Gabrielle Roy

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Gabrielle Roy The Road Past Altamont (La Route d'Altamont) (1966) (selected excerpt) Toward the middle of the Provencher Bridge, Maman and 1 found ourselves surrounded by sea gulls; they flew over the Red River; Maman took my hand and clasped it tight, as though to convey to me a movement of her soul. A hundred times a day Maman got a lift of joy from the world around us; sometimes it was nothing more than the wind or the flight of a bird which delighted her. Leaning on the parapet we watched the gulls for a long while. And all of a sudden, on that bridge, Maman told me that she would like to be able to go whenever and wherever she might choose. Maman told me she still longed to be free; she told me that what died last in the human heart must be the liking for freedom; that even suffering and misfortune did not wear thin within her this inclination toward liberty . . . Maman quitefrequently spoke to me of such notions, perhaps because 1 was too young to see anything wrong in them, perhaps also because she had no one else to whom she could speak of them. Yet in the past Maman had already spoken of being free, and the only outcome had been even more children, much more sewing, much more work. As tied down as she was, why indeed did Maman never cease to wish for freedom? As she watched the gulls, she began to smile, and she said to me, “One never knows! So many things happen! . . . Before I get really old, perhaps I’ll travel, live through some adventure ...” “You’re already old,” I told Maman. “Not that old,” Maman replied, a little put out. “You’ll see yourself, when you’re fortynine; you’ll believe you still have a few good years ahead of you.” “Oh!” I protested. “I'll never be forty-nine!” And Maman agreed that she was rather old, that it was late, true enough, to obtain from life all that she had wanted from it. But what was it she had so much wanted from life? 1 had asked her. Was it not a house, her husband, I and the other children? Maman said no; that, at least during her earliest youth, those were not the only things she had wanted; though—she added—her husband. her house, and her children she would not exchange for anything in the world. […] “I have an idea; let’s go show ourselves to Mrs. O’Neill, as though we were all ready to leave; I have an idea she’ll be tempted. Let’s put on our dress jackets and walk by Mrs. O’Neill’s just as though we were going a lot farther ...” Maman must have been a good judge of character. Mrs. O'Neill, who was sittins: on her porch that day, the moment she saw us coming jumped up from her chair; she opened the screen door and came a few steps to meet us. 'My gracious! What lovely costumes yon have! How well they'd suit me and my little Elizabeth!” "They're not so much,” said Maman; “I made them myself.” "How clever you are!” said Mrs. O’Neill. "Oh! dear! Turn around a little,” she asked me, "so that I may see how that charming little cape is made . . . It puts me in mind of my uncle Pat and the macfarlane he would wear to go to town . . . Couldn't you make two other suits, just like them?” she asked Maman, "one for me and one for m\ little girl? And Ld also like those big pockets . . . you can put so much in them! . . .” Maman then explained that the design was by way of being a creation, in short an idea completely out of her own head, and that, generally speaking, one does not repeat creations. Oh! I'll gladly pay you whatever is necessary,” said Mrs. O'Neill. “Oh, please!” Mother had a few qualms of remorse at having accepted Mrs. O'Neill’s order. “Perhaps it was not right of me to have done that,” she said; “the Lord alone knows what 1 may have put in Mrs. O'Neill’s head. It’s unlikely that the suit, even when she has it for her own, can carry her back home to Ireland. Yet, on the other hand,” Maman added, "I'll have fifty dollars from Mrs. O’Neill for the two creations and for the dresses I shall mend for her. So I'll not be using your father’s money for the trip I’m going to take.” And she explained to me: "If God affords me the means to make enough money to leave, it's because He wants me to go.” God must have favored my mother’s ideas, for at the same juncture she received ten dollars from her brother Majorique. Papa suspected nothing. He returned from Saskatchewan worn out and almost disheartened. His Doukhobors had stripped themselves naked and in that state had wandered all over their village, because the Government wanted to force them to live like everyone else; and the Doukhobors had replied that God created us without a stitch of clothing. My father seemed weary of the human race, and he looked upon us with a trace of envy. I remember: that day we were all in the large, sunny kitchen, and each of us seemed busy at what pleased her, Maman sewing: Alicia embroidering; a saucepan was jiggling slightly on the stove; I was playing with the cat. And Papa said, "I don't know if all of you realize how lucky you are! A good roof over your heads; enough to eat; peace and tranquillity. I wonder whether you appreciate your good fortune.” Maman looked a bit defiant. “Certainly wc appreciate,” said she, "what we have; yet all the same, from time to time, it would be nice to get away from the house.” She went on to explain, “There are limes, Edouard, when I d trade my life for yours: to travel, sec new things, wander over the country ...” As she talked, she became carried away; her eyes began to glow. I saw nothing in this so greatly to annoy Papa, but now he began to berate mother as a gadabout, a gypsy, an unstable person. A little offended, Maman replied that it was all very well for a man to talk that way; that a man, because he had the luck to get out of the house, imagined that the house was a sort of paradise . . . Then Papa really lost his temper; he accused all mother's family, saying they were a race of gadabouts, people who had never been able to settle down in one place. Whereupon Maman retorted that in all families there were tales to be told; that perhaps it was a good thing we did not know Papa’s people, because among them, too. there were certainly faults to be found. And Papa said, "Truth to tell, you ought to have been born in a gypsy caravan.” “You know, Edouard, that wouldn’t have displeased me a bit!" Maman replied. Papa once again departed for Saskatchewan to try to make his Doukhobors see the light. Seemingly he was making progress—by means of gentleness and patience. The Royal Police had got nowhere with prison. Later on I learned that in the new settlements Papa was altogether a different man from at home, very understanding with his poor Slavs; off there, even, he was frequently jolly; in a tent, with his people, on the prairies, Papa was forever humming a tune. He traveled a great deal in a wagonette harnessed to a grey mare, and the tall grasses on either side of him must have billowed, while the partridges flushed from their small swamps. How sad! For had Papa behaved with us as he did with strangers, and Maman with him as she did when he was away, would they not have been perfectly happy together? . . . Papa returned to his post, and the sea gulls returned to fly through our dreams and our thoughts. But in order to break away, Maman had so many bonds to sever that she became upset over it. I then perceived that freedom, too, grants the human heart small repose. Mother had to part with Gervais, whom she sent to boarding school. At file convent she asked to see Sister Edouard in the parlor. This was our Odette, who then bore a new name. Maman asked her to pray for a project about which she could tell her little, but which was close to her heart. A risky project, said she; God would perhaps view it askance. But Odette promised to pray in any case. Then the middle girls had to be disposed of. We took them to Saint-Annedes-Chênes; the sisters at this convent had made Maman a very reasonable price for the two of them together— Alicia and Agnes. Both of them had handsome long hair; in those days it took Maman a good hour each morning to comb, brush, and braid their tresses. For a woman who valued freedom, what chains she had forged herself! The two middle girls also had dresses covered with flounces, made with small, tight pleats and wide starched collars; to wash and iron those dresses meant a good day's work for Maman. I never saw a sadder house than ours when Maman and I got back to it. That it was so large had never struck us before, nor that it echoed the sound of one’s voice from room to room. We began walking around on tiptoe, translated by Joyce Marshall (1913–2005)

