The Princess Is In Pain
Was it the proverbial bull in the china shop, was it a herd of buffalos stampeding through the cabbage patch, was it a silly frog dripping on the living-room carpet, was it a wild hermit howling in a fashionable salon? Worse. It was Georges making his entry into the Quéloz household. A cultural shock. Far more so for being unconscious, undeliberate and present in each subtle detail of daily activity.
Georges, we will recall, was socially gauche or 'social-phobic'. Thus, inept in general company. Georges had long been the only child of life-generous parents (curtailed by a rhesus-factor incompatibility). His brother Raymond arrived when Georges was sixteen. Thus Georges had been deprived of the social schooling brothers and sisters inevitably bring about and he did not make up for it in the outside world. Though secluded, he had acquired general traits from the North-American milieu which prevented him from being singled out on a ordinary day. But the day was no longer ordinary. It was now to prolong itself in weeks of mutual intimate contacts with strangers from an alien culture.
And so Georges would ring the door-bell. Since he would inevitably be ten minutes early and Danielle would invariably be ten minutes late, that would leave an awkward twenty minutes wait in this strange household. Mrs Quéloz, truly well bred and well intent towards this poor homesick boy from farawayland, would generously offer her company in the usual manner between civilised strangers. She would inquire how things were. Any correct person would instantly talk at least of the weather, possibly of good or ill health, of the state of his studies, and also inquire about the other's health, humour and activities. But Georges would simply react coolly (because nervous) by a non-committal, "Things could be better; things could be worse."
Sensing the impossibility of making any progress in conversation, Mrs Quéloz would politely retreat to her kitchen, leaving the unhousebroken boy to wait in the living room.
This did not prevent her from making various kind of gestures towards him on various occasions. For instance, she invited him over for supper on March 28, Danielle's nineteenth birthday. On this occasion, Mrs Quéloz had made one of Danielle's favourite dishes: fricandos. This consists of thin slices of beef individually rolled around a filling of chopped onion, bacon and various spices, tied with a small thread, then roasted to a point and finally cooked for three hours in a pot. The result is most favourable to the delicately educated palate. But Georges was a fast-food boy. When genially asked by his hostess for his reaction towards this novel culinary pleasure, Georges politely refrained from admitting its strangeness of taste. Instead, he politely answered in a smile, "They are not hamburgers, but they are okay."
His sense buds were too gross to feel the chill that followed.
After the meal, Georges was invited to take part in a card game with Danielle and her parents. What could go wrong in a card game? It all depends how one has learned to play it. Back home, we used to play it with generous invective against the opponents. Across the ocean, somewhere near the Alps, it seems that people take a more sporting view of mutual entertainment. They applaud their adversaries' good moves and delicately refrain from over-enjoying their own success. Thus the clash between "Why, that was a dirty..." and "Well played, Georges" was both awkward and inevitable.
Also, after a few visits at Danielle's house, the venerable and immortal wooden chairs come all the way from Switzerland and impeccably faithful these last thirteen years in North America, suddenly began to weaken and squeak. As Danielle's mother would angrily remark to her daughter, "Any civilised person knows that one does not simply let himself drop into a chair."
The, one day, Danielle leaked one of her mothers remarks: "My mother wonders whether you sleep with your trousers on."
"Of course, I sometimes do", said he in an assured manner.
It certainly couldn't be expected that one would wearily take them off when dozing an occasional half-hour. At home, the caring for clothing had been mother's responsibility. Without feminine guidance, trousers remained only an efficient non-artistic preoccupation, and were worn till worn-out. When once the thread giving strategic unity to the underside of his trousers was broken, Georges ingeniously found it simpler to staple the two parts together rather than to sew them. When a hole finally appeared inappropriately in the rear, the bearer was taken short, for he had still to go to class before managing a visit to the store to buy a new pair. He realised that it would not do to have a piece of white underwear peaking through till then. So, the mind being master of matter, he simply scotch taped the inside of his pants and, for half a day, went about his dutiful activities till the replacement was acquired.
But a greater clash occurred on the matter of freedom. For years now, my life had been unfettered or, as the other side would put it, unguided. Being an only child for sixteen years had certainly simplified the rules of the home. But such an explanation would explain nothing since Danielle had always been an only child herself. It was in fact simply part of the general atmosphere of my home that I could come and go as I wished. Adult example, love, the needs of life, school-requirements, a healthy social environment and, later, my fear of society, kept me in line. This freedom had been gradually handed over to me as I grew up. Thus I remember one Christmas day, during my mid-teens. My parents were still sleeping-in because we has gone to midnight Mass and feasted afterwards. I woke relatively early, scraped bits of cold turkey and gobbled some pieces of cake. Then I left for down-town to find the movie-house that opened at noon on that day. After two full-length features, I slowly walked back home in time for supper. This was routine freedom. My parents had not been worried. Now, years later, I was on my own at university far far away and answerable only to myself for my every action and decision.
