Kamouraska Read online

  Kamouraska

  Also by Anne Hébert

  FICTION

  Am I Disturbing You?

  Aurélien, Clara, Mademoiselle, and the English Lieutenant

  Burden of Dreams

  The First Garden

  In the Shadow of the Wind

  A Suit of Light

  POETRY

  Day Has No Equal but the Night

  Kamouraska

  Anne Hébert

  Translated by Norman Shapiro

  Copyright © 1970 Éditions du Seuil

  English translation copyright © 1973 Crown Publishers Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This edition published in 2000 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

  Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4

  Tel. (416) 363-4343 Fax (416) 363-1017

  www.anansi.ca

  First published in French as Kamouraska in 1970 by Éditions du Seuil.

  General Paperbacks edition published in 1982.

  Stoddart Publishing edition published in 1994.

  Distributed in Canada by

  HarperCollins Canada Ltd.

  1995 Markham Road

  Scarborough, ON, M1B 5M8

  Toll free tel. 1-800-387-0117

  13 12 11 10 09 3 4 5 6 7

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Hébert, Anne, 1916–2000

  [Kamouraska. English]

  Kamouraska

  Translation of: Kamouraska

  ISBN 978-0-88784-653-3

  I. Title. II Title: Kamouraska. English.

  PS8515.E16K313 2000 C843’.54 C00-930744-3

  PQ3919.H37K3313 2000

  While this novel is based on an actual event that took place many years ago, it is still very much a work of fiction. The real participants in the drama have lent it only their outermost, “official” gestures, as it were.

  From that point on, they have gradually developed within my own mind, and have come to be imagined creatures all my own. — Anne Hébert

  Cover design: Angel Guerra

  Page composition: Joseph Gisini/Andrew Smith Graphics Inc.

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Kamouraska

  The summer went by from beginning to end. Unlike other years, Madame Rolland didn’t leave her home on Rue du Parloir. It was very fair, very warm. But neither Madame Rolland nor the children went to the country that summer.

  Her husband was going to die, and she felt a great calm. He was just slipping away, ever so gently, hardly suffering at all, and with such admirable good taste. And Madame Rolland waited, dutiful and above reproach. If she felt a pang in her heart from time to time, it was only that now and again this waiting seemed about to assume distressing proportions. That peaceful sense of being free, ready for anything — that feeling that surged through her, down to her very fingertips — couldn’t bode any good. Everything seemed bent on taking place as if it would soon be clear, past all the waiting, just what her real expectation meant. Somewhere beyond the death of that man who had been her husband for almost eighteen years. But even now grief was working its protective defenses. She clutched at it, hanging onto it like a railing. Anything was better than that awful calm.

  I should have left Quebec. Gone away from here. All alone in this barren, empty July. There’s no one I know left in town. I go out, and people stare at me like some strange beast. This morning, back from market. Those two young hoodlums, looking me up and down. Watching me every step of the way. I shouldn’t go out alone. The city’s not safe anymore. No doubt about it now. People are watching. Spying. Following me. They keep coming closer and closer all the time. They’re right behind me. That woman, yesterday, almost on top of me. I could feel her there, with that steady, deliberate step. Right at my heels. And when I turned around, she jumped into a doorway and hid. Yes, I saw her disappear inside. Nimbler, quicker than anyone, except . . . Oh, yes, that’s what tugs at my heart. So nimble, so quick . . .