The Road Past Altamont (La Route d'Altamont) (1966)

(selected excerpt)

Toward the middle of the Provencher Bridge, Maman and 1 found ourselves surrounded by sea gulls; they flew over the Red River; Maman took my hand and clasped it tight, as though to convey to me a movement of her soul. A hundred times a day Maman got a lift of joy from the world around us; sometimes it was nothing more than the wind or the flight of a bird which delighted her. Leaning on the parapet we watched the gulls for a long while. And all of a sudden, on that bridge, Maman told me that she would like to be able to go whenever and wherever she might choose. Maman told me she still longed to be free; she told me that what died last in the human heart must be the liking for freedom; that even suffering and misfortune did not wear thin within her this inclination toward liberty . . . Maman quitefrequently spoke to me of such notions, perhaps because 1 was too young to see anything wrong in them, perhaps also because she had no one else to whom she could speak of them.
Yet in the past Maman had already spoken of being free, and the only outcome had been even more children, much more sewing, much more work. As tied down as she was, why indeed did Maman never cease to wish for freedom?
As she watched the gulls, she began to smile, and she said to me, “One never knows! So many things happen! . . . Before I get really old, perhaps I’ll travel, live through some adventure ...”
“You’re already old,” I told Maman.
“Not that old,” Maman replied, a little put out. “You’ll see yourself, when you’re fortynine; you’ll believe you still have a few good years ahead of you.”
“Oh!” I protested. “I'll never be forty-nine!”
And Maman agreed that she was rather old, that it was late, true enough, to obtain from life all that she had wanted from it.
But what was it she had so much wanted from life? 1 had asked her. Was it not a house, her husband, I and the other children?
Maman said no; that, at least during her earliest youth, those were not the only things she had wanted; though—she added—her husband. her house, and her children she would not exchange for anything in the world.