This was not Danielle's lot. I had been surprised, even slightly shocked, that she should need permission to simply come for a walk the first time we did so; and again so each time we went out together. How could this be the fate of an eighteen-year-old girl? Then nineteen. Ruth had never shown symptoms of such a slavish condition. Why should Danielle? Then, added vexation: we had to be back at ten. In Manitoba, I could walk long hours with a friend and get to bed at any time of the night I chose or which my eyelids forced upon me.
Now came the limits. I was in love. I loved Danielle with utmost fervour. I would have married her instantly and lived by her adoring side forever if Danielle had been ready and if we had had the financial means for it. She was ever present in my mind and with my every breath. My class notes became jotted with D.Q.s on every page. Every evening, I would phone Danielle. Every Friday, Saturday, Sunday, I would attempt to be with her. Is that not standard procedure?
Danielle's parents answered "Not at all." These carrying-on were unreasonable. The values of life must come before the pleasures of life. The phone calls were to be limited to one every two days. Going out was to be limited to once a week. I fumed. I raged. I yelped. Of course, orders and reactions came by way of the buffer zone: Danielle, whose situation made her explain Georges to her dismayed parents and her parents to her unreasonable boyfriend. There was never a clash between combatants: only through Danielle.
I suggested that we might meet secretly outside regulations. She could go to plays or whatever, where I would happen by. But she refused and insisted we comply to the rules set down by her parents.
The day following her nineteenth birthday, I turned to sophistry and wrote the Tractatus de Limitationibus for her parents. It began with a preliminary note: "The author of the present essay, being party to the question here treated, confesses not to have respected objectivity in his tractatus. He has taken as a rule that truth must serve the individual and not the contrary. — He hopes that his sophistry will suffice to bring about consequences favourable to his pursuit."
Then, the treatise was scientifically moulded to consider all possible cases of limitations: those touching a bad object against the will of the said object; those touching a bad object yet in concurrence with the will of the said object; those touching a good object in agreement with the object; and, finally, those touching a good object against the will of the object. In this last case we found: "the dates and phone calls between a boy and a girl, arbitrarily limited by the parents of the said girl, against the will of the said boy."
It was said axiomatically that "on the one hand, dates and phone calls are evidently good, even desirable; on the other hand, the future in-laws are a power to be feared." Two avenues were thus to be avoided. It was unacceptable to simply comply to these rules, because this went against the excellent nature of dates and calls. It was also unacceptable to reject these rules, because the in-laws were just too powerful. A compromise could be reached on the matter of phone calls by limiting the length of daily phone calls rather than having the terribly long phone calls every two days, which were the inevitable result of compressed passion. As for dates, the principle of a date a week should be respected as an average. Since the two concerned parties were to be separated from May to September, the dates scheduled during these months would be taken during the coming month of April.
Having thus displayed the might of distinctions and argumentation given by daily frequentation of Greek and Medieval philosophers, I awaited the verdict of Danielle's parents. They laughed. And said: "No."
* * *
Ever since the memorable avowals of St. Valentine's day, Georges' uncertainty and emotional insecurity had been replaced by a certainty driving in high gear towards total love. But Danielle's peace was now in shambles. She had previously never allowed herself to be near to total commitment. She had seen a very dear girl-friend fall head over heels in love with a college boy, and then be horribly heart-broken. But her friend's experience was not the reason for Danielle's shunning of romance. It only confirmed the correctness of her commitment to keep her life free of love till she was ready for a mature step towards intimate responsibilities. And now a hurricane was sweeping her off her feet. She felt no solid ground beneath her upon which to stand, to stop, to reflect, to assimilate, to build.
No doubt her heart was entangled in the web of love, otherwise she would not have felt so miserably happy, so uncomfortably captivated by the presence of this young man. There was joy to hear his voice on the phone. There was happiness to be with him, to feel his company, his warmth. Yet, it was all so unreasonable, unclear.
She was caught up in the conflict between her parents' dissatisfaction with her new friend and her wooer's dissatisfaction with her parents. She loved both. She realised that behind each party's angry remarks, was true tender affection for herself. She so wished that each would understand the other. If only each side would stop attacking a person or persons to whom she was so deeply attached. Why must they always be tearing her apart?
Yes, Georges had faults, huge visible ones which appeared whenevr he was placed in her home's atmosphere. But he was also tender and affectionate towards her. He knew how to speak to her soul. He brought her flowers, that tingle in her life — too often for her parents sense of reasonableness. If only her parents could see this.
Her mother once said: "It is not everything for a boy to be handsome."
Danielle had noticed that Georges was handsome. She was proud to be his girl. But he was not only, not primarily handsome. He was kind. He had a generous nature. She knew that and loved him for it. Unfortunately, his fear of people would make him hide this good nature when he was with her parents and her friends. Then he became — unintentionally — so abrupt, elusive, cold.
Danielle's parents were still compromising. They hadn't asked for the parting of Danielle and Georges. They had merely asked that calls and dates be limited. Of course Danielle would rather be with Georges more often, to hear him, to touch him. But couldn't Georges realise how her parents had always acted for her own good, how she could securely put her confidence in their judgement? She had never been deceived by them. Why must he always push, pull, tug at her? Why be so insistent?