  I could have shaken her off, silly thing. No trouble at all. Could have taken a cab. Crossed the street. Gone into a shop. Could have sent for my driver to hitch up the horses and come pick me up. But I just kept walking, never looked back. Sure I was dragging her right behind me, there all the time . . . Walking, always walking. People turn and stare as I go by. That’s what my life has been. Feeling humanity split in two to watch me pass between the rows. The Red Sea parting to let the holy army cross. That’s what this world is like. Life in this world, this life of mine. And one fine day I had to face this miserable world. Stand up to it. With two policemen by my side, no less. Me, Elisabeth d’Aulnières. Widow of Antoine Tassy, wife of Jérôme Rolland. And I felt like laughing in the whole world’s face. Oh, what a ride, what a lovely sleigh ride! From Lavaltrie to Montreal. The warrant for my arrest, the two policemen stinking of beer, the ride through Montreal. And in such style! The warden tells me how sorry he is, and he bows and scrapes right down to the floor. The black door shuts behind me. Four moldy walls. The smell of the toilet. The cold. The indictment . . . Court of King’s Bench. Session of September 1840. The Queen against Elisabeth d’Aulnières-Tassy . . . My wild youth. Interrogations. Witnesses. And each time I had to spruce up my innocence. Like beauty between two dances, like virginity between two affairs. Two months locked up, then home. Reasons of health. Family reasons. Good-bye, prison. And good-bye to you, dear warden. You poor bewildered man. Well, you have my maid to console you. Justice can hold her as long as it likes. Two years behind bars. Poor Aurélie Caron. But time wipes the slate. And now you’re free, as free as your mistress. A new life, a new start . . . They’ll never extradite my lover. Charges withdrawn. Two years. Just have to accept things the way they are. Get married again. No veil this time, no orange blossoms. Jérôme Rolland, my second husband, and honor is restored. Honor. What an ideal to set yourself when love is what you’ve lost. Honor. A fine obsession to dangle before your nose. The donkey and his carrot. Daily dole at the end of a stick. And the hungry little ass goes trotting all day long. All his life. Until he can’t go on anymore. What a farce! But it keeps you going, a whole life through. Oh, how I love to walk through the streets, with the image of my virtue just a few steps ahead! Never out of my sight. Eyes peeled, like a prison guard. Always on that image. The Sacred Host in the holy procession. And me, right behind, like a silly little goose. Yes, that’s all a virtuous woman is. A gaping fool that struts along, staring at the image of her honor . . . To dream, to escape, get rid of the obsession. To lift the mourning veil. To look at every man in the street. All of them. One after another. And have them all look back. To run away from Rue du Parloir. Find my love, at the end of the earth. In Burlington. Burlington. The United States. In a while you’ll leave Canada, won’t you? That’s all I ask. Please, tell me how I can write you.

  Oh, how the poor thing suffered! How cold he was that winter, all alone, all the way to Kamouraska. Four hundred miles, to Kamouraska and back. Oh, love, love. You’ve hurt me so! Why pity you? You ran, ran off like a coward. Left me behind, by myself, to face that pack of judges. That horde. My love, my love. Let me bite you, beat you, kill you . . . Never to see that face again, that lovely face. And age bearing down on me, coming to get me. It hasn’t touched me yet. At least not much. Two fine little lines
from my nose to the corners of my mouth. The constant strain to be virtuous, I suppose. But still, I know my good days are numbered. Disaster can’t be far away. Crow’s-feet — more like claws — all around my eyes. Starting to lose my shape. But still in one piece. Yes, I’m all in one piece. And after the hell they put me through. My trial by horror. My ordeal of the flesh. But flesh that simply wouldn’t be destroyed. See for yourself. Like the salamander. My body is so far ahead of my soul. All my teeth, good breasts, my buttocks firm. A filly. A two-year-old. And standing tall besides. Proud look of virgins that won’t give in. A husband, two husbands. And the love that left me one February night, left me on the shelf to gather dust. There in Sorel. After the tragedy at Kamouraska. When my love came back from Kamouraska. I’d never come so close to being happy. And he ran away. The one and only man. He ran away, blood dripping from his hands. Burlington. Burlington. I seem to hear that name, ringing in my ears, shrill as a bell. To taunt me. Make me die by inches. Ding, dong, ding . . . No need to play the martyr’s role. It hasn’t been so hard to lead a virtuous life these eighteen years. Model wife of Jérôme Rolland. Mild little man who insists on his rights before he’ll go to sleep. Every night, or so it seems. Until his heart can’t stand it anymore. And me, always the dutiful wife. Period or not. Pregnant or not. Nursing or not. And sometimes even a galling little pleasure from it all. Oh, the shame of that pleasure stolen from my love. Why mince words, why pretend? I was nothing but a faithful belly, a womb for making babies in. Eight children by him. And three with the one before. With Antoine Tassy, the squire of Kamouraska! See the third? Who could his father be, do you suppose? This child . . . The source. The real beginning of my woman’s life. Dear little Nicolas, whom do you look like? Your eyes? My lost love’s eyes. I know it for sure. The image of my love, this third son of mine. So dark, so slender. This little man. My little devil off at school.

