Читать книгу Laurier in Love - Roy MacSkimming - Страница 13
ОглавлениеÉmilie is jubilant. Joseph Lavergne’s appointment as a judge of the Quebec Superior Court in Hull is finally confirmed. She’s vindicated. She was absolutely right to persevere, to insist.
Her husband will no longer be merely a backbencher in Wilfrid’s government, invisible within the Quebec Liberal caucus. Joseph finds parliamentary work disagreeable in any case. With his sensitive nature, he isn’t cut out for the dirty work of politics. His talents and temperament suit him far better for the bench.
Of course the appointment, accompanied by a not incidental increase in salary, means they can finally begin looking for a home in the capital. Hull is out of the question, Émilie has assured Joseph: and in Ottawa there’s only one possible location, Sandy Hill. Wilfrid and Zoë have chosen a yellow-brick Second Empire house at 335 Theodore Street, now being renovated at party expense. It previously belonged to an Ottawa jeweller, and Émilie finds it rather staid and out of fashion, but Zoë is thrilled, saying the floor plan reminds her of her home in Arthabaska. Émilie doesn’t consider that a recommendation.
Joseph’s ascension to the bench coincides with the coming of spring, and both arrive just in time to save Émilie’s sanity. With Parliament recessed all winter, she’s been spending tedious weeks in Arthabaska confined indoors because of the extreme cold. Joseph has been carrying on the law practice, training a junior partner to conduct the day-to-day business. For Émilie, the whole winter has been a dreary reprise of her old existence, the desperate stretches without Wilfrid. But this time, coming after the high hopes of the previous summer, it’s been worse than ever. Wilfrid has practically disappeared into the fog of government.
When they return to the capital for the spring session, Émilie persuades Joseph to take a suite at the Russell in place of their old room. It has double the closet space and is located on the same floor as the Lauriers. It’s definitely too expensive, but, she reminds Joseph, it won’t be long before they’ll be moving into their own home, and with his higher income they can almost afford the monthly rate. Besides, they need the extra space now that Gabrielle is with them full-time.
Émilie is determined to make the most of living at the Russell. She likes to imagine its five storeys surmounted by ramparts as a chateau on the Loire, and herself and Joseph and Bielle as guests of a benevolent count. The fantasy is difficult to maintain. Streetcars screech around the corner at all hours, and above the main entrance an electric sign has been installed, red, white and blue light bulbs picking out a garish Union Jack alongside the words, “Victoria Regina 1837–97.” It’s impossible to escape the excesses of imperialists mad to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee, equally impossible to avoid the barefoot urchins who swarm over the sidewalk below the sign, offering to shine shoes or perform errands or Lord knows what else. They speak both languages fluently, which tells Émilie they must be poor French from Lower Town.
Still, the Russell has its advantages. Modern steam heat makes the rooms comfortable. Of the stores lining the ground level, the milliner’s, men’s wear and florist shops are convenient, although uninspiring. Joseph likes to patronize the cigar store. The café’s menu is reliable, if repetitious. And so she makes a virtue out of necessity and decides to hold her first At Home at the Russell. It’s most irregular to hold an At Home in a hotel, but that’s the point: it will contribute a piquant novelty to the occasion. In any case, Émilie is too impatient to wait.
On the day of her At Home, Joseph has to be in Arthabaska to attend to the law practice. Émilie has seen him off on the train the night before, and now it’s two hours until the grand event, and it feels like the dawn of her new life. As she dresses, she keeps glancing through the window to reassure herself the sky is still blue, the sidewalks still dry, the trees still leafing out: a perfect May afternoon.
The At Home already promises to become exactly what she desires, the social event of the season. She’s had over six hundred invitation cards printed and hand-delivered across the city, saying simply, in flowing script:
Madame Lavergne
At Home at the Russell House
Saturday the 15 th
4 to 7 o’clock
In her boldly declarative hand, Émilie has written the guests’ names in blue ink across the top of each invitation. She’s invited senators and judges, poets and cabinet ministers, high-ranking militia officers and senior civil servants, all the most prominent and interesting people in Ottawa, with wives. The majority have replied in the affirmative.
Émilie smiles with secret pleasure. Perhaps her guests suspect, or even know, that the Prime Minister will be coming. The more knowledgeable will have perceived his guiding hand in the arrangements. Perhaps they’re curious about her, too: they’ve heard about this new arrival from Quebec, want to see for themselves what sort of woman has the Prime Minister’s ear. Even, it’s said, his heart.
