Two Solitudes

by Hugh Maclennan

  “Didn’t you see it?” Janet relaxed and began to eat again. “Of course, she simply never tells anything in a letter. I think she does it on purpose.”

  But in relating what Daphne did tell, Janet consumed ten minutes, and by that time the plates of the meat course were cleared. Daphne had been in Paris in early June but had returned to London for the season. Noel was so busy she seldom saw him any more. His factory was working day and night and Janet asked Heather if she didn’t think that was perfectly splendid. Noel himself was back in the R.A.F. “Of course,” Janet said, “if they’d taken Noel’s advice there’d have been no need for anyone to worry now. But they didn’t.”

  “They could have taken the advice of other men besides Noel.”

  “Oh, well–there’s no real need to worry anyway. Florence Murdoch was saying she’d met Lady Norne just before she came down here–she was Pamela Smith, you remember. She says nobody in London is worried; it’s only the Americans. That’s what the general always said. Whenever the Americans are worrying about England’s affairs, you can be perfectly sure England has everything under control.”

  Janet continued to talk while they ate ice cream and cake. Heather lit a cigarette with her coffee but her mother refused to smoke. “American cigarettes are so harsh on my throat,” she said.

  They rose from the table and walked out through the long dining room to the lounge. It was filled with old ladies knitting, and groups of young children trying to put off the hour of bedtime. The knitting women all looked up to note the entrance of Janet and her daughter. In the middle of the lounge Janet stopped. “Wait here a minute, will you, dear? I must speak to the manager now about holding our rooms.”

  Heather touched her mother’s elbow. “Mummy,” she said quietly, “I meant what I said. I can’t stay any longer.”

  Janet flashed her a sharp look. One hand smoothed the folds of the black chiffon over her flat abdomen as she glanced about the lounge and then back at her daughter. “I do wish you wouldn’t be so headstrong,” she said. “There’s no appointment you could possibly have at home that you can’t perfectly well get out of.”

  Heather held her mother’s eyes. It was the same as it had always been; nothing she said ever made the slightest difference. She started to speak, and then she stopped. Finally she said, “Paul Tallard is there.” Sudden fixity in Janet’s eyes. “We’re–we’re in love. We’re–”

  Janet’s nervous movements ceased. She stood quite still, and then she said, “Don’t be absurd, Heather! You know that’s quite impossible!”

  The old ladies who watched them over their knitting saw no notable change in Janet’s manner. Some colour must have drained from her cheeks, but her smile in response to nods from friends was as gracious as ever. From the corner of one eye she saw Florence Murdoch approaching, and easily, sweetly, she turned to her fellow-director on many club boards.

  “We’re all ready,” Florence Murdoch said. “The table’s set up in the sun-parlour tonight. And we’ve found a new fourth.” She laid chubby fingers on Janet’s forearm and added in a stage-whisper, “Mrs. Falconridge. We met her at tea yesterday. I do believe she’ll turn out to be one of the nicer Americans.” She turned to Heather. “Still not playing bridge?”

  “Heather pretends to despise it,” Janet said brightly. She hunted for a white handkerchief in the black purse she always carried.

  Florence Murdoch laughed. “I was reading a book by Somerset Maugham the other day. You really ought to get it, Heather. Mr. Maugham says a good bridge game is better than an insurance policy. Or something like that.”

  “Heather reads everything,” Janet said. “Do you remember that passage, dear?”

  Heather remembered it well. Maugham had said that to learn a good bridge game was the safest insurance against the tedium of old age.

  “Of course! You were always so clever about books, weren’t you, dear?” Florence Murdoch went on. She turned to Janet and began a long description of Mrs. Falconridge. Janet remarked that poor General Methuen had said only last winter that on the whole he felt the Americans were improving. Janet promised to join the bridge table in a few moments, and Florence Murdoch moved away. The old ladies continued to count stitches.

