On the Proper Use of Stars
Page 18
The Polar star shines all through the night, a useless guide. The Star of the Sea resembles a small eye, always open, impassive, above our heads. It is most often at night that people die, alone amid their fellow creatures lost in their nightmares. At times it is impossible to unfold the frozen bodies and they are committed to the earth like that, knees against chin.
In the morning, muscles are stiff, joints painful, the slightest effort is torture. Yesterday, four seamen refused to start walking again. They stayed back, sitting in the snow, dazed, gazing hollow-eyed at the provisions and the few tools that I ordered left for them. One was hanging on desperately to a fork which he held tightly in his right hand; another was swaying back and forth, a smile on his lips, singing softly to himself.
18 May 1848
Tomorrow will mark three years since we left Greenhithe. We will have gone around the Sun three times and at the same time remained cruelly motionless.
We pitched a tent where we will leave those who cannot go on. We spend one last night with them before setting off again, with the impression – accurate, too accurate – of keeping a vigil with a man in agony whom we shall abandon in the morning to the death that is lying in wait for him. We let them have more than half of the provisions, rifles, and tools, but they are so weakened that they will be unable to hunt or fish, should they even have learned how, which is not the case. Most have trouble even taking a few steps. They have asked us to leave Neptune with them, but from the brightness of their eyes at that moment I realized that they wanted neither his company nor his protection but, rather, his meat. I shall not leave them the dog. I shall not leave them the dog but I am abandoning defenceless men to starving men. Tonight I looked one last time at the faces of those whom I shall no doubt never see again, for whom I was responsible and whom I have led to their death in this land of ice. Their noses, foreheads, cheeks are blackened by the cold which has robbed them of toes, fingers, an ear. Their teeth have come loose in their gums streaked with blood. Some have virtually lost their eyesight, victims of snow blindness which afflicts eyes strained from too much whiteness. These beings, now totally stripped of that which made them men, toothless, incapable of feeding themselves or of moving, seem to have returned, through some hideous irony of fate, to the state of nursling; they will leave this world as they entered it, dispossessed of everything.
I dare not imagine what will become of them in the days to come.
All I can hope for is that their death be gentle.
Some cry in hushed tones while we prepare to set off in the deathly pale light of dawn. Others groan or let out moans that have nothing human about them. We walk away without turning around.
21 June 1848
Once again we must leave our companions behind, without even a tent for protection from the elements or rations worthy of the name to keep them alive while they wait for us to come back with help, or for a group of Esquimaux to take them under their wing, or for a search expedition to discover them.
For shelter we leave them the last sloop, which is too heavy to be dragged by three men, and the bulk of what it contains: tea, chocolate, useless cufflinks, and a Bible that has miraculously survived various prunings. Wilks stuffs a bit of paper into my hand which I think at first is a letter bidding final farewell to his fiancée. Unfolding it I discover some lines written with a trembling hand:
There must be some meaning to that but I do not have time to elucidate the message and I content myself with carefully folding the paper and slipping it into my pocket as if it were an amulet. Fitzjames and Adams lavish pointlessly some final attention on those we are abandoning to the cold.
It occurs to me only today, while we pursue this march of which no one knows whether it will lead us straight to death or to safety, that in recent days we have crossed the Passage we set out in search of more than a thousand days ago. It does not appear on any map, is not drawn on any chart; nothing testifies to its existence apart from, in the distance, the bodies of those who have fallen and have not got up.
Hornby and Thomas are conscious when we leave and they watch us disappear, eyes wide open.
There are now only three of us under the white of the sky.
THAT MORNING LADY JANE rose early, dispatched quickly and without much pleasure her breakfast, which she took alone, Sophia not having fallen asleep until dawn. She had dressed immediately and given the domestics their instructions for the day. As early as ten o’clock, then, when a weak spring sun was coming in the window, spreading a pale light, she was at her desk, pen in hand. Only now, for the first time since Sir John’s departure, the words did not come, the ideas did not jostle in her mind from where they usually gushed as from an inexhaustible spring.
She sat for a long moment disconcerted, then forced herself to inscribe a few platitudes on the paper; she crumpled it almost immediately into a ball which she tossed to the floor, where it landed on Mr. Darcy’s muzzle. The dog let out a little yelp and walked away decorously.
Lady Jane’s irritation was threatening to give way to anger. She took a deep breath, looked around the sitting room where her treasures were displayed, considered with an expression half severe, half satisfied the bundles of letters, cards, maps, drawings, and sketches that she had produced over these past years and of which she had made copies that she had confided to Mr. Simonton, being very careful to keep the originals in her possession.
Feeling dizzy, as though she were standing on the edge of a cliff, she tried to shake herself. In an impatient motion she spilled the cup of tea she had set on the desk and stared as if hypnotized at the amber liquid spreading across her maps, blurring the delicate lines of watercolours she had drawn there over the years. Rivers that ran to the sea, mountains, straits, lakes and streams, coasts, islands and peninsulas, real or imaginary, melted into a single liquid stain that drowned the Arctic territory altogether.
Author’s Note
The preceding narrative does not claim to be anything but a novel. Although partly inspired by genuine events, and although some characters are based on real persons, it claims neither objectivity nor historical accuracy and belongs completely to the realm of fiction.
I have, however, consulted both contemporary books about the Franklin expedition and the Northwest Passage and a certain number of old works on electricity, magnetism, and explorations. In several there were passages I couldn’t resist the urge to transcribe faithfully, offering them to readers just as they were written at the time.