Danielle had also to face the incomprehension of her schoolmates. Previously the life of their parties, she no longer went to them. Georges disliked parties and groups, except for the study group. She felt his fear of social gatherings and respected it. She had greater joy in his company than in the crowd. Her best girl-friend told her to drop this crude fellow. Danielle was wilting away, said she, because of his influence. She was becoming a recluse. Why could her friends no longer have the pleasure of her company? Danielle was hurt by these remarks. If only they could know Georges as she did.
Danielle's future was till heading towards a degree in mathematics far away in Switzerland. This cross-purpose with her growing commitment, unconscious as it was, did not make things easier.
The worst of all was the unnatural and painful secrecy with which Danielle now lived her two lives. She simply could never master herself sufficiently to lay before her parents the extent of her ever-deepening affection for Georges. And she simply could not put Georges' overpowering fervour on hold to have the needed breather to put him before the extent of her parents ignorance of their growing ties. She could have screamed: "STOP!" But neither side ever stopped. All went crazily on ahead.
Summer holidays were nearing. Georges would soon be returning to St-Boniface, Manitoba. Danielle would be, once again, going on to work as a secretary in Moncton, New Brunswick, which gave her experience in personal responsibility and allowed her to acquire a certain fluency in the English language.
Then came the day when Georges was to leave. Danielle and he were together on the balcony of a friend's apartment. The friend was absent. Georges and Danielle talked in a loving and melancholy way. Parting for so long, so far away, was terrible. Georges analysed and rearranged the universe as any proper student of philosophy would do. Danielle listened, impressed. Suddenly, Georges dropped a disturbing thought, one which Danielle had never focused upon before. For Georges, this thought had long been evident and was becoming an obsession. It should no doubt have been clear to Danielle: but it could not, since it simply broke to bits all the built-in purpose of her life of the last years. Georges asked: "What if we got married... some day?"
It seemed so far down the endless tunnel of time. Danielle simply could not imagine it. She talked about it, though, as a purely fantastical hypothesis. This was enough for her wooer. So he added:
"Wouldn't it be something if one day, you and I, we should have ten children?"
What a whopper! Ten children! Danielle said that such matters could not be decided in abstract numbers — even speaking hypothetically. Each child must be seriously considered when the time comes. She admitted there were no prior reasons to limit the giving of life to any number. But there was a prior impossibility to arbitrarily set down a precise number.
Georges was reasonable. He agreed that "ten" was only a tentative number, subject to future health, moneys, and all the rest.
"But wouldn't it be something to have ten children?"
In fact, Georges did not think of ten as of a definite number. What he really meant was a family, a real family, as his mother's parents had had; and as their eldest son had had; and as other uncles and aunts had approximated. He simply wished a normal family. As did anyone in love, he thought.
Danielle was in love. She hadn't yet realised the meaning of it. She certainly did not yet feel it to mean marriage and family. Not just now at least. But, even so, her experience of family life had never been one of "huge" families. There was certainly nothing normal and ordinary about a family of ten children. For one thing, those would be poor families with many hardships that had to be agreed upon ahead of time by the parents. She would not rule out any number of children, but believed one must enter knowingly in each commitment to create a new human life.
However, such decisions — matrimony and family — were so far away, she talked of them as of a strange subject Georges had brought up. She did not feel tied to it. She said so.
Georges then left for the West. Danielle stayed on for a while in Quebec City. Then she also went off for the summer.
* * *
Summer holidays were terribly long. Every single day, I wrote a letter to my sweetheart. First, to Quebec City. Then to Moncton. I had a holiday for vacation. She had a holiday for work. Yet she generally managed to keep the same rhythm in our correspondence. I piled on words of sublime enthusiasm. She replied with everyday news. But as she wrote nearly as often as I, she must, I thought, feel the same.
Inevitably, I soon recalled the conversation we had on our last day together. I pushed, I pulled, I tugged. We loved each other: we must marry.
Danielle was evasive. She was not ready to rush into things. She agreed with the premise of love but had not yet followed it to its conclusion. On the whole, marriage was not discounted. The way was certainly open. Which once again meant, for Danielle, a miserable feeling that things kept getting out of hand. Which meant, for Georges, that persistence was carrying the day.
* * *
I arrived back in Quebec City before Danielle. I eagerly waited for her return. She would arrive by plane that evening. That afternoon, I took a twenty minute walk to salute Danielle's parents politely. With their usual kindness, they inquired about health, family, weather and summer. I came back to my room, full of burning anticipation for the evening. After supper, I phoned. The plane was slightly late. I phoned later. Yes, Danielle had arrived. But she was exhausted. It was out of the question, I was told, that we should meet this evening. Danielle must first recuperate. Please call back tomorrow. I politely put the receiver down, and I exploded in anger and frustration.
All the summer months, I had lived for this precious moment. I had dreamed of it, ached for it, and now sweet reason was preventing me from it. What kind of totalitarian monsters were those parents? Danielle's heart was mine. Our hearts were one. No one had the right to intervene, to separate us, especially at so precious a moment as this. So thought I. We had been arbitrarily separated... for the eternity of a few hours.
