Aside from her two books about life in Canada, Susanna Moodie wrote a string of trashy novels, potboilers really, limp-wristed romances containing such melodramatics as last minute rescues at the gallows and death-bed conversions and always, unfailingly, oceans and oceans of tears. She was desperate for money, of course, so she wrote quickly and she wrote for a popular audience, the Harlequin nurse stories of her day.
But one of the books she wrote has been invaluable to me. It is a novel entitled Flora Lindsay or Episodes in an Eventful Life. Astonishingly, it is Susanna’s own story, or at least an idealized picture of it, an autobiography in fictional form. The heroine, Flora, is like Susanna married to a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars. Like Susanna, Flora and her husband (also named John) emigrate to Canada. Even the ship they sail on bears the same name, the Anne. Like Susanna, Flora has a baby daughter and, like her again, she has employed an unwed mother as a nurse for her child.
Thus, by watching Flora, I am able to see Susanna as a young woman. But, of course, it isn’t really Susanna; it’s only a projection, a view of herself. Flora is refined, virtuous, bright, lively, humorous; her only fault is an occasional pout when her husband places some sort of restraint on her. Did Susanna really see herself that way?
How do I view myself? – large, loose, baroque. Compulsively garrulous, hugely tactless, given to blurts, heavy foot in heavy mouth. Fearsome with energy, Brobdingnagian voice, everything of such vastness that my photographs always surprise me by their relatively normal proportions – ah, but that’s only my public self. And Martin, does he view himself – now flushed with victory from the Renaissance Society – as a cocky counterculture academic? Does he carry a newsreel in his head with himself as maverick star, a composed and witty generalist who nimbly leaps from discipline to discipline; who proved his wife wrong about the whole concept of poetry portrayed in wool, but resists saying I told you so? Just smiles at her his slow and knowing smile and thinks his secret thoughts, maybe wondering how he would look with long hair and that ultimate obscenity on middle-aged men, beads?
Susanna wrote Flora Lindsay when she was a middle-aged woman, and she had by that time suffered repeated trials, many births, several deaths, unbearable homesickness and alienation, not to mention a searing lack of intellectual nourishment. Looking back, she may have viewed that early life, that time of high expectations, and simple married love as a period of comfort and happiness, seeing herself as the nimble and graceful heroine, not the prudish, rather shallow and condescending woman she more than likely was. She was so shrewd about her fellow Canadians that she enraged them, but nevertheless seemed to have had little real understanding of herself. Is it any wonder then, I ask myself as I send the manuscript off to a typist – is it any wonder that I don’t understand her?
“Why hello, Mrs. Gill.”
“Judith! Long time no see.”
“What can we do for you today, Mrs. Gill?”
They know me at the Public Archives. I’ve spent hours and hours in these shiny corridors working on my biographical research, exploring filing cabinets, puffing out envelopes, and going through the contents, sometimes finding what I need, but just as often not. And always I am astonished at the sheer volume of trivia which is being watched over.
The librarians guard their treasures diligently, and they are unfailingly kind in their willingness to spend an hour, sometimes two or three, finding the origin of a single fact. But today I don’t need any help. I am quite sure I can find what I want.
Name and year: Furlong Eberhardt (possibly Rudyard Eberhart). As for dates, I work backwards from the present.
It takes longer than I think. A clue, tantalizing, leads nowhere, and I spend an hour in a cul-de-sac; just when I think I’m finding my way out, the reference turns out to apply to someone else. I press my hands to my head. Exhaustion. What am I doing here?
In the cafeteria I have a bowl of soup and a sandwich, and later in the afternoon I get lucky. One reference leads to another; I skip from drawer to drawer, putting the pieces together. And they fit, they fit! I have it. Or almost. I’ll have to check at the Immigration Department, but I know what they’ll say. I am already positive.
It’s this: Furlong Eberhardt, Canadian prairie novelist, the man who is said to embody the ethos of the nation, is an American!
I want to hug the fact, to chew on it, to pull it out when I choose so I can admire its shiny ironic contours and ponder the wonderful, dark, moist, hilarious secrecy of it.
Rudyard Eberhart, born Maple Bluffs, Iowa, only son of Elizabeth Eberhart, widow.
Eligible for draft in 1949 (Korean War), left Maple Bluffs the day notice was delivered.
Landed immigrant status (with mother) in Saskatchewan. Attended U. of Sask., was once written up in local paper as grand loser (shortest fish) in a fishing competition. Began writing short stories under the name of Red Eberhart. Gradual shift to Eberhardt spelling, finalized with publication of first novel, 1952.
Christened Furlong by a kindly critic, after which he travelled from strength to strength until arrival at present eminence.
Ah, Furlong, you crafty devil.
I could not remember being so wonderfully amused by anything in all my life. My throat pricked continuously with wanting to laugh, and for the first few days it was all I could do to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up at inappropriate moments, so amused was I by the spectacle of Furlong Eberhardt who, with scarcely a break in stride, traded Maple Bluffs for the, Maple Leaf; marvelous!