[…]

“I have an idea; let’s go show ourselves to Mrs. O’Neill, as though we were all ready to leave; I have an idea she’ll be tempted. Let’s put on our dress jackets and walk by Mrs. O’Neill’s just as though we were going a lot farther ...”
Maman must have been a good judge of character. Mrs. O'Neill, who was sittins: on her porch that day, the moment she saw us coming jumped up from her chair; she opened the screen door and came a few steps to meet us.
'My gracious! What lovely costumes yon have! How well they'd suit me and my little Elizabeth!”
"They're not so much,” said Maman; “I made them myself.”
"How clever you are!” said Mrs. O’Neill. "Oh! dear! Turn around a little,” she asked me, "so that I may see how that charming little cape is made . . .
It puts me in mind of my uncle Pat and the macfarlane he would wear to go to town . . . Couldn't you make two other suits, just like them?” she asked Maman, "one for me and one for m\ little girl? And Ld also like those big pockets . . . you can put so much in them! . . .”
Maman then explained that the design was by way of being a creation, in short an idea completely out of her own head, and that, generally speaking, one does not repeat creations.
Oh! I'll gladly pay you whatever is necessary,” said Mrs. O'Neill. “Oh, please!”
Mother had a few qualms of remorse at having accepted Mrs. O'Neill’s order. “Perhaps it was not right of me to have done that,” she said; “the Lord alone knows what 1 may have put in Mrs. O'Neill’s head. It’s unlikely that the suit, even when she has it for her own, can carry her back home to Ireland. Yet, on the other hand,” Maman added, "I'll have fifty dollars from Mrs. O’Neill for the two creations and for the dresses I shall mend for her. So I'll not be using your father’s money for the trip I’m going to take.”
And she explained to me: "If God affords me the means to make enough money to leave, it's because He wants me to go.”
God must have favored my mother’s ideas, for at the same juncture she received ten dollars from her brother Majorique.
Papa suspected nothing. He returned from Saskatchewan worn out and almost disheartened. His Doukhobors had stripped themselves naked and in that state had wandered all over their village, because the Government wanted to force them to live like everyone else; and the Doukhobors had replied that God created us without a stitch of clothing. My father seemed weary of the human race, and he looked upon us with a trace of envy.
I remember: that day we were all in the large, sunny kitchen, and each of us seemed busy at what pleased her, Maman sewing: Alicia embroidering; a saucepan was jiggling slightly on the stove; I was playing with the cat. And Papa said, "I don't know if all of you realize how lucky you are! A good roof over your heads; enough to eat; peace and tranquillity. I wonder whether you appreciate your good fortune.” Maman looked a bit defiant. “Certainly wc appreciate,” said she, "what we have; yet all the same, from time to time, it would be nice to get away from the house.”
She went on to explain, “There are limes, Edouard, when I d trade my life for yours: to travel, sec new things, wander over the country ...”
As she talked, she became carried away; her eyes began to glow. I saw nothing in this so greatly to annoy Papa, but now he began to berate mother as a gadabout, a gypsy, an unstable person.
A little offended, Maman replied that it was all very well for a man to talk that way; that a man, because he had the luck to get out of the house, imagined that the house was a sort of paradise . . .
Then Papa really lost his temper; he accused all mother's family, saying they were a race of gadabouts, people who had never been able to settle down in one place. Whereupon Maman retorted that in all families there were tales to be told; that perhaps it was a good thing we did not know Papa’s people, because among them, too. there were certainly faults to be found.
And Papa said, "Truth to tell, you ought to have been born in a gypsy caravan.”
“You know, Edouard, that wouldn’t have displeased me a bit!" Maman replied.
Papa once again departed for Saskatchewan to try to make his Doukhobors see the light. Seemingly he was making progress—by means of gentleness and patience. The Royal Police had got nowhere with prison. Later on I learned that in the new settlements Papa was altogether a different man from at home, very understanding with his poor Slavs; off there, even, he was frequently jolly; in a tent, with his people, on the prairies, Papa was forever humming a tune. He traveled a great deal in a wagonette harnessed to a grey mare, and the tall grasses on either side of him must have billowed, while the partridges flushed from their small swamps. How sad! For had Papa behaved with us as he did with strangers, and Maman with him as she did when he was away, would they not have been perfectly happy together? . . .
Papa returned to his post, and the sea gulls returned to fly through our dreams and our thoughts.
But in order to break away, Maman had so many bonds to sever that she became upset over it. I then perceived that freedom, too, grants the human heart small repose. Mother had to part with Gervais, whom she sent to boarding school. At file convent she asked to see Sister Edouard in the parlor. This was our Odette, who then bore a new name. Maman asked her to pray for a project about which she could tell her little, but which was close to her heart. A risky project, said she; God would perhaps view it askance. But Odette promised to pray in any case.
Then the middle girls had to be disposed of. We took them to Saint-Annedes-Chênes; the sisters at this convent had made Maman a very reasonable price for the two of them together— Alicia and Agnes. Both of them had handsome long hair; in those days it took Maman a good hour each morning to comb, brush, and braid their tresses. For a woman who valued freedom, what chains she had forged herself! The two middle girls also had dresses covered with flounces, made with small, tight pleats and wide starched collars; to wash and iron those dresses meant a good day's work for Maman.
I never saw a sadder house than ours when Maman and I got back to it. That it was so large had never struck us before, nor that it echoed the sound of one’s voice from room to room. We began walking around on tiptoe,
translated by Joyce Marshall (1913–2005)