Next day, when Danielle and I were alone, after we had hugged and kissed in a passionate embrace, Danielle realised that the (relative) calm of summer was over, that once again she was in the midst of a raging war. There was no longer time and distance to smooth things out. The opposing parties of reasonableness and passion fought anew against each other again tearing her apart. Yet both parties possessed her — she could not retreat.
* * *
During this school term, we found an oasis of love, with the return of Carlos, accompanied by his family. Carlos is the nearest I have ever come to having a loving elder brother.
We had met in January of the previous winter term. Carlos Sacheri was an Argentine Ph.D. in Law who had discovered the fundamental value of philosophical thought. This had brought him north with his family to Laval University, where he had completed his studies for the Doctorate the year before I arrived. He had brought his family back to Argentina and then returned to Laval as a guest professor of Ethics and Politics. Should he accept the invitation to become a permanent member of the teaching staff, he would then have his family move to Québec permanently.
Pierre had introduced us. And since, for the duration of that term, Carlos lived as a bachelor in the men’s residence on campus, he and I met regularly and became close friends.
Carlos was fascinating. Aside from the impressive fact that he was fluent in Spanish, Italian, French and English and could read German, Latin and Greek, that he was competent in Law, Politics and Philosophy, that he was a deeply committed family man, that he was a professor loved by most students and respected by most of his Faculty colleagues, Carlos was simply a loveable man. He also generously allowed me to regularly proclaim Danielle's virtues and to wail over her parents' tyranny. He understood the former and reserved judgement on the latter.
Satisfied with his winter term, Carlos had opted to stay at Laval University and had now brought his family to live here.
I had arrived well before the beginning of classes. I was in my room. There was a knock at the door. I answered. A beaming Carlos proudly presented to me: "Jose, Maria and Cecilia."
Jose was four. Maria was three. Little Cecilia was two. Their younger brother Pablo had stayed at home with their mother, Maria-Martha. How pleasant to meet an old friend again, but how strange it was to see him transformed into a father, a house-bound human being with whom there would no longer be all those nightly chats, who would no longer be a free companion for lunch and long philosophical wanderings. Yet he thus became a fuller man. He was no longer just a friend of ideas. He was a loving man.
Danielle and I were soon invited over to sup with the family. Maria-Martha was charming and energetic, lovely (a slim dark beauty) and generous. We arrived when she was icing a cake especially made for the occasion. Children all around — it seemed to us — were begging for a lick of the spoon. Maria-Martha welcomed us with a Latin jubilation that conquered Danielle, instantly even though se was more accustomed to the reserve natural to the Swiss-bred. Quickly, the men began to toy with abstractions. Danielle immersed herself in Maria-Martha's life full of children, of meal service, of family responsibilities, of permanent selfless presence to all. She admired those beautiful children, despairing of ever having any of her own as beautiful.
After supper. while the evening was young, Jose, Maria, Cecilia and lovely Pablo were off to bed. First, they thanked God, with their father, for life, family, and love. Then they hopped into bed for the night. At least, that was the idea, though Carlos had to return to their room a few times till finally noises subsided and stopped.
The two couples could then have the pleasure of adult conversation for a few hours till parting time. Carlos and Maria-Martha treated us as a united couple. And we witnessed real life in them. No marked incident or great discovery ever came of meeting them. But our affection for Carlos and Maria-Martha grew so strong that we must have drunk there an elixir of verity far beyond any of our mind's insights. Being a young and inexperienced couple, we often took note of the "evident" failings of other couples and families. Yet this never happened towards Carlos and Maria-Martha. Somehow, we only thought of them as a family, a true to the word family, a family as it should be lived.
* * *
In the weeks following our reuniting, I entered in a direct campaign in favour of matrimony: ours. Danielle and I were evidently in love. We cherished and coveted our mutual companionship. We were each other's joy. It stood to reason that we were heading towards total everlasting commitment to one another. So I thought. So I argued. So I forced Danielle to agree. She conceded that we must be on such a course. She could find no words to cause me to swerve from such a conclusion. She could only insist that the time was not ripe for the ultimate commitment, which I readily admitted as long as it should eventually come.
The logical inference from her acquiescence was to inform her parents formally of our decision to wed. I told Danielle so. She recognised the fact. Yet she would argue that it was not yet time to do so — not just now. I finally made definite demands that she take that step on a given day. The evening of that day, she confessed that she had not yet told her parents, and had a particular reason to stall till the morrow. And so again on the morrow.
I became impatient and uncompromising. Each time we talked things over, Danielle would admit each logical link, but it always ended, in the realm of reality, beyond words, in her failure to act.
I realised I would have to do it myself. Danielle admitted that she simply could not make herself do it. She agreed that the Sunday next, we should together inform her mother and father of our desire to wed. Following my plan, Danielle would ask permission to sleep late on Sunday morning, leaving her parents to go alone to their regular Mass, whereas she would go to the eleven o'clock Mass. I would meet her there. Afterwards, Danielle and I would come to her home together and say what had to be said.