It’s her salvation to be organizing such a major event. During the long winter months Wilfrid’s letters continued professing his adoration but rang hollow somehow, lacking the usual conviction and urgency. It all began to feel like a literary convention: his fulfillment of the forms of courtly romance, as if he was some medieval knight and she his unattainable lady locked away in her husband’s castle. Their passion was in danger of becoming a house of words. They needed something real and substantial to revive it, something to give themselves to, some shared adventure in which they could collaborate as equal hearts and minds. Otherwise they’d be restricted to meeting ever more fleetingly in the Russell’s lobby, or at formal dinner parties, or some Rideau Hall function, mouthing platitudes like mere acquaintances. What would it matter then that he’d once compared her to Josephine Bonaparte, invoking Napoléon’s description, “Elle était gracieuse en tout”?
Rather than surrender to despair, Émilie listened to her own resourceful nature. It wasn’t the same as listening to the distant violin, or dreaming of St. Ann’s Hill, but infinitely more practical. After considering various possibilities, some quite outrageous, she seized on the At Home. It will be as much for Wilfrid as for herself. Imaginatively planned in every detail, consummately executed to ensure un beau succès, it must succeed on a scale to do credit to him: to his Quebec origins, his party, his administration, his circle of intimates, his own dearest Émilie, to whom he signs himself (even if only she knows it), “Of all your friends, the truest & sincerest & most devoted.”
With all this in mind, Émilie has had a most satisfactory meeting with Wilfrid in his East Block office. It wasn’t difficult to arrange: his private secretary, Ulric Barthe, is her cousin. She stood before Wilfrid, sharing his professional domain for the first time, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hands were shaking, and admired the marble fireplace, the dark-green wooden blinds filtering sunlight from the Hill, the enormous baize-covered desk formerly occupied by Sir John A. Macdonald. After a slightly too formal and reserved greeting, she sat down across from him and energetically presented her plans for the At Home.
It would be held in the Russell’s spacious double drawing room. It would be nothing like the ladies’ teas so commonplace in Ottawa, but a massive and splendid celebration of society itself. Male guests would be as numerous as female. Mentioning the more eminent invitees on her list, she asked for Wilfrid’s advice. Whom else should she invite? Whom should she avoid? There were gaps in her knowledge of Ottawa society, and she didn’t want to make egregious gaffes.
Listening carefully, Wilfrid grew enthusiastic, animated, inspired. This was exactly the sort of occasion his Émilie excelled at. It would provide scope for her gifts as a consummate hostess. Ottawa’s society matrons would realize an invigorating new spirit was among them, a free thinker in the best sense, a cultivated Québécoise who knew more about high style and fashion and good conversation than any of them. Wilfrid was so pleased with the boldness of her conception that he wrote a large cheque on the spot to underwrite the arrangements.
Émilie wasn’t so much surprised by his generosity as relieved: in fact, she was counting on it, since Joseph’s judgeship wouldn’t take effect for several weeks. What gratified her most was Wilfrid’s relaxing into his old warmth and affection, his eagerness to become once more her intimate companion and fellow conspirator. His spontaneous, irrepressible smile told her how happy he felt about her plans, how delighted he was by her presence, how impressed by her resolve to take the capital by storm. Instructing Ulric to provide her with a list of addresses for Members of Parliament, Senators and Supreme Court justices, he advised her to consult the Undersecretary of State, Joseph Pope. Pope knew absolutely everybody who mattered.
She’d met Pope socially with his wife, Minette, a Taschereau from Quebec City, her mother one of the Pacaud clan from Arthabaska and thus linked by long friendship to the Lauriers. Ulric took her upstairs to Pope’s office. Although a touch pompous, Pope struck her as handsome, radiating a quiet sense of power derived from sitting for years at Sir John A.’s right hand, where he’d learned the precise location of men’s secrets and vanities. Now, Émilie supposed, he’d know a little about Wilfrid’s as well.
Pope understood exactly what she wanted. He rhymed off ladies and gentlemen in various walks of life who must on no account be omitted from her guest list. Political persuasion should be no barrier, he pointed out, and volunteered as many Conservative names as Liberals. He jotted them all down as he spoke, handing her at the end three sheets of stationery neatly covered with names, followed by full titles. He gave Émilie to understand it was important to observe the titles: “‘Forms are things,’ Sir John always said.”
Stopping by Wilfrid’s office on her way out, Émilie thanked him for his help. She composed her hands in front of her, as in prayer. “Until now I was becoming afraid,” she told him quietly, “that you’d begun to forget about me. About us.”
Wilfrid returned her gaze with equal seriousness. When his smile came, it was slow and sweet, almost feminine in its gentleness. “My dear, never believe such a thing is possible. You are always in my thoughts, do you understand? Always.”