But in my delight I recognized something which was faintly hysterical, something suspiciously akin to relief. What had I expected to find? That Furlong had his novels written for him by a West Coast syndicate? That he might be guilty of a crime more heinous (murder? blackmail?) than mere trifling with the facts of his private life? That something unbearably sordid had poisoned his previous existence? Yes, I had been badly frightened; I admitted it to myself.
Poor Furlong. I could see it all: how he had – I recalled his own words – got into it innocently enough and then was unable to extricate himself, taking a free ride on the band wagon of nationalism and unable to jump off. Well, don’t worry, Furlong, I won’t betray you now.
Poor Furlong, so eager to be accepted, to be loved.
Poor Furlong, suffering in miserable and ageing secrecy.
Poor Furlong. Dear Furlong.
“Martin,” I whisper after the lights are out, “what do you think of John Spalding?”
Pause. “He seems okay,” Martin says. “Not quite the nut I expected.”
“Me either. Where did I get the idea he was going to be short?”
“And fat! Christ, he’s actually obese. Cheerful guy though.”
“Shhhhh. He’s only one thin wall away.”
“Never mind. He should be dead to the world after those three brandies he tucked away.”
“Did you ask him about his wife? While I was making coffee?”
“Good God, no. What would you have me say, Judith? ‘Sorry to hear you’ve been made a cuckold, old man.’”
“Did you at least mention that we were having a party tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Just sort of rumbled on about how he hoped we weren’t going to any trouble for him.”
“He certainly is different than what I expected. It’s a good thing we had him paged at the airport or we’d never have found him.”
“Funny, but he said the same thing about us.”
“What?”
“That he wouldn’t have recognized us in a thousand years. He had us pictured differently.”
“Really? I wonder what he thought we were like.”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“I would have.”
“You would have, Judith, yes.”
“It might have been interesting. Don’t you ever wonder, Martin, how you look to other people? The general impression, I mean.”
“No,” he said.
“To be truthful, I don’t think I ever do.”
“That’s abnormal.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. Maybe it’s abnormal the other way. But still I would have asked him.”
I turn to look at Martin. The street light shining into our room and neatly bisecting our bed, permits me to study him. He is lying on his back, relaxed with his hands locked behind his head. And on his face I see a lazy, enigmatic smile. I peer at him intently.
“Why are you smiling, Martin?”
“Me? Am I smiling?”
“You know you are.”
“I suppose I was just thinking foul and filthy midnight thoughts.”
“About?”
He runs a hand under my nightgown. Stops in the slope between my thighs.
“Sshhhhhh,” I say. “He’ll hear us.”
“Fuck him.”
“Well, that’s a switch.”
“Shhhhhhhh.”
Nancy Krantz came a little early to give me a hand with the party.
Martin and Paul Krantz and John Spalding drank gin tonics in the living room, and she and I flicked dust bits out of wine glasses with paper towels, heated pots of lasagna and cut up onions for the salad. My party menus (like my decor, my hair style, my legally married status) are ten years out of date; I know that elsewhere women, prettier than I and wearing gowns of enormous haute daring, are serving tiny Viennese pancakes stuffed with herring, or scampi a la Shanghai, but I willingly, willfully, shut my eyes to all of that.
Nancy, larky and ironic, takes note of our female busy work; contrasts us to the booze swillers in the next room, lolling in chairs, dense in discussion. She is in violent good cheer, dexterous with the stacks of plates and cutlery, ingenious with the table napkins, setting out candles in startling asymmetrical arrangements, never for an instant leaving off her social commentary. “Parties are irrational but necessary. Where are the extra ashtrays, Judith? If you set aside those parties which are merely chic, which exist just for the sake of existence, then there is something biblical and compelling about raining down a lot of food and drink on a lot of people gathered under a single roof at an appointed hour. Almost the fulfillment of a rite. And it brings on a sort of catharsis if it really works. And why not? You’ve got an artificial selection of people. The personalities and the conditions are imposed. A sort of preordered confrontation. I thought you had one of those hot tray things, Judith.”
“I do. Now where did I put it last time I used it?”
She finds it on the top shelf above the refrigerator, polishes it briefly, plugs it in. Ready to go.
Roger is the first to arrive. “I know I’m early,” he apologizes, “but I wonder if – you know – is Ruthie coming? Or not?”
“Not,” I tell him. “She phoned to say she’d like to come but couldn’t make it.”
“Why not?” he says, flinching visibly.
“She didn’t say.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he says. “I knew it.”
“Come on, Roger. I want you to meet John Spalding. He’s in the living room.”
“Oh yeah,” he says. And whispers, “What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. I’ve hardly seen him. He slept until noon and had an appointment this afternoon. We haven’t had too much time to talk to him.”
“Nice guy?”
“Nice enough,” I say. “But I’d stay off the topic of faithless women. He’s in the midst, so to speak.”
“Righto,” he says, disappearing into the living room.
After that things get busy. The doorbell rings continuously it seems, and since it is raining heavily outside, I am occupied with finding places for boots while Richard ferries dripping umbrellas to the basement and Meredith hangs raincoats upstairs on the shower rail.