I felt no qualms. Our wish to marry was founded on the fact that we were now so great a part of each other's life. Also, our lives being ours, her parents could really have no say in the matter. Courtesy alone made this formality a necessity. Indeed, I could not in the least understand why Danielle had not gone through it on her own.
The morning came: October 31. At nine, Danielle's parents would be arriving at their church. I could call Danielle. I rang her up. I hear the ring. Then I froze.
"Yes? Quéloz residence", a sleepy voice answered.
A man's voice. Her father's voice. I was put off. I panicked. I put the phone down without a word. The plan was not working. What could I have done? I had been left utterly speechless. It now appeared that Danielle's parents had chosen to attend the later mass, with their daughter. Or had I been a victim of an impossible illusion? I was wracked with uncertainty.
A half hour later, I reasoned that Danielle's parents must have been late in leaving for mass. I knew this was utterly unlike them. But that could be the only logical explanation of the fact. I rang again. Danielle's father answered again. I could not repeat my previous performance. I had to inquire whether I could be allowed to speak to Danielle. Mr Quéloz answered Danielle was sleeping and would rise late.
That part of my plan was working. Why, I anxiously asked myself, was the other part failing? I thanked Mr Quéloz and cut short.
Things were badly off. I knew Danielle's father to be no fool. He must have realised that I was responsible for the previous phone call. And Sunday morning was off dating limits. With Danielle's parents present with her at mass, dared I happen along? How should I manage the impossible feat of being invited over to their home with them? I certainly could not simply explain our project of matrimony in the church-yard, with people streaming all around us.
The only idea that came to me was to invite a friend to come with me to the Mass. Two of us would seem slightly less conspicuous, I forced myself to believe. It would be more of a coincidence than my popping up alone. I charged up to my friend's room. Breathlessly, I knocked at his door. He awakened and did not seem quite happy with the ruckus I had made. I begged him to come with me to Danielle's Mass. My life was at stake. He looked at his watch and asked me what as all the rush since it was only quarter to nine. Mass was only at eleven. I could at least have let him sleep a little longer.
"No, no!", I said. "It's quarter to ten. Hurry!"
"Quarter to nine", he repeated stubbornly. "Don't you know we have put the clock back one hour during the night? We are going to standard time."
Since that day, I have never forgotten to change my clocks on the correct day of Autumn and Spring.
My heart slowed its rhythm. My head gradually levelled. I apologised profusely for needlessly wakening him and bade him sleep again, and left. I had made foolish phone calls, but the seriousness of our matter might yet cover them up.
At nine o'clock, the real nine o'clock, I phoned Danielle. She answered. Her parents had left for Mass. Danielle asked me why I had twice phoned her house. I lamely apologised and explained. She confirmed she was going at eleven o'clock Mass.
And there she was. We prayed together. I had regained my confidence and composure. We walked back to her home hand in hand. We entered her house together.
Her mother was surprised to see me. I explained Danielle and I would like to say something to both her and her husband.
Then we were four in the living-room. Mr Quéloz gave us an inquiring look. I began: "You probably know what it is we wish to say."
"No", they answered honestly.
"Danielle and I would like to be married", I said.
There was sheer astonishment on their faces. I was myself stunned by their surprise. They asked Danielle if this was true. She admitted it was. They told us of their surprise and said they would have to think things over before giving an answer. And that was it. I had been dismissed. I left.
I left Danielle in hell. Her parents felt she had lied to them. She had never told them there was anything serious. Had they known, they would certainly have put an end to it.
How could Danielle defend herself? She had not lied, but had also not confessed. Her silence was damning and she was being damned. Now she had to bear the genuine hurt and anger her parents felt and the reproaches they poured upon her.
I was no great consolation to her. Though her feelings made me suffer, I was mainly angry at the treatment she was subjected to. I adhered deeply to the fundamental principle that these people had no rightful say in our lives. They had been told of our intention. Their God-defined role was to accept facts to be facts and not to torture their daughter, the person I loved. This I said over and over again to Danielle, thus adding torture to torture.
Yet, the situation was so deeply dramatic, that I was brought beyond revolt towards decency. Something had to be done. A compromise must be struck. An extended hand had to be offered.
That Saturday was November 6: Mr Quéloz's birthday. I wrote him a letter. My written word generally compensates for the awkwardness of my spoken word. I wished him a happy birthday. I expressed my deep regrets for the suffering we had given him and his wife while we had hoped to bring them joy. I offered my sincere apology and asked for their forgiveness. I sent him the letter by taxicab.
The next day, Danielle's parents gave us their answer. They would allow us to date seriously.
Ties had been repaired, but the parties were still miles apart. While thanking them for their gesture, I felt incredulity mounting within me. We had been dating seriously for nine months. We were far beyond that point. We now wanted to be married. We did not need a permission to do in the future what had already been done by the divine right of falling in love. The time had come for wedding dates, not for preliminary dating. So I felt. So I told Danielle. Once again, she vainly tried to make me understand her parents' view in the matter. I wouldn't since I was right.