  When Janet turned back to Heather she found that her daughter had disappeared. Alone in the centre of the lounge, she drew in her breath and lifted her chin. The purse was tucked firmly under one arm and the white handkerchief was clutched in her right hand. Again she took a deep breath and moved carefully, with measured steps and a consciousness of many eyes upon her, to the desk. When she spoke to the clerk her voice had never sounded more British.

  “I want you to put through a long-distance call for me,” she said. “Immediately. To Huntly McQueen in Montreal. I’ll be in the sun-parlour when it comes through.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Heather woke at seven the next morning after a broken sleep. The air was salt with fog and beyond the window was only a grey nothingness. For an hour she lay awake, her thoughts racing, and then gradually she quieted and fell asleep again. It was nine-thirty when she woke the second time. She felt rested, but fog still covered the beach and she could hear the voices of children below the window complaining about it. She dressed quickly and went downstairs for breakfast.

  The dining room was almost empty as she entered. She walked through to their regular table before the windows, and stopped short when she saw Huntly McQueen sitting with her mother. There he was as solid and rotund as ever, nodding his head ponderously in response to whatever her mother was saying. His heavy face was a composition of curves and circles, tufted eyebrows turned up and the corners of his mouth turned down. The curve of his jaw was balanced firmly by the tire of flesh at the back of his neck. Although it was hot and sticky, McQueen was wearing a dark business suit and a polka-dot bow-tie in a soft white collar. His round head was balanced like a dome on his shoulders, his frizzy hair was a horseshoe around the skull. He caught sight of her and by an obvious effort of will smiled, his head moving slowly as he did so, like a turtle trying to be amiable.

  Heather sat down, unfolded her napkin and smiled at the waitress who came to take her order. McQueen, who had jumped up at her approach, sat down also.

  “Heather!” Janet said. “After all–we have a guest!”

  She studied the menu. “So I notice.”

  “Heather!”

  McQueen cleared his throat. “Come, Janet. Come now! It’s all right. I quite understand.”

  “I’m not hungry this morning, Marie,” Heather said. “Orange juice and toast will be enough. And coffee.”

  McQueen cleared his throat again. “Well, well, my dear! Your mother and I have been talking.”

  “Naturally,” Heather said.

  Janet smiled at friends two tables away and her voice had never been sweeter as her glance came back to rest on her daughter. “We are only thinking of your own good, you know. Huntly had a most uncomfortable trip down, too. You’ve always hated air-conditioned trains, haven’t you, Huntly? Then he had to drive all the way down here from Portland by car.”

  Heather paid no attention to either of them, and for a third time McQueen cleared his throat. “Now then, Heather. We might as well get to the point, eh?” He chuckled ponderously. “Your mother tells me you’ve been getting ideas in your head.”

  The waitress arrived with the toast, orange juice and coffee. Heather sat back in her chair until the food was placed before her and the waitress had departed. Then she said, “Fancy my personal affairs being so important that Huntly had to come all the way down from Montreal!”

  “I don’t understand your attitude at all,” Janet said.

  Heather drank the orange juice and laid the empty glass aside. “Have you ever really tried to understand it?” she said. “I told you last night I was in love with Paul. In view of the way you received the information, there seems nothing more to say.” She looked at McQueen. “And I’m hardly prepared to address a public meeting.”
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  “What a thing to say!” Janet touched McQueen’s wrist with her fingers. “I’m awfully sorry, Huntly.”

  Heather picked up her knife and began to butter a piece of toast. McQueen folded his hands on the table and hunched forward, as if gathering his forces.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” he said. “I’ve known you all your life, Heather. Who else should your mother turn to in trouble but me?”

  “Is Mummy in trouble?”

  “Well, now…” McQueen pulled his waistcoat down. “I don’t need to remind you that your mother has been under a great strain these past few months. We must both have consideration for her.” His voice grew sonorous. “Your attitude seems to be completely unreasonable. No one has said a word against your, ah–your plans. We just want to know the facts of the situation, that’s all. There are many things to consider in a matter of this kind–particularly for a girl in your position.”

