Two Solitudes (29 page)

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 felt 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.

In spite of his anxiety about the factory, Athanase
's trip had given him back some of his old jauntiness. Kathleen noticed the change at once; she also noticed that some of it was forced. Underneath he was as nervous as a cat, and she waited quietly to see what he would do when he learned what the parish thought about him now. She did not have long to wait.

The first morning after his return, Athanase went into the village to get his mail and papers. He met Yardley as he was stepping out of his carriage and the two went into the store together. Athanase was talking so rapidly he failed to notice the expression of warning on Yardley's face, so the reception he received hit him squarely in the face.

Drouin laid his mail on the counter and immediately turned his back. Athanase spoke pleasantly and got no answer. He picked up the mail and glanced about. All the other men in the store had turned their backs too. When he spoke to Frenette the result was the same. He might have been talking to an empty room.

He leaned over the counter and tapped Drouin's shoulder. “What's the matter today, Polycarpe?”

Drouin muttered something unintelligible as his eyes dropped, and he shifted clear of Athanase's hand. There was a long moment of silence. Yardley quietly picked up his own papers and stuffed them into his pocket. Athanase kept looking at Drouin, his face drawn and formidable. “Have you lost your tongue?” he said sharply.

There was still no answer. Athanase knew he should have let it go at that, but his stubbornness kept him there. He turned and tapped Frenette on the shoulder. “What about you, old friend? Are you dumb too?”

Frenette faced him a moment, his beer-barrel body solid on his short legs, then shifted his eyes and backed away. The old habit of respect was in his face. So was a kind of affection
and a great desire to be friendly in his own way. But he stepped back just the same.

Then something exploded in Athanase's brain. “God damn you–haven't I been here long enough for you to know who I am? Frenette–there's a window broken in my house. I want you up there this afternoon to fix it.”

Frenette mumbled something incoherent.

“What's that you say?”

“I said I was sorry, Mr. Tallard.”

“You damn fools!” Athanase lifted his stick and banged it down on the counter. “You poor…”

Then he felt Yardley's hand on his elbow, and throwing an angry glance over his shoulder he caught the expression on his friend's face. Yardley looked both sad and embarrassed at the same time. He stepped quietly between Athanase and Drouin.

“How about you cutting me a sheet of glass, Polycarpe?” he said quietly. “I guess you know what the measurements are. I told you last week. I'll be back in the afternoon to get it.”

Drouin answered eagerly, in grateful relief. “Don't bother, Captain. Me, I'll look after it myself. This afternoon, for sure.”

Yardley kept his hand on Athanase's elbow and moved with him to the door. They climbed into the carriage and Athanase cracked the whip so loudly it sounded like a rifle-shot. His cheeks were flushed and he began to talk in loud excitement. Almost at once Yardley interrupted him.

“Don't try to say anything now. Later on maybe, you and me can talk it over, but right now there's no sense in it.”

 

That afternoon, just after lunch when Athanase was alone in the library, Julienne knocked and entered. She was not wearing her apron but her Sunday clothes: a black dress and a
black hat with a feather on it. She stood just inside the door, stocky, sullen and a little bewildered. “I'm giving my notice,” she said.