I was bitter. So were her parents. For they now saw all my shortcomings in a frightful new light: that of their daughter's possible ordeal for life. They lost no chance to point out each and every shortcoming to her.
* * *
Fred was an intellectual. But a courageous one. A U.S. citizen ignorant of the French language, he had chosen to take his Ph.D. in Philosophy at the totally French-speaking Laval University in a foreign country. He had laboured ceaselessly and was doing quite well. But, though rational thought was the important part of his life, he was a man of heart and felt a need for a foray into the world occupied by the other half of humanity. So he asked Georges whether Danielle might have a girl-friend in whose company he could delight.
January had come. Danielle had inquired about Fred's tastes, and urged her friend Hélène to respond to his invitation. Hélène was a happy and reserved girl, distinctly of the serious kind, the kind in whom — contrary to folklore — mirth is best found.
After the fateful week-end of his first date with Hélène, Fred met an inquiring classmate, Georges, who made him confess that Hélène had been a very charming, attractive and pleasant companion.
"You will be calling her tonight," asked Georges, "to thank her for the good time you had together?"
Fred was not a man of experience.
"Do you think I should?" he asked.
"Of course", said Georges (more knowledgeable in the theory of practice than in its application). "It would be the polite thing to do."
Fred telephoned.
Wednesday came. Georges was surprised that Fred had not yet thought where he would take Hélène on the week-end. Fred confessed that he had not thought of taking her out. But Georges was convincing, and Fred put his mind to the matter. Unfortunately, that evening, Hélène answered that she regretfully could not accept his invitation because her mother was ill and needed her help.
On Friday Georges awakened Fred's sense of decency and responsibility. There was no reason not to ask Hélène how her mother was coming along. That was logical. And Fred followed suit.
On Saturday morning, Georges called Danielle. Fred and Hélène were a common subject of conversation, being each a friend of each. And Georges told of his crime: "Fred has phoned Hélène three times this week."
Danielle was horrified. She knew how level-minded Hélène was. Such a rash behaviour would certainly have been ill-received. But Georges insisted: "There is no problem. Each call was for a very good reason."
Georges explained. Then their conversation roamed among many subjects — talking for the sole purpose of being together. Unfortunately, Danielle eventually had to end this idyll. Georges never found reasons to stop. He had even once managed to distract Danielle's attention, despite regular summons from her mother, for two full hours. This time the call was vastly shorter, rather reasonable in length.
Some ten minutes of solitude later, Georges' phone was ringing. He answered. The world started spinning. The impossible was happening. His princess' voice. Danielle had always respected the feminine privilege of having her man make the first move. Of course, Georges had responded enthusiastically to this responsibility — too much so. Danielle had never had the chance to feel a need to call him. She regularly had to fight him off the phone.
Yet there she was. Happy as a clam!
"Hélène just phoned me", said she. "Guess what she told me. She said Fred had called her THREE times during the week. I expressed shock. But", and here Danielle laughed joyfully, "Hélène immediately replied: 'Oh, but each call was for a VERY GOOD reason!'"
This had been too much for Danielle. She had had to tell me about it.
This was certainly a good joke on Fred and Hélène, but the goodness won out over the joke. Their friendship was to mature into a permanent and faithful love.
Danielle had innocently taken a step further in her growing commitment. She had come to Georges on her own.
* * *
A full year had passed since last St. Valentine's day. February 14 was back. When Danielle arrived home from school, there were twelve red roses in a box waiting for her. An enthralling gift from a silly boy, Georges. This was their first anniversary. Danielle's heart spilled over with happiness, a happiness that could only bring sadness to her mother, who bitterly remarked: "He may have made you happy. But he has made us terribly unhappy."
Danielle went to her room and wept.
That evening they dated at a restaurant, feasting on filet mignon. Danielle managed to show the happiness the roses had given her. But, unbeknownst to Georges, she had to force herself to eat each bite. Within her, her soul was wrung with pain, the pain of living love.
* * *
Carlos often heard Georges' acidic remarks concerning Danielle's tyrants. But he also noticed Danielle's silence, Danielle's unspoken anguish. So, one day, he called her. Danielle was at last free to speak out, to reveal her bruised heart and her confused mind. Carlos was a friend who knew Georges, who accepted their love, who put no pressure upon her. She told Carlos that she saw kindness in Georges, though the whole world seemed to agree to paint him black, cold and harsh. Was she right and everyone else wrong? Could she expect this same kindness in the future, could she expect it to last? Was it insight or illusion?
Carlos said she saw Georges truly. The failings were all there, to be sure. So were the good qualities, the generosity. He believed this generosity to be Georges' true nature. Danielle would be able to trust her man.
This talk gave her peace. For the first time, a mature and friendly voice did not flog her. Some light finally began to shine at the end of the tunnel of horror she had come through.
* * *
All that time, Danielle's parents never used force against her. They never pulled rank on her. They were faithful to their promise that Danielle would be allowed to go out seriously with Georges. But they freely passed judgement upon him, because they honestly believed they should do so. And they tried to place before her the consequences of her choice.