  Heather looked at McQueen. “I’m quite willing to discuss it with Mummy,” she said quietly.

  McQueen looked from mother to daughter and chuckled. “Tell me about your young man. What does he do?”

  “He writes.”

  “Oh! What else does he do?”

  “At the moment, nothing.”

  McQueen and Janet exchanged glances. “That’s what your mother and I both feared,” he said.

  “You don’t need to be afraid, Huntly. Writing is quite a good enough job for anyone.”

  McQueen leaned back and his grey eyes seemed to be looking through the solid fog beyond the window. “You know, I’ve lived in Canada all my life. I’ve been in every city in the country, and I think I can say I’ve met everyone of any importance in it. But apart from Ralph Connor and Stephen Leacock, I’ve never met a single writer who could live by books alone. Those are pretty important facts to consider, don’t you think?”

  Heather finished her coffee. “I don’t want to be rude, but I think it very probable that both Paul and I know a good deal more about the profession than you do.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps.” McQueen pulled his waistcoat down again. “After all, I’m merely a practical man. From what little I know of your young man’s background, I should guess that he’s far from a fool. After all, I knew his father well, you know.”

  Heather gave him such a sharp look he quickly changed his tack. “Anyway, my dear–I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions when I infer that under the present circumstances your young man is interested in a good job, if he can find one. I made a few inquiries in Montreal last night and I got the impression–correct me if I’m wrong–that he’s never had any permanent kind of position. He’s nearly thirty now, if my calculations are correct. And that’s not a fact to overlook. When a man reaches that age it’s high time for him to, ah–stop sowing his wild oats and get something solid under his feet.”

  Heather lit a cigarette and made no reply. McQueen rubbed his chin. “Of course I can’t guarantee him anything in the writing line. As you say, I know nothing of things like that. But I can certainly get him an honest job.” He watched her face. Its expression changed and he felt a quiet satisfaction because the situation was obviously yielding to him, as all situations always did.

  “What kind of a job?” Heather said.

  McQueen and Janet exchanged glances again. “Well, of course, I can’t be explicit now. There’s no need to be hasty. I’ll have to wait until I get back to Montreal. But there’s no doubt about it, Heather–if your young man is willing to work, I’ll guarantee him a job.”

  “What kind of a job?” Heather kept her eyes on his face.

  “Now, now–please!” McQueen raised his index finger. “That’s something you’ll have to leave to me. But I think, all things considered, I can safely say you have nothing to worry about. Give me his address and I’ll call him as soon as I get back.”

  With some hesitation Heather gave McQueen Paul’s address and the telephone number of the house where he was living. McQueen put on his pince-nez and wrote the information in a pocket notebook. When pen and notebook were back in his pocket, he said, “Now then, Heather. There’s one more thing. Your mother is tired. She needs all our consideration. I want you to be a good girl and stay here with her for at least a week or ten days more. I don’t have to remind you that we all have duties that can’t be overlooked.”

  “It’s not just for myself, dear,” Janet interrupted. “It’s–it’s all sorts of things. I’m sure if I go back now in all the heat I won’t be well. And now that your grandfather has gone–you must realize that I’m responsible for a great many things. We both are, now. Our family has its position to consider. And you and I are the only ones left in the big house.”

  Heather rose from the table. “I’m going out,” she said. “For a walk.”

  She left the dining room without glancing back, went upstairs, put on a raincoat and walked out to the sand. The fog surrounded her; cool, salt and wet on her cheeks and hair. She had always loved fog. Fog and rain. She loved it almost as much as she loved the sun. She walked rapidly down the deserted beach, with breakers beating steadily underneath the fog on her right.