Armand is arriving soon from Quebec City, and Émilie has sent Gabrielle to the station to fetch him. With only two hours until her guests arrive, there’s still much to do. She wants to know the hotel staff are carrying out her instructions to the letter. The Mulligan brothers, who have taken over the Russell from M. St-Jacques, have at least some sense of style: they’ve shown imagination and flair by opening the Russell Theatre next door. George Mulligan has assured her he’s taking a keen interest in preparations for her event—and of course he’s anxious to please Wilfrid—but, being a man, Mulligan will have overlooked important details.
Émilie hurries downstairs to the double drawing room on its second floor. It looks better than she expected. The burgundy velvet settees and easy chairs and circular banquettes have all been shampooed, almost freed of stale tobacco smells. The electric chandeliers glisten. The immense old rug has been cleaned, something it’s needed for years: the red floral pattern bears an unfortunate resemblance to bloody footprints, but most of the rug has been covered with linen stretched flat for dancing, and the rest will soon be invisible under the feet of her guests.
Against the back wall, extravagant palms explode from gleaming brass pots, shielding the discoloured plaster. Ugly statues stand in the corner niches: nothing she can do about that. More palms flank the room’s best feature, the marble fireplace, its mirror extending gracefully from floor to ceiling. Émilie is relieved to see one of her most critical demands has been met: the tall draped windows overlooking Parliament Hill have been cleaned and now admit a crystalline light.
Down a broad corridor where hotel staff will dispense dainties and teas, additional sofas and chairs are set out for the comfort of less ambulatory guests. Here the electric lighting strikes Émilie as too harsh: she summons an employee to dim the lights. An ensemble drawn from the Governor General’s Foot Guards Band, supplemented by strings, is setting up in an alcove. Émilie introduces herself to Captain Gillmor, the music director, and asks about his repertoire. He’s planned a mixture of airs from Victor Herbert’s The Wizard of the Nile, a sprinkling of Gilbert and Sullivan and tunes from last season’s Leicester Square musical The Geisha. She’s glad Captain Gillmor has understood her request for music that is both gay and fashionable. She adds one more request: “Please ensure your musicians don’t play too loudly. I want our guests to be able to hear themselves talk.”
After a visit to the kitchen to deal with Chef Desjardins, who seems irked by the necessity to be agreeable, she returns to her room. She’s relieved to find Gabrielle has returned with Armand. Émilie embraces her son warmly. Standing back to admire him, tall and debonair in his recently purchased frock coat, she compliments him on his flourishing new moustache. It doesn’t make him look any older, as he undoubtedly hopes, but doesn’t spoil his good looks either.
Armand stands impatiently for his mother’s inspection, barely tolerating her adoring gaze, while his sister giggles beside him. “Mother,” he demands, “would you please remind me why I’m here?” He can’t avoid grinning at being the centre of so much worshipful attention.
“Why, to adorn my grand reception, of course. To crown my coming out in Ottawa society. It will be ever so successful thanks to your presence. And Gabrielle’s, naturally.”
“Thank you, Maman,” Bielle says. “I’m honoured to attend with my little brother. Even if he’s a brat with no manners.”
“Not only to attend,” Émilie replies, “but to assist me in welcoming our distinguished guests in the receiving line.”
Armand grimaces. “Please, Mother. The place will be full of English!”
“Of course it will,” Émilie says firmly, “and French too. You can be equally gracious to both.”
“But I don’t speak English well enough. I’ll be an embarrassment to you and Papa and myself.”
“And me,” Gabrielle adds.
“Nonsense, my pets. You’ll both be splendid. All you need to say is, ‘Good afternoon, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you enjoy yourself.’”
“Good afternoon, it’s a plaisir to meet you, please enjoy your-selfs,” Armand mimics.
“Yourself. Besides, Papa can’t be here, so you will be representing him, Armand, and upholding the family honour.”
“And will our dear M. Laurier be attending too?” he asks slyly.
Émilie takes a deep breath. “Yes, yes, of course he will. M. Laurier wants us to succeed here in the capital. All of us.”
The first to arrive are the society columnists from Ottawa’s three English newspapers. With the musicians still tuning up, the ladies emerge as one into the drawing room. Émilie’s nervousness vanishes at the droll sight of the rivals travelling together in a pack, each fearful of missing out on something or someone the others might see. The Three Graces, she thinks. Or Macbeth’s witches.
Florence Randal of the Journal signs her columns “Kilmeny.” Mrs. McIntyre of the Citizen styles herself “Frills.” Their new competitor from the Free Press, whose office sits right beside the Russell, uses the nom de plume “The Marchioness.” Émilie can’t recall the young woman’s real name, but covers her lapse by lavishing on her an especially warm smile. The poor girl needs it: she’s the plainest of the three by far and knows it.