From the living room, the family room and even the kitchen there is a rising tide of noise, stemming at first from polite muted corners, erupting then into explosive contagious laughter, passing through furniture, through walls, melding with the mingled reverberations of wood, china, cutlery, a woman’s shrill scream of surprise.
Bodies are everywhere, slung on couches, chair arms, kitchen counters; I have to move two people aside to find room to set the casseroles down.
Our parties are always like this, a blur from the first doorbell to the last nightcap – fetching, carrying, greeting, serving, clearing, scraping, rinsing, smiling hard through it all, wondering why I ever thought it was going to be a good idea, and yet exhilarated to fever pitch and this on barely half a glass of wine.
I am at the center of a hurricane, the eye of calm in the middle of ferocious whirling circles. Between the kitchen and hall I pause, trying to sense the pattern. What has become of John Spalding, guest of honor whom I have introduced to absolutely no one? Ah, but Martin has looked after him. There he is in the exact center of the beige sofa, plumply settled with a brimming glass, a woman on either side of him and Polly Stanley, awkward but surprisingly girlish, on the floor at his feet. All are laughing; I can’t actually hear them laughing, not over all this noise, but they are locked into laughing position, heads back, teeth bared.
Mrs. Eberhardt is sitting in our most comfortable chair doing what she was invited to do, drawing out quieter guests and being charming and kindly and solid; she is the oldest person in the room. By far the oldest. Does she mind? Does she even notice?
Ben Stanley and Roger have their heads very close together near the fireplace; they look vaguely theatrical as though they had selected this location to accent the seriousness of their discussion. I can tell from the confidential tilt of their heads that they are on the subject of departmental politics. Roger is mainly listening and nodding as befits his junior status. Besides he is apolitical; power doesn’t interest him yet.
From far away I hear the telephone briefly pierce the hubbub. Two rings and someone answers it. Someone’s baby sitter probably. No, it’s for Furlong. Meredith goes to find him. She discovers him refilling a plate with salad, and she whispers lengthily into his ear. I can see them talking. Meredith is distraught; her hands are waving a little wildly. Furlong puts down his plate and hurries off to the phone where he talks for some time, cupping his hand to shut out the noise. After that I am too busy to watch.
Someone knocks over a glass of wine. I wipe it up. I set out cream and sugar on the table. Check the coffee. Someone arrives late and I find him some scrapings of lasagna and a heap of wilted salad. But later, serving plates of chocolate torte, I see that Meredith and Furlong are again conferring earnestly in a corner. After a moment they motion to Roger to join them, and the three of them huddle together. Furlong is explaining something to Roger who is leaning backwards, stunned, shaking his head, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it.
“How about some dessert?” I break in on them.
There is a sudden catch of silence. Embarrassment. Uncertainty. A fraction of a second only. Then Furlong takes my hand gently, “Judith, you must forgive me, but I’m afraid I’ll have to leave early. Something unexpected has come up.”
“Nothing serious?” I ask, for I’m suddenly alarmed by their shared gravity.
“No. Not exactly.”
“You’d better tell her,” Meredith directs.
“Perhaps I’d better.”
“I wish to Jesus someone had told me,” Roger says, half-sullen, half-violent.
“What’s happened?” I demand.
“It’s Ruthie.” Furlong says her name with surprising tenderness.
“Ruthie?”
“I don’t suppose you know, but she is – well – expecting a baby.”
“Yes, I did know, as a matter of fact.”
“I knew you suspected something,” Meredith says ringingly.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Judith?” Roger charges. “You never said a word to me about it.”
“I’ve only known for a few weeks. I saw her. At the library. She didn’t see me, but I saw her. I haven’t told anyone. Except Martin, of course.”
/> “You could have phoned me. One lousy phone call.”
“Look, Roger,” Furlong says, “Ruthie didn’t want you to know. That was the point.”
“I have a right to know. Who has a better right?”
“Well now you know.”
“How did you find out, Meredith?” I ask.
“I met her one day. A couple months ago. Downtown after school. Furlong had just taken her to the doctor. They sort of had to tell me. I mean, it was pretty obvious.
“Anyway, Judith,” Furlong breaks in, “that was Ruthie on the phone a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t tell me –"
“Yes. At least she thinks so. She’s had a few twinges.”
“But it’s not supposed to be for another two weeks,” Meredith says.
“What kind of twinges?” I ask Furlong.
“I don’t know. That is, I didn’t ask her what sort. Baby twinges, I presume.”
“How far apart?”
“I didn’t ask her that either.”
“I’m surprised,” I can’t resist chiding him. “All those women in your books who die of childbirth. I would think you’d at least ask how far apart the pains are.”
“Twenty minutes,” Meredith interrupts. “I asked her.”
“Christ. Twenty minutes.” Roger moans.
“I think I’d better be going,” Furlong says. “She’s all by herself. She’s been staying with Mother and me for the last little while.”
“Yes. I think you’d better go too,” I say. “And you’d better hurry. It could be quick.”
“Jesus.” Roger yells.
“Why don’t you go too, Roger?” I say.
Furlong nods. “Maybe he should.”
“What about me?” Meredith pleads. “Can’t I come too?”
Furlong glances at me. I nod.