Kamouraska by Anne Hébert Page B

child? She’s growing like a wild little weed. Someone’s going to have to look after her education. See that she learns English, and catechism . . . Teach her good manners . . .”
    â€œPlease, my headache . . . No, for goodness’ sake, don’t open the curtains . . . I’m tired of thinking about the child. And I’m tired of our good father from Sorel, who keeps coming to console me with Our Lord and Saviour. And if you must know, Our Lord and Saviour himself is beginning to get on my nerves. That’s what kills me. This terrible boredom. Eating me up by inches. I can’t stand it much longer . . .”
    My dear little aunts shower me with hugs and kisses. They smell of naphthalene and gingerbread. Are they really here with me now, at this very moment? Pathetic and perfumed, just as they were when I was a baby? My three aunts, with their little bird-like frames, and their skin, still almost fresh. Their jet-black eyes, round and shining, staring at me. All the adoration in the world.
    Again and again they renew their attack. My mother keeps managing to elude them.
    â€œBut something has to be done. It’s absolutely dreadful. Why, the child is up every morning before daylight, sneaking out the window, with that tomboy haircut of hers, and running off with a gang of urchins to go fishing for catfish. Over by the islands . . .”
    One day, my mother, just to keep peace . . . No, too soon! I haven’t had time yet to remember a single room on Rue Georges. Oh, my first house, gone for good! A kind of white fog, like milk, spreads over the town. Only one house is left lit up. Standing out. The least little speck of dust, as clear to the eye as a moth fluttering around a lamp. The air itself is like the light, bright and resounding. You could hear a mouse breathing. Whatever happens here will be decisive. Exact. Sharp as the clink of crystal. Pure and uncompromising. Like a judge’s verdict.
    Rue Augusta. You can see the space between the bricks, as if you were right on top of them. The mortar sticks out a little, here and there, dotting the red ochre with bits of gray. A foul cloud of soot hangs over the garden. A withered vine clings to the little courtyard wall, like hair on an old woman’s head. You can see every detail in the shutters. The knots in the wood. The green paint fading in patches. To the left of the front door, the right shutter, pulled off its hinges, slamming against the wall at the slightest hint of a breeze.
    I’d swear that it’s even brighter now than before. A young widow is climbing the well-worn steps. There’s something both childish and stilted in the way she walks. For just a moment she turns a crestfallen face in my direction. My own young mother! Holding a little girl awkwardly by the hand. A little girl, bareheaded, hair cropped short.
    Tired, I suppose, of changing nursemaids every other day, Madame d’Aulnières resigns herself to going back where she camefrom. The family cloister. Celibate seraglio all in red brick, in the shadow of the tall, trembling poplar. Mother surrenders. Turns herself over, lock, stock, and barrel, to the comforting guidance of her elder sisters.
    I must be seven or eight. And my education begins.
    â€œElisabeth, sit up straight!”
    â€œElisabeth, don’t speak while you’re eating!”
    â€œElisabeth make that curtsy again, this very moment!”
    â€œElisabeth, how many persons are there in God?”
    â€œRepeat after me,
the cat, the bird
. . . Don’t forget, you make the
th
in English with your tongue on your teeth.”
    Adélaïde, Luce-Gertrude, Angélique. All beaming with delight. Stop reading their favorite novels. Fill up the emptiness of their existence. Intensely, by a kind of osmosis, they share the lot of the weeping widow and live through a whole rebellious childhood.
    Elisabeth’s hair grows back in dizzying abundance. The three little sisters