Émilie obliges the women by providing highlights of her guest list in advance. Miss Randal, with her cornflower-blue eyes and gracefully moulded mouth and chin, is the most attractive of them: chic and gracious, clearly a New Woman, to judge by her assertiveness. Mrs. McIntyre is sweetly vulgar, with a silly hat and too much plump décolletage. As Émilie sizes them up, they do the same with her.
Miss Randal declares she’s never seen the Russell’s prosaic old drawing room looking so elegant: “Why, it’s been transformed into an artistic statement!” Mrs. McIntyre exclaims over Émilie’s royal blue satin dress brocaded with lace and black velvet, the balloon sleeves flaring extravagantly, the square neckline revealing her still-youthful neck and throat and providing a tasteful glimpse of her “magnificent” (Wilfrid’s word) shoulders. Émilie hopes the columnists will write not only about her dress, but her fashionably tilted white hat decorated with ostrich plumes. Her white gloves extend above the elbow.
Mrs. McIntyre is especially attentive toward Gabrielle, whose costume, a blue-and-white striped silk with a huge white picture hat, complements her mother’s. Armand stares a little too obviously at Miss Randal, who seems to have bewitched him. Eventually the three women drift off into the drawing room to await events, trailing compliments. Armand gazes longingly after them.
She forgets all about the witches in her delight over the arrival of her first guest. Sir Henri Joly de Lotbinière is not only a minister in Wilfrid’s cabinet and a former Premier of Quebec, but a seigneur who still collects rents from tenant farmers on his estate along the St. Lawrence. Émilie considers Sir Henri the most spectacular of the remaining aristocrats of her province. His snowy, wavy hair, drooping moustache and old-world courtliness make him the perfect knight. His glazed shirt front is dazzling. He bows and kisses her hand.
“Sir Henri, I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is. I am honoured you’ve come to my little party.”
“You do honour to us, Madame,” he replies in a stentorian voice, adding more softly, “I feel proud that a countrywoman of mine should hold a magnificent salon in this dull place. You put me in mind of Madame Récamier.”
This is the most shameless flattery, but Émilie adores being compared to Chateaubriand’s beautiful lover. “Won’t you have something to drink, Sir Henri?”
“As long as you are serving something more interesting than English tea.”
“Champagne punch is offered at the buffet.”
The old gentleman pauses to shower attention on Gabrielle and Armand, whom he’s known since they were born, and moves on to introduce himself to the witches. They’re fascinated by his august bearing, his aura of having stepped out of a novel by Dumas. In a few moments he’s gracefully waltzing Miss Randal across the floor to a melody by Victor Herbert.
Émilie turns back to the spectacle of the Misses Ritchie, all four of them, sweeping down on her in a cloud of lilac water. Their charming, girlish high spirits fill the room as they announce themselves in turn: “Beatrice. Elsie. Grace. Amy.” They act thrilled to see Gabrielle, whom they met while rehearsing for Lady Aberdeen’s historical dress ball. Are the Ritchies sincere or pretending? So hard to tell with adolescent girls. They take turns flirting with Armand, who flushes with pleasure, Miss Randal forgotten. His English seems suddenly to have improved.
Several ladies of a certain age appear, all wearing enormous hats, feigning astonishment that they’ve arrived at the same place at the same time, when they were together only yesterday at the May Court Club: Mrs. Perley, Mrs. Sparks, Mrs. Southam, Mrs. Bronson. Émilie catches her breath, trying not to seem surprised or flattered that the wealthy dowagers are bestowing their presence on her.
The Misses Powell, Lola and Maude, arrive with their much older brother, the Chief of Police. Émilie can see why the sisters need chaperoning, especially Lola. Both wear their abundant auburn hair in pre-Raphaelite tresses, which cascade over romantic gowns of black and burgundy velvet hung with strings of oriental beads. She didn’t realize Ottawa harboured such exotic creatures. Lola, with her amused air of self-possession and her commanding height, carries off this stylistic extravagance especially well. But she’s excessively talkative, and Émilie has to interrupt her to receive the next set of arrivals.
Now she’s worried her lady guests may feel bored without sufficient cavaliers to amuse them. Happily, at that moment she recognizes Nicholas Flood Davin, the voluble Irishman and Conservative MP known for his eloquence and wit, and man-about-town Agar Adamson, lean and handsomely clean-shaven. Adamson is still a bachelor, and they say Davin might as well be: his wife prefers to stay home in faraway Regina. Émilie finds Adamson attractive and Davin’s flirtatious chatter amusing, and she resolves to get to know them better.
