Kamouraska by Anne Hébert Page B

marbled rock, larded here and there with stunted trees. And close by, the forest . . . The flat banks, stretching along the river. Reeds and rushes. And seagrasses, long-stemmed eelgrass, swaying in the wind. Like ripples along the water’s edge.
    The groom waves his whip against the July sky. Points out the islands. Names each one, slowly, as if they were human beings. Introduces his domain to his young bride.
    â€œIle aux Corneilles, Ile Providence, Ile aux Patins, Grosse Ile . . .”
    Summer landscape, warm and misty blue. The long expanse of muddy banks. The smell of low tide fills the air. The water blends with the sky. You can’t see over to the other shore.
    I have plenty of time to live here with my young husband . . . A few years of violence and despair . . . See how I cling to him, like a pussycat! Nestling against him as he introduces me to his mother, standing at the manor door to greet the newlyweds.
    The manor . . . Someone is asking where the manor is. A man’s voice, with a hint of an American accent. It’s winter. Freezing cold. A slow, deliberate gesture, peasant-fashion, points toward the other end of the village. A cape jutting out, alone, into the river.
    At the Dionnes’ inn, a girl with kinky hair, a stranger in the village. Asking for the manor. She puts her hand against the frozen windowpane and scratches with her nails to melt the frost. She stands for a long time looking out into the darkness, toward where the manor must be.
    The manor . . . You don’t risk much going back there, Madame Rolland. You know there’s nothing left of it. All burned down in 18—. Burned to the ground, not a trace left standing. Who else can boast of wiping out a past like that, all at once? A few flames, a lot of smoke. Then nothing . . . Memory has to be tilled like a plot of land. You have to fire it from time to time. Burn the weeds down to the roots. Plant a field of imaginary roses in their place.
    It’s no great feat to have a double life, Madame Rolland. But to have four secret lives, or five, with no one any the wiser. Yes, that would be harder. Like all those pious ladies, mumbling theirendless rosaries, with viper’s venom flowing through their veins. Good day, Madame Rolland. Good evening, Madame Rolland. And how is Monsieur Rolland? And the children? Quite a brood you have! But all strong and healthy, thank heaven! . . . Really, Madame Rolland, what can you be thinking, to give you such a sullen look? To give you such a wrinkled brow? . . . Above reproach. You’re above reproach. Oh, but you’re a daydreamer. That’s what you are, Madame Rolland. No use denying it. Your husband is dying on the second floor, and here you are, on the governess’s bed, pretending to be asleep. Hearing voices, Madame Rolland. You make believe you’re hearing voices. Having hallucinations. Come now. Are you so desperate for amusement that you have to go digging, deep in the shadows, to find the phantoms of your youth?
    In the autumn the birds take over all of Kamouraska. Canada geese and ducks, brant and teal, wild geese of every kind. Thousands of birds from miles and miles away. All along the shore. Aren’t you simply delighted? You who love to hunt so much . . . The wind. There’s too much wind. I’ll never get used to it. At night it whistles around the house. Rattles the shutters. The wind will be the death of me . . .
    On stormy nights they say the dead are moaning in the wind. But nobody here is dead. I’m alive, and so is my husband. In Kamouraska, here in the manor. Living out our bitter youth, day after day. Alive! Both of us, alive! Married to each other . . . Two people, confronting each other. Hurting each other. Insulting each other as much as they please. And under the prying eye of the dowager Madame Tassy! . . . It can’t go on this way. It has to come to a head. One of them will have to pick a spot, the right spot in the heart, and