The Town Below. Roger Lemelin
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or, respectively, the Liberals and the Conservatives. The terms red and blue date from a time when the Canadian clergy took an active part in politics and would thunder from the pulpit: “Heaven is blue, hell is red, you will know for which side to vote.” The Liberals, it may be remarked, still adhere to the tradition of the early-century premier, Sir Wilfred Laurier. As for the separatists, or ardent French-Canadian nationalists, they form a movement rather than a party and will be heard talking of “the Race” (meaning the French Canadians), the necessity of a “strong nation,” of rebuilding the youth, et cetera. This nationalist spirit is reflected in such an organization as the Saint-Jean-Baptiste Society with its parochial sections or branches.
On the other hand, the “communists” that are referred to in this book are not to be taken seriously. They are the product of the overheated imagination of the bigoted and ambitious Monsieur Pritontin or afford convenient sermon material for a Father Folbèche, that is about all. There are, of course, real Communists in Canada but they do not appear in this story.
There are certain other allusions in the book that perhaps call for a word of explanation. Some of these are of a historical character. Anyone who has visited Quebec will be familiar with the name Lévis, that of the famous marshal, François Duc de Lévis, who surrendered Canada to the British in the eighteenth century. This will explain the appellation Lévis Guard, applied to the guard of honour at Saint-Joseph’s, the function of which is to usher in church and parade on state occasions. There is also Henri Bourassa, most famous of French-Canadian nationalist leaders, who is mentioned in passing, and there is the seventeenth-century Jean Talon, greatest of the French governors. If one adds the name of Father Antoine François-Xavier Labelle, late-nineteenth-century priest and statesman noted for his colonizing activities, the list of historical personages will be complete so far as the reader of the present story is concerned.
Among contemporary figures may be noted Bolduc, famous for her rendition of Canadian folk songs, and Henri Deglane, champion wrestler of the early 1930s. Pamphile Lemay, Joseph Boucher’s literary idol, was a romantic nineteenth-century French-Canadian poet who imitated Lamartine.
A word should perhaps be said regarding certain nicknames that depend wholly upon sound-connotation for their effect. “Barloute,” for example, is commonly applied to all women of Feda’s sort; little, active, boastful men are known as “Tit-Blanc” (the “Tit-” being an abbreviation for petit); while individuals who are physically strong and inclined to be braggarts are called “Pitou.” None of these names has any special origin.
In connection with the wrestling match, it may be observed that Canadian wrestling is more or less a free-for-all, marked by a use of fists and feet that is not permitted in the United States. As a result, it is rather a bloody affair.
While these preliminary explanations may be helpful, the reader will soon enough become so absorbed in the strange new world into which he is plunged from the opening pages of this fascinating tale that he will feel no need of guideposts.
Throughout this translation I have had the advantage of the author’s kind and helpful advice on all doubtful points. The task has been a difficult one, owing not alone to the peculiarities of Canadian French and the abundance of local argot but also to the frequent psychological subtleties of the narrative. At the same time it has been an experience so rewarding that I can think of only one other with which to compare it; that of translating Jean Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles, some eighteen years ago. Both books hold all the pathos of adolescence; both are poetic, dramatic, and alive. Each in its own way (for they are of course very different after all) is heartbreakingly beautiful, yet has about it the ineffaceable glow of mourning and of youth.
Dedication
To my mother and father
Part One
The Cry
Chapter One
The shrill sound of the police whistle gave everyone a start. Saint-Joseph housewives interrupted their washing, small lads quit their play, and idlers in the restaurants lifted mole-like faces toward the sun. What was it? The cops again? Who was their victim this time? One of the gang? All the Mulots were keen on the scent; they must rescue one of their number from the clutches of the law. They were prepared for such emergencies as this, prepared to put up an organized defence. Courtyard gates were purposely left open for refuge, and the urchins with slingshots in their mouths filled their pockets with pebbles. The big lads, meanwhile, their hands thrust into their trousers, sauntered off in the direction of the Pente Douce, as the Soyeux, cowering in their kitchens, expressed their horror of such hoodlums, who were a disgrace to the parish.
All eyes turned instinctively toward the “Cape,” for this was the shortest path by which a perilous descent could be made from the Upper Town, where most of the depredations occurred. At the top of the Cape, in front of the Dominican monastery, several priests stood waving their arms as the culprits, half leaping, half rolling, scrambled down the almost vertical embankment, scratching and tearing themselves on the shrubbery, which quickly sprang back into place behind them with a shower of pretty autumn leaves. From the balconies the fugitives looked very small indeed: like lice fleeing through the hair of some tawny giant. Then came a glimpse of their mud-spattered white shirts, tight over their enormous chests.
“Stop them! Stop them!” the monks were shouting. “Our apples! Our apples!”
Father Folbèche, the parish priest, who was engaged in watering his garden, found consolation for the shame he felt by reflecting that they at least had left him his flowers. The whistle sounded once more and a long black car drew up at the foot of the Pente Douce to await the delinquents.
“It’s the cops, fellows!” cried Denis Boucher, who was bounding along in front of the others. They hesitated furtively. Should they turn back? It was not to be thought of. And there ahead of them, in triangular formation, were three gendarmes from the police car, waiting to pounce upon them. The Mulots, large and small, had already surrounded the officers and were walking up and down, obstructing their path, asking them for matches, doing everything they could to hamper them. But when they heard Boucher’s excited cry they realized the culprits were the members of his hated, overbearing gang, and from that moment they ceased to be accomplices and became enemies, lining up to form a barricade to make it easier to capture the young upstarts who waged their own special kind of warfare, who put on so many airs over their book learning, who pretended to have no use for girls, and who, in short, were neither Mulots nor Soyeux.
It was the fugitives who launched the attack, the police bracing themselves to meet it. In three jumps Denis was upon the first officer, who made an attempt to seize him. The gendarme, however, had not reckoned with the strength of this sinewy youth of eighteen. With a sudden squirm Boucher bowled him over and continued on his headlong flight, bearing down upon the other two, a few yards farther on, who with the automobile constituted a sort of rampart. As they saw him coming they spread out a little that they might have a better chance of grabbing him; but just as he was within arm’s reach he quickly ducked and slipped through their hands like an eel. The automobile still barred his way and he did not have time to run around the end of it. In a couple of leaps he was over the hood, coming down on the pavement of the rue Franklin on the other side. Apples spilled from his shirt and the little Mulots fought with one another for possession of them. All of which happened so rapidly that the policeman who had been knocked down had not yet been able to pick himself up.
“Hurrah!” shouted the urchins enthusiastically. They were punished for this by knee thrusts in the small of their backs; for the older lads were jealous of the fascination that Boucher exercised over the younger ones. His mocking laugh could be heard in the distance; he was proud of this successful manoeuvre. In the meantime, the Langevin twins and Jean Colin had likewise managed to slip past the flurried gendarmes, whose turn it was to hesitate now. Not knowing what to do but obeying a natural impulse under the circumstances, they gave up the chase after Boucher and set out in pursuit of the other three, their handsome blue uniforms crackling while their white bell-shaped helmets danced above their foreheads, which were bathed in sweat from the unaccustomed exertion, and took