  Soon I’ll be free. A widow again. Oh, to be decked out already in fine, sheer crape and the best black veils. The cheap ones turn green before you know it. Wiping my eyes, my tearless eyes. Breezing along in some unknown city, huge and endless, filled with men. My sails unfurled. Roaming the seas . . . The city is like the ocean, haughty and wild . . . Leaving, to find the only tenderness my heart ever knew. Lost love. And this squalling brood of mine. Carrying them, giving birth to them, nursing them, weaning them. Days, nights, my every minute. The death of me and my reason for living, both at once. No time for anything else. Eleven babies in twenty-two years. This dull, blind land. And all the blood, the milk, the chunks of crusty afterbirth. So much, so much. Poor Elisabeth, unstinting Elisabeth. Dear little Nicolas, one and only child of my love. The holy sacrifice I offered up, there in the snow. In the cove at Kamouraska, frozen over, smooth as a dry, dusty field. Murderous love. Treacherous love. Deadly love. Love. Love. The only living thing in this world. The madness of love. Please tell me how you are and how the poor child is doing. His last letter, stopped by the judges.

  Madame Rolland stands erect, hardly breathing, hands poised on her crinoline skirt. Bends her head toward the shutters and takes a sharp look between the slats. Pricks up her ears, hidden by her hair pulled tightly back. The street below exhales its warm, wet breath. Along the eaves the gutter clatters, overflowing. In the bedroom thick with velvet, filled with furniture from England, a man’s voice rasps in an inaudible mumble. Something about the gutter.

  Off in the distance, the sound of a horse’s heavy gait, dragging a wagon behind him. It’s two in the morning. What can a wagon be doing out now, in this empty, deserted night? There’s been so much prowling about in the streets . . . Now it’s closer. Rue Saint-Louis, Rue des Jardins, Rue Donacona . . . Quiet . . . Good God! It’s turning the corner. Closer and closer, the iron-rimmed wheels, the plodding, lumbering hooves . . .

  Any minute now, the horse and carriage will be pulling up under my window. It’s me they’re after. It’s me, I’m sure. One day, a carriage . . . No, a sleigh, it was a sleigh. It’s winter. I can hear the runners behind me, scraping along the hardened snow. They’re after us, tracking us down, Aunt Adélaïde and me. The team of horses, galloping hard. Trying to catch me. Oh, those tremendous horses, the sleigh dashing after me. And me, nestled against Aunt Adélaïde, screaming I think. Faster! The American border, and I’ll be safe. If only I can convince her. My frightened accomplice. Faster, faster! My love, somewhere behind that imaginary line. The border, in the middle of the forest, and freedom. No use, that trip to Montreal. Talk to a lawyer about the tragedy at Kamouraska? Too late now, it’s no longer up to me. Off to find my love. Faster, faster. Just enough time. And my poor aunt, weeping: “I’ll do anything you say. We’ll both be damned together, darling. Oh, God help us! We’re done for! I told you to be careful, didn’t I? Oh, Elisabeth! What madness! But it’s his fault too, that monster’s fault, Antoine Tassy. Oh, what’s to become of us! It’s a sin, Elisabeth, a terrible, terrible sin . . .” Too late to go on living now. We only get as far as Lavaltrie . . . The police. My arrest. My poor aunt wipes her eyes. Did I want to die? Did I really want to, deep in my bones? Live, live. I want to go on living, no matter what.

  Madame Rolland closes the window. She turns toward her husband. Back against the glass, hand still on the bolt, she gauges the narrow space between the rain-soaked street, an old, creaking wagon, and that man — that small, round, ever so fragile man whose every thought is of impending death.