  Her thoughts beat in rhythm. She was twenty-eight, she had lived alone in New York for nearly four years, she loved a man and was his legal wife. In spite of this they still treated her as a child. Even if they knew of the marriage, it would still be no easier to make them understand what passed in her mind than it would be to converse with Eskimos. God in Heaven–why couldn’t she be free of this! Love for Janet? Pity for her? Habit? She thought of McQueen with his Midas touch and his unaccountable ability to suck the work and energy out of everyone. He and Paul–both couldn’t be right. The world of one or the other must yield. Had there ever been a time in human history like the present, when the older generation was blind to nearly every vital issue for which their children were prepared to fight and die?

  She slowed her rapid walk, climbed over a rocky headland, and after a while turned on her tracks and moved slowly back along the sand to the hotel, her hands in the pockets of her raincoat. She kept remembering Paul’s matter-of-fact remark that men like McQueen could not help themselves, that the world had merely reached a point at which their instincts betrayed them in everything they did. Well, they could blunder into a war, but they couldn’t wage it alone. She trembled and clenched her hands in her pockets. Day by day the size of the news paper headlines had been increasing. It was coming. Inexorably, like the waves under the fog, it was coming upon them.

  The indignity of her present position made her flush with shame. She realized now what she had tried to forget when she had been with Paul, that the instincts and training Janet had breathed into her were far from dead. She still dreaded a scene with her mother, dreaded the bitterness and hatred that might spring from it. All her life she had hedged and dissimulated in order not to upset Janet. Now she was burdened by a dread of what her mother might do to Paul’s pride. Because his father happened to be French and his mother Irish–but most of all because he was poor–Janet’s instinct would make her stab at his pride until she had inflicted a wound that might never heal.

  When she reached the lawn before the hotel she saw her mother and McQueen sitting side by side on the veranda, huddled in raincoats like passengers aboard ship. Janet seemed excited, gesturing as she talked, and McQueen was listening and nodding heavily. Occasionally he raised his index finger and held it like a pointer to emphasize a remark.

  Heather turned and walked back into the fog again. She walked for an hour, had something to eat in Kennebunkport village, returned again. By that time McQueen had left.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  McQueen’s taxi had a puncture on the way back to Portland and he sat in the back seat while the driver jacked it up and changed the tire. Inland on U.S. 1 there was no fog and the sun beat straight down through the moist air. When finally he reached Portland, McQueen had barely time to catch his train. He paused just long enough to pick up a newspaper, a copy of Fortune, and a left-wi
ng weekly featuring an article on the British Empire.

  When he reached his compartment he was sweating profusely and his hand stuck to the lining of his pocket as he fished for coins to tip the red-cap. He was tired, worried and overheated, and because the train was air-conditioned he was sure he was going to catch cold. If the Americans kept on with this mania for comfort, he thought, they would ruin the health of their whole nation inside another twenty-five years.

  He mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief and stumbled through to the dining car. As soon as he had eaten, he returned to his compartment and locked himself in. He took off his jacket and waistcoat and put on a thick woolen dressing-gown made of the McQueen plaid. He removed his shoes and thrust his feet into a pair of felt-lined slippers, put the magazines on the seat beside him and tried to relax.

  Last week a cabinet minister had telephoned from Ottawa to ask if he would consent to serve in his department if the worst happened. The thought of working for the government was revolting to McQueen, but if the worst came to the worst, he supposed he would have to do his duty. There was no doubt about it, they were worried sick in Ottawa, and so was he. Every time he read a newspaper he felt personally badgered by what was happening in Europe. He simply couldn’t believe there would be a war. And yet…

  On top of everything, it was worse than too bad of Heather to choose a time like the present to make trouble for her mother. She was showing no more sense of responsibility than a servant. McQueen’s ponderous jaw hardened. He could not understand the lack of common decency and ordinary loyalty in young people these days. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of decay. He wouldn’t be surprised…

  Well, McQueen decided, this nonsense was going to be stopped, for if Heather married someone like Paul Tallard anything might come of it. So he was a writer, was he? McQueen would very much like to see what he had ever written. Probably some modernistic nonsense about socialism and sex that no decent publisher would touch.