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Authors: Anne Hébert
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herself be assailed by all that passes, then passes again, near and far, on the water and in the harbour and even in her memory.
He feels like waving his hand in front of Flora Fontangesâs eyes to bring her back to him, make her stop staring into space.
âFlora, what is it you see that I donât?â
He has never before used her Christian name and he struggles to meet her gaze. The water hovers, as far as the eye can see. Small waves pound the pier, oily filaments congeal at the edge and glimmer gold and violet.
She stretches her arms towards the watery void.
âOut there, the Empress of Britain, moored at pier 21!â
Her voice changes. She appears to be speaking to no one, inclines her head as if fascinated. All that seems to matter to her now is the brownish water close against the pier, with its greasy traces of oil. The horizon is blocked, she thinks. The breadth and majesty of the river prove to be obstructed by the massive white bulk of the Empress of Britain. Flora Fontanges has nothing to look at now but the expanse of dirty water between the pier and the liner, which spreads before her eyes as the Empress wrenches herself from the earth, in long oily trails.
Is it her greatest fear that her true face will suddenly loom into view and appear before her, mingling with the huddled crowd that is leaning on the rails? The broad waves of her hair falling to her shoulders, her small face as it was before all the masks of the theatre, hard as a stone, her gaze fixed obstinately on the water, between the pier and the boat. While on the pier crowded with people waving handkerchiefs and shouting inaudibly into the wind, perhaps M. and Mme Eventurel will appear, both of them tall and thin in their dark clothes: Madameâs white face speckled with black by her thick veil, Monsieurâs silhouette tightly buttoned into a velvet-collared black coat.
If M. and Mme Eventurel were to show themselves again to Flora Fontanges, she would see that they are deeply offended and angry with her for all eternity, motionless and congealed in their resentment, and that she just has to disappear again now, as she did in 1937, on the Empress of Britain.
She says âGood Lordâ and buries her face in her hands.
She cannot, however, stop a thin young girl in a severely tailored grey suit from haunting her memory, from making the same movements as in 1937, from experiencing again the same fever and the same guilty joy at the mere thought of leaving M. and Mme Eventurel, of crossing the ocean and becoming an actress in the face of all opposition.
In the time it takes the Eventurelsâ adopted daughter to slip on the black dress, the embroidered apron and the flimsy headdress of the Empress of Britain chambermaids, the piers have disappeared altogether, far behind the wakeof the ship. M. and Mme Eventurel have already toppled onto the horizon. Forever.
âI went away on the Empress of Britain and never came back.â
He has stopped paying attention to what she says. He is following his own thoughts, looking out straight ahead, at the river covered with mist, studying the passage of his own moving images, evoking them himself, giving them their proper life and form as they appear, as if he were preparing a history lesson with slides.
âLetâs go now, Raphaël dear! Thereâs nothing more to see here.â
He says you can look at the river and question the horizon forever.
A LWAYS, PEOPLE HAVE DONE THEIR utmost to see as far as they can, as if they might be able to extend their gaze to the gulf and surprise the ocean at her source, as it begins coming near us for our happiness or our despair. In winter, nothing comes at all because of the ice, and the waiting for spring is interminable.
In the winter of 1759, after the battle of Sainte-Foy had been won, they reached an agreement with the English occupier that lasted a few months, with the hope of seeing the arrival that spring of French
He feels like waving his hand in front of Flora Fontangesâs eyes to bring her back to him, make her stop staring into space.
âFlora, what is it you see that I donât?â
He has never before used her Christian name and he struggles to meet her gaze. The water hovers, as far as the eye can see. Small waves pound the pier, oily filaments congeal at the edge and glimmer gold and violet.
She stretches her arms towards the watery void.
âOut there, the Empress of Britain, moored at pier 21!â
Her voice changes. She appears to be speaking to no one, inclines her head as if fascinated. All that seems to matter to her now is the brownish water close against the pier, with its greasy traces of oil. The horizon is blocked, she thinks. The breadth and majesty of the river prove to be obstructed by the massive white bulk of the Empress of Britain. Flora Fontanges has nothing to look at now but the expanse of dirty water between the pier and the liner, which spreads before her eyes as the Empress wrenches herself from the earth, in long oily trails.
Is it her greatest fear that her true face will suddenly loom into view and appear before her, mingling with the huddled crowd that is leaning on the rails? The broad waves of her hair falling to her shoulders, her small face as it was before all the masks of the theatre, hard as a stone, her gaze fixed obstinately on the water, between the pier and the boat. While on the pier crowded with people waving handkerchiefs and shouting inaudibly into the wind, perhaps M. and Mme Eventurel will appear, both of them tall and thin in their dark clothes: Madameâs white face speckled with black by her thick veil, Monsieurâs silhouette tightly buttoned into a velvet-collared black coat.
If M. and Mme Eventurel were to show themselves again to Flora Fontanges, she would see that they are deeply offended and angry with her for all eternity, motionless and congealed in their resentment, and that she just has to disappear again now, as she did in 1937, on the Empress of Britain.
She says âGood Lordâ and buries her face in her hands.
She cannot, however, stop a thin young girl in a severely tailored grey suit from haunting her memory, from making the same movements as in 1937, from experiencing again the same fever and the same guilty joy at the mere thought of leaving M. and Mme Eventurel, of crossing the ocean and becoming an actress in the face of all opposition.
In the time it takes the Eventurelsâ adopted daughter to slip on the black dress, the embroidered apron and the flimsy headdress of the Empress of Britain chambermaids, the piers have disappeared altogether, far behind the wakeof the ship. M. and Mme Eventurel have already toppled onto the horizon. Forever.
âI went away on the Empress of Britain and never came back.â
He has stopped paying attention to what she says. He is following his own thoughts, looking out straight ahead, at the river covered with mist, studying the passage of his own moving images, evoking them himself, giving them their proper life and form as they appear, as if he were preparing a history lesson with slides.
âLetâs go now, Raphaël dear! Thereâs nothing more to see here.â
He says you can look at the river and question the horizon forever.
A LWAYS, PEOPLE HAVE DONE THEIR utmost to see as far as they can, as if they might be able to extend their gaze to the gulf and surprise the ocean at her source, as it begins coming near us for our happiness or our despair. In winter, nothing comes at all because of the ice, and the waiting for spring is interminable.
In the winter of 1759, after the battle of Sainte-Foy had been won, they reached an agreement with the English occupier that lasted a few months, with the hope of seeing the arrival that spring of French
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