  “Haven’t you had the gutter fixed yet? How can I get my sleep with all that noise? Even a minute’s rest?”

  Madame Rolland hears only the sound of a wagon in the night.

  “Do you hear that wagon?”

  “What wagon?”

  “In the street. That wagon, creaking . . . The horse . . .”

  Monsieur Rolland listens for a moment, ear cocked, like a bored confessor. The rain, the wind, the torrents of water gushing from the gutter. That’s all he hears. No other sound.

  “You must be dreaming, Elisabeth, poor dear. It’s only the rain . . .”

  A sudden splash of silence. The rain must have stopped. By now the wagon must be in front of the door. Madame Rolland looks round the room for some place to hide. In the full-length mirror she sees the little table by the bed. Cluttered, covered with glasses, bottles, medicines. Newspapers and religious books strewn here and there. And propped up on a stack of pillows, the harried face of Jérôme Rolland, ghastly white, watching.

  Madame Rolland draws herself up, straightens the pleats in her skirt, smooths back her hair. Over to the mirror, to find her own reflection, her best defense. My soul — my musty, mildewed soul — off somewhere. Held prisoner, far, far away. And yet I’m pretty. Still pretty. Let everything else come falling down around my head, why should I care? One thing is clear. One thing that keeps me going, through all the nagging fears, all the horror of my days. A man . . . One man . . . Lost. To stay pretty forever, for him. Just for him. Day by day love cleanses me. It washes away my every sin, my every fear, my every shame.

  Monsieur Rolland sees a triumphant figure approaching in the mirror. His wife looms up like that very image of transfigured death that haunts his visions through the long, tortured nights. He cringes, smaller and smaller. Crouches, buries his head between his shoulders. So smooth, so open to attack, his whole being limp and unprotected. An oyster caught without his shell. Nothing but his eyes alert, his sharp-pointed eyes, with something in them very much like hate.

  He asks for a lump of sugar so he can take his drops. Not yet, she tells him, it’s not time. He calls for Florida. He pouts. His lower lip trembles, like a child about to cry. He’s afraid. Florida, send for Florida, he pleads. Madame Rolland’s calm voice assures him that it’s half-past two in the morning. Florida must certainly be asleep. Her words, clear and irrefutable, ring through the night. Like a sentence of death. Florida is asleep, the children are asleep, the whole world is out of reach. Only this woman. Monsieur Rolland is all alone, offered up to his wife’s malevolent power,
a wife who already once before . . . He begs her to go wake Florida.

  “Don’t be absurd. The poor girl has to begin again at six. She needs her sleep. Now there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll get you the sugar myself. It’s not time for your medicine yet.”

  Monsieur Rolland looks at the clock on the mantel. Four more hours to wait before Florida appears in the doorway, gaunt and efficient, a smug little smile on her homely face.

  “Did Monsieur have a good night’s sleep? Here, let me freshen you up a little. And let’s not forget to do our little business if we have to.”

  With Florida it’s all right to be yourself. Sick and disgusting, frightened and resigned, complaining and demanding. But with Elisabeth . . .

  “Would you like something to drink? Isn’t there anything I can get you?”

  Don’t take a single swallow while she’s here. No, nothing while she’s here. She wants to kill me. Don’t let her give me my drops! Watching them fall on the sugar, seeing the color slowly change while she squeezes them out one by one. No, no, that’s more than I could bear. I’d rather die right now.

  What an admirable woman your wife is, Monsieur Rolland. Eight children, and still everything so neat and tidy. And now, the whole time you’ve been ill, the poor thing hardly ever leaves the house. Always by your side. What devotion, what attention! A saint, Monsieur Rolland, that’s what she is, a saint. And so pretty too, pretty as a picture. Age, tragedy, crime . . . Nothing seems to touch her. Like water on a duck’s back. Yes, an admirable woman.

  “Please, go get Florida.”

  Madame Rolland knows better than to tell a sick man no. Try to interest him in something else, like a child.

  “Would you like me to read to you?”

  She pokes among the books piled high on the bed table. He points to one.