The very first paragraph, which deals with the possibility of freezing sea water, is taken practically verbatim from Discovery and Adventures in the Polar Seas and Regions: with illustrations of their climate, geology, and natural history, published by Sir John Leslie in 1881; it is also the source of John Barrow’s instructions to John Franklin.
The reader will have recognized in Journey to the Moon my (rather pathetic) dramatic adaptation of États et Empires de la Lune, by Hector Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac. (The translator made grateful use of Andrew Brown’s elegant translation, Journey to the Moon.)
The introduction and the brief excerpt from The Veils were published in 1815 by Eleanor Porden, who would later marry John Franklin.
The lines attributed to James Ross are from his journal, quoted by Pierre Berton in The Arctic Grail.
From the second volume of Leçons sur l’électricité et le magnétisme, by Élie Nicolas Mascart and J. Joubert (1882), I took the illustrations of instruments used for magnetic readings, along with explanations and formulæ related to that process.
The document in six languages in which the members of the expedition twice refer to their progress was found in 1859 at Victory Point on King William Island (at the time known as King William’s Land, since it was discovered only later that it was surrounded by water). It is one of the only written documents that testifies to the fate of the members of the expedition still alive on April 25, 1848. Another note was found next to a skeleton wearing a steward’s uniform, not far from th
e mouth of the Peffer River; written backwards, it consisted of a few lines reproduced here. The words “O Death, where is thy sting,” are from Corinthians 15:55. All quotations from the Bible are from the King James Version.
I relied as well on various other sources, linguistic as well as gastronomic.
The definition of the word “tea” that Crozier finds in an etymological dictionary is very close to that in the Robert historique de la langue française dictionary.
For adventurous cooks who have twenty-one days to dedicate to the execution of a dessert and who wish to embark on making a plum pudding, a recipe, inspired by the one found at www.theworldwidegourmet.com, is provided here. Bon appétit!
Acknowledgements
This novel would never have seen the light of day without the encouragement and support of a number of people. I am grateful to my first readers, Nadine Bismuth, François Ricard, and Yvon Rivard; their comments helped improve it considerably. Thanks to Jean Bernier for his irrepressible love of Bach. And to Antoine Tanguay of Les Éditions Alto whose confidence and enthusiasm are contagious and who turned a manuscript into a book.
Thanks to Lara Hinchberger and the entire team at McClelland and Stewart for believing that this novel could also exist in English, and to Sheila Fischman who agreed to lend her talent to the task.
Thanks to Fred, for everything, forever.
Plum Pudding
INGREDIENTS
9 oz currants
9 oz sultanas
2 teaspoons candied lemon peel
2 teaspoons candied grapefruit peel
4 teaspoons candied orange peel
9 oz candied cherries
9 oz candied cranberries
4 cups rum
4 oz blanched almonds
18 oz finely chopped suet
8 oz rye bread crumbs
4 oz brown sugar
½ teaspoon powdered cinnamon
½ teaspoon grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon powdered ginger
½ teaspoon ground cloves
a pinch of salt
4 tablespoons brandy
1 cup milk
2 tablespoons butter
4 oz flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
6 large egg, lightly beaten
juice of one orange
juice of one lemon
Brandy Butter
9 oz unsalted butter
2 oz brandy
zest of 1 orange
Chop finely raisins, and candied peel and fruit. Pour onto mixture four cups of rum and set aside for 48 hours. Drain and reserve rum.
Combine all ingredients but eggs. Add ¾ cup reserved rum and the juice of one orange and one lemon. Cover bowl with cheesecloth soaked in rum and set aside for 21 days. Stir mixture once a day, adding a little rum if necessary to keep the mixture loose.
If the dough becomes too firm, lighten it with a glass of ale; if too liquid, add a little flour and stir gently.
In a pudding mould, place a large piece of cheesecloth with both sides buttered and floured. Add eggs to the batter. Pour the mixture into the mould and fold the four corners of the cheesecloth over the dough. Take a piece of parchment and cover.
Place pudding in oven, in a large pan half-filled with water. Bake for 6 hours at a very low temperature, checking the water level now and then.
Remove pudding from mould and allow to cool.
Cover with clean tea towel and a sheet of parchment and leave in a cool place to ripen for at least one month. (The pudding will only improve if left to age longer.)
On Christmas Day, bake pudding for 3 or 4 hours. Turn out.
Set aflame with brandy or cognac and serve with brandy butter.
Copyright © Dominique Fortier 2008
English language translation copyright © Sheila Fischman 2010
Originally published as Du bon usage des étoiles in Quebec in 2008 by Éditions Alto
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Fortier, Dominique, 1972-
[Du bon usage des étoiles. English]
On the proper use of stars / Dominique Fortier; translated by Sheila Fischman.
Translation of: Du bon usage des étoiles.
eISBN: 978-0-7710-4768-8
1. Franklin, John, Sir, 1786-1847 – Fiction. 2. Franklin, Jane Lady, 1792-1875 – Fiction. 3. Crozier, Francis Rawdon Moira, 1796-1848 – Fiction. I. Fischman, Sheila II. Title. III. Title: Du bon usage des étoiles. English.
ps8611.o7733d813 2010 c843′.6 C2010-901493-6
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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada, through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing, for our translation activities.
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