One major consequence would be the end of the family dream: the return to their homeland and relatives. Further, Mrs Quéloz warned Danielle: "You must realise that if you marry him, you shall never see Switzerland again."
Danielle knew this to be true. Georges fear of society struck out against any place he did not know. He disliked travelling. He was not interested in seeing Europe. He expressed prejudice on a high level, as a protective barrier against the unknown world. Danielle knew there was no ill-will in senseless words. But she also knew that he had no will to alter his prejudices. And she loved her birth-place. There had always been talk of the day they would all return there. Though she remembered little of her first years when she lived in Switzerland, she had gone over visit her relatives when she was thirteen. It had been a grand experience to be without accent and with uncles and aunts and cousins and a grand-mother and a grand-father. Was her heart now so full of someone else that she would accept the forgoing of all this? Would she really forsake her true country for a young man to become her own?
Her parents allowed her to live the moment of truth. They would pay for her to have a two-months' summer vacation in Switzerland.
Georges was naively sure of himself and saw nothing in that to fear. He simply rejoiced that Danielle could have the kind of holiday she loved. Other than that, things seemed to be following his set course.
All parties concerned now apparently admitted that Danielle and he were to be wed in a year's time or less. By then, he would have got his Master's degree in philosophy and be ready to teach for a few years at the college he had graduated from in Manitoba. At the end of the present school year, her last at Jesus-Marie College, Danielle symbolically chose the colour of philosophy — no longer mathematics — to indicate her change of heart and her new commitment. "Symbolically", for she would not go on to university. Indeed, she and Georges had benefited from the personal dedication and constant presence of their mothers and wished the same for their own children. When married, Danielle would be a wife for her housebond (husband) and a mother for her children. There would be enough philosophy in the house with Georges' diploma. On the other hand, Danielle's father insisted that his daughter get a touch of adult responsibility before taking on that of matrimony. She should earn her own pay for a while. The Sisters of her college accepted her to teach part-time a class of seventh-graders the following year.
Georges would himself gradually begin his career as a teacher of philosophy. During the coming summer, he would be giving a course of Ancient and Medieval Philosophy at his own college back in Manitoba. Then, thanks to Carlos' influence, he would teach Ethics part-time at a Quebec college while he copmpleted his last year of classes at the university. These jobs would allow him to put some money away for the first days of married life.
All these projects convinced Georges that he could confidently expect, at summer's end, a happy return of his bride-to-be from Switzerland.
School term was ending. Danielle's prom dance had been announced. It became evident that Georges — ever true to himself — could not be got there by any means. But as it became clear that the event would be high-class and as various girls began suggesting that hard liquor be brought along to make the fun start sooner, Danielle was finally quite happy to forgo it. Instead, Danielle and her class-mate, Hél ne, went out with Georges and Fred. They had club-sandwiches and whopping strawberry shortcakes at a restaurant. Then they went bowling. Since Hél ne had never bowled before, the boys kindly gave her the basics. And, of course, with Danielle laughing uncontrollably, Hél ne beat and humiliated every one... especially the boys. The girls never regretted their choice for prom's night out.
Summer arrived. Georges went as a young teacher to his college in Manitoba. Danielle left for Switzerland and relatives.
* * *
There was something weird yet flattering to start an academic career by teaching a summer course. I was now twenty-two and many of my students were older than me, adults who wished to complete or take their college diploma.
I was full to the brim with the assurance given me by some teachers that the salvation of the mind and the world could be had through the Wisdom they had given me. Regarding content, I spoke with marked assurance. As for pedagogy, I came to realise that I would carry through life a marked failing which had not troubled me too much till then, the lack of memory for names and even faces. I simply could not retain them — save for the exception which confirms the rule. Thus, from the beginning of my teaching encounters, I addressed myself mainly to the idea rather than to the people present. This succeeded tolerably. Needless to say, I was soon humbled with respect to my supposition that teaching was a breeze, that I should be better than all of my own teachers whose shortcomings I knew. I soon felt as if I had made all those shortcomings my own.
In my first period, I entered with prepared teaching notes. I must have rushed through them as a nervous beginner does when speaking in public for the first time. Including the ten-minute break, I should have lasted two hours. I suddenly realised, fifteen minutes before the end, that I had nothing more to say. I looked at the students and apologised lamely: "I am sorry, but I have nothing else to add for today."
They were understanding and said it was all right and readily left class, as might be expected of students unexpectedly given leave before time. Somehow, they were not a bit upset — though I was.
Painfully at first, I managed to cruise through sixty hours of class in six weeks, during which time I tried best as I could to impart some wisdom to my students.
A friend of my father wondered that a certain young man (older than I by a few years) had changed so suddenly that summer. Till then he had been unstable and needlessly agitated (even revolutionary). He was now showing signs of definite maturity and responsibility. My father answered: "Well, he took Georges' course this summer."
"That must be it", said the friend.
I was flattered. But I saw this as the logical result of the Eternal Philosophy I had transmitted.
My rise to adult responsibility did not distract me from my predominant passion. I kept on writing my daily letter to God's foremost creature, to my Lady, my Princess. Indeed, lately, I had called her "Princess" so regularly that an old friend of her family had also begun to call her by that title.
