had failed Paul with that answer. To cover his embarrassment he lowered the paper and began talking rapidly. He explained how greatly their lives would be changed, how much money they were likely to make in the new enterprise. He outlined his plans for the boy. He would get a scientific education. He would go to college and travel, he might even go to Oxford and the Sorbonne, or perhaps to both places for further study when he had taken his degree in Canada.

  “Not many boys will have the opportunities you’ll have,” he finished. “But you’ll have to work hard from now on. Harder than you’ve ever dreamed of working. It’s going to be up to you.”

  The train clicked onward. Paul’s eyes watched the dust dancing over the floor-boards, the dust motionless in the spillings from the spittoon, the grains of soot drifting over the dirty green plush of the seat. Oxford…the Sorbonne…New names!

  TWENTY-SIX

  During the following week the pattern of life led by the Tallard family in Saint-Marc for more than two centuries was abruptly fractured. As Athanase was away in town, Kathleen and Paul took the first weight of the shock, and for a fortnight events continued to pile up on them.

  First Kathleen noticed that Julienne did her work unwillingly, almost without speaking to her; next, that Blanchard and the farm-hands worked in the fields but avoided the house. One morning Paul went into the village as usual to get the mail. Near the store some children were playing. When they saw him coming they stopped and stared, then crossed themselves and went to the other side of the road. He entered the store and Polycarpe Drouin handed him the mail without a word. On his way home through the village he heard his name called from a house and stopped to see what it meant. He saw an open window but there was no one visible. Then a woman’s voice cried shrilly again, and he knew she was crying something at him, but she did not appear and when he looked down the road he saw it was also empty. The playing children had disappeared. He stood for a moment in fright, then began to run, and he kept on running until he was nearly home.

  After this Paul kept out of the village. Each day, without comment, John Yardley brought the mail to them. He was alone now, for Janet and the children had returned to the city. He would have been ostracized by the parish as a result of Janet’s betrayal had it not been for his extraordinary personality. The parish knew he was hurt and ashamed. He had gone into the store and apologized to Drouin and several of the other men there, making no excuses, simply saying he was sorry. He had gone to the presbytery and said the same to Father Beaubien. Almost against his principles, the priest had shaken hands with him.

  One night there was a heavy wind with clouds in the sky. The darkness was intense and the wind rushed through it, hot and dry, and the poplars in the Tallard drive sighed like pouring water. Kathleen was startled by a loud crash in the library and went in to see what it was. When the lamp was lit she saw a stone lying on the carpet and fe
lt the wind coming in through the broken pane. She did not mention this to Paul, but next morning he saw the broken glass and guessed what had happened. The window remained unrepaired, for Kathleen did not think it worthwhile to ask anyone to come up from the village to fix it. She did not even mention it to Blanchard.

  On the second Sunday, Kathleen went as usual to Mass. When she entered the church she noticed that the Tallard pew was occupied by another family. She made no attempt to sit in it, but remained through the service in an empty pew at the back. After Mass she was the first to leave the church, and she went home without trying to speak to anyone.

  Against Athanase’s stubbornness Kathleen’s will had broken long ago. Now she was coldly angry with him, not so much because he had turned himself and Paul into Protestants as because of the unnecessary trouble he had made for everyone connected with him. The idea that he might go to hell for his action did not seriously concern her. She believed in hell the way most people believe in Tibet; it existed, but as she had never met anyone who had been there, it had no reality for her. She had only twice in her life been frightened of hell, once when she had been very sick and once when she had been troubled by bad dreams the week her father died.

  So now, while Athanase was away arranging his affairs, Kathleen stayed on in Saint-Marc with Paul and counted the days to the time when they would all leave the parish for good. It was now close to the end of August. All her personal belongings were packed and the whole household was ready to be moved. Nothing more remained to be done except to box Athanase’s books and arrange for the movers to come out from the city.

  At the end of the month Athanase returned to face the parish. His absence had made him feel somewhat more confident of his immunity than when he had left. In Ottawa and Montreal everything had seemed quite normal. The skies had not fallen there because he had left his Church. In fact, none of his friends in the cities knew anything about it yet. His affairs had gone reasonably well. In Ottawa he had received in writing the final word that the government would build the railway spur as soon as it would be required. In Montreal he had completed arrangements for joining St. David’s Presbyterian Church. This process had been more annoying than he had expected, for the minister had insisted on several long and penetrating conversations before he consented to his formal admission. His trip would have been entirely satisfactory had he not been disappointed in his talks with McQueen. After his usual beating about the bush, McQueen announced that he would not begin work on the factory until after the new year. He had decided that the war was soon going to end, prices were going to fluctuate wildly for a period, and he wanted things to settle down before asking for tenders and placing his contracts.