As time went on, I suggested to Danielle that she buy her engagement ring in Switzerland from her uncle and godfather who was a jeweller in Bern. Once again, my unbridled nature jostled with her regulated one. She wrote back describing three different rings and prices to discuss them. She personally hesitated between the two least expensive ones and mentioned the more expensive only for the sake of comparison. I answered that she must take the latter and immediately sent her the money by international exchange. She refused. I was so unreasonable. It was of course the most beautiful, but...
As the decision and the paying were mine to be, I gave the direct order that she buy the ring I had chosen to give her. She gave in, but when the time came to pay for it, she looked so pained to her godfather, that he added a final rebate to the one he had already offered her. The payment having been made, and all matters of reason being dutifully accomplished, Danielle leaped with joy over the beautiful gift.
We still had to decide upon a date for the formal engagement. But with the ring, I knew the end was near — the end of the waiting for the beginning.
Yet Danielle had not arrived in Switzerland with complete assurance. Before her departure, her parents had asked her to think over seriously her decision about Georges. At the end of her school year, Danielle had been so exhausted by the ceaseless war Georges and her parents carried on within her that she simply ran off to Switzerland for some peace. She swore to herself that, should she decide not to marry, she would never come back to Quebec, never see Georges again and ask her parents to return to their homeland. She knew they would gladly do so.
Now in Switzerland she was free. Her relatives were all kind and loving. None put pressure on her, though they all knew the return of their brother or sister or daughter, Mr and Mrs Quéloz, depended upon Danielle's decision. If she chose Quebec, her parents would also stay there.
When Danielle's grandmother saw that Georges' letters arrived one a day, two on Monday because of the Sunday holiday, she sighed with relief: "This boy is not serious. Such impetuosity cannot last."
It lasted. By the end of Danielle's stay, her grandmother said no more.
Now on her own, Danielle suddenly came to the startling realisation that she had never asked herself what she wanted. She had been too busy arguing her parents' case with Georges and Georges' with her parents. She now wondered what she herself wished. She let time go by: which meant not deciding to stay in Switzerland. She took in her beloved land. She did love it. But her heart was spoken for, not by mountains, glaciers, valleys and pure air; rather by a man who had spoken words of love to her.
She bought the engagement ring. She came home.
* * *
She came back to pressure. Georges was trying to be reasonable on certain points. He had taken the part-time teaching job this year, because he wanted to have some money for their wedding. He tried not to spend his money recklessly. He made generous efforts to strike up conversation with Danielle's parents. But he wanted to be married at Christmas time. This he had written regularly. Danielle's pay and his could get them through till the end of the next summer when he would be a full-fledged teacher at St. Boniface College, in Manitoba.
If they married at Christmas, this meant a formal engagement as soon as they met again in Quebec City.
Danielle was not ready to jump off the plane into an engagement. So she had written. Georges figured he would simply have to wait a week's time. But, when he met Danielle, after the customary embrace, she was her old self again, still postponing. Her parents gave her a reason. They asked us to wait till the endless end of September when an aunt Danielle dearly loved would be present. Georges could not understand the need of the presence of any aunt, however precious. After all, he wasn't getting engaged to Danielle's relatives. But Danielle was firm. Georges gave in, as long as it did not affect his plans to be married by the end of the year.
During this time, Danielle was beginning her short career as a grade school teacher in a class 'scientifically' organised according to… height. She had the grade seven class with the tallest girls. Which meant, of course, that she largely had those who had flunked the previous year: a hard task for any teacher, the more so for a beginner.
During this time, also, Danielle's parents had now hopelessly become resigned to having the son-in-law chosen by their daughter, but would certainly not rush into things. Danielle felt it clearly. So she kept postponing telling them of Georges' imperious wish to be married at Christmas time, when he would still be a student and she would be in the midst of her teaching year. Such a suggestion would simply be inconceivable for her parents.
One evening, Georges and Danielle had gone to the movies. They were seeing The Sound of Music for the fourth time. Both adored that film, delighting in its inspiring love, healthy family life and humorous atmosphere. After the showing, they slowly, ever so slowly, walked back towards Danielle's home, cherishing amorous moments. So it seemed. For Georges suddenly felt tears running down his princess' cheeks. Her silence had not been of passion but of despair. Troubled, he realised: "You can not marry at Christmas?"
"I cannot", she answered.
She could not. And Georges gave in.
Emotionally frustrated and dissatisfied, he would still not break the person he loved passionately but also truly. He accepted that their marriage could come only after he had his degree in philosophy so far down in time. They would soon be engaged. Then, later, much later, Danielle would become Mrs Allaire.
Georges had just given Danielle her best engagement gift.
Of course, he instantly became unruly and unreasonable once again. He covered Danielle with futile gifts of flowers and whatever, and took her rashly to restaurants, and finally spent every dime he had put away for a Christmas wedding. But that was Georges.
Most important, the pressure had stopped. Danielle could now give her all. She was free. The torture of love was over and the peace of loving began.
