QUEBEC
I
Quebec is not merely historic: it suggests history. It has the grand
manner. One feels in one's bones that it is a city of a splendid past.
The first sight of Quebec piled up on its opposite bluff where the
waters of the St. Charles swell the mighty volume of the St. Lawrence
convinces one that this grave city is the cradle of civilization in the
West, the overlord of the river road to the sea and the heart of
history and romance for Canada.
One does not require prompting to recognize that history has to go back
centuries to reach the day when Cartier first landed here; or that
Champlain figured bravely in its story in a brave and romantic era of
the world, and that it was he who saw its importance as a commanding
point of the great waterway that struck deep into the heart of the rich
dominion--though he did think that dominion was a fragment of the
fabulous Indies with a door into the rich realms of China.
Instinct seems to tell one that on the lifting plain behind the bulldog
Citadel, Montcalm lost and died, and Wolfe died and won.
One knows, too, that from this city thick with spires, streams of
Christianity and civilization flowed west and north and south to
quicken the whole barbaric continent; that it was the nucleus that
concentrated all the energy of the vast New World.
II
From the decks of the three war vessels, the _Renown_ and the escorting
cruisers, Quebec must have seemed like a city of a dream hanging
against the quiet sky of a glorious evening.
The piled-up mass of the city on its abrupt cape is romantic, and
suggests the drama of a Rhine castle with a grace and a significance
that is French. On that evening of August 21st, when the strings and
blobs of colour from a multitude of flags picked out the clustering of
houses that climbed Cape Diamond to the grey walls of the Citadel, the
city from the St. Lawrence had an appearance glowing and fantastic.
From Quebec the three fine ships steaming in line up the blue waters of
the river were a sight dramatic and beautiful, though from the heights
and against the wall of cliffs on the Levis side, a mile across stream,
the cruisers were strangely dwarfed, and even _Renown_ appeared a small
but desirable toy.
In keeping with the general atmosphere of the town and toy-like ships,
Quebec herself put a touch of the fantastic into the charm of her
greeting.
As the cruisers dressed ship, and joined with the guns of the Citadel
in the salute, there soared from the city itself scores of maroons.
From the flash and smoke of their bursts there fluttered down many
coloured things. Caught by the wind, these things opened out into
parachutes, from which were suspended large silk flags. Soon the sky
was flecked with the bright, tricoloured bubbles of parachutes, bearing
Jacks and Navy Ensigns, Tricolours and Royal Standards down the wind.
The official landing at King's Wharf was full of characteristic colour
also. It was in a wide, open space right under the grey rock upon
which the Citadel is reared. In this square, tapestried with flags,
and in a little canvas pavilion of bright red and white, the Prince met
the leading sons of Quebec, the French-Canadian and the
English-Canadian; the Bishop of the English cathedral in gaiters and
apron, the Bishops of the Catholics in corded hats, scarlet gloves and
long cassocks. Sailors and soldiers, women in bright and smart gowns
gave the reception a glow and vivacity that had a quality true to
Quebec.
From this short ceremony the Prince drove through the quaint streets to
the Citadel. In the lower town under the rock his way led through a
quarter that might well stage a Stanley Weyman romance. It is a
quarter where, between high-shouldered, straight-faced houses, run the
narrowest of streets, some of them, like Sous le Cap, so cramped that
it is merely practical to use windows as the supports for
clothes-lines, and to hang the alleys with banners of drying washing.
In these cramped streets named with the names of saints, are sudden
little squares, streets that are mere staircases up to the cliff-top,
and others that deserve the name of one of them, The Mountain. In
these narrow canyons, through which the single-decked electric trams
thunder like mammoths who have lost their way, are most of the
commercial houses and nearly all the mud of the city.
At the end of this olden quarter, merging from the very air of
antiquity in the streets, Quebec, with a characteristic Canadian
gesture, adopts modernity. That is the vivid thing about the city. It
is not merely historical: it is up-to-date. It is not merely the past,
but it is the future also. At the end of the old, cramped streets
stands Quebec's future--its docks.
These great dockyards at the very toe of the cape are the latest things
of their kind. They have been built to take the traffic of tomorrow as
well as today. Greater ships than those yet built can lie in safe
water alongside the huge new concrete quays. Great ships can go into
dry dock here, or across the water in the shipyards of Levis. They
even build or put together ships of large tonnage, and while we were
there, there were ships in half sections; by themselves too big to be
floated down from the lakes through the locks, they had come down from
the building slips in floatable halves to be riveted together in Quebec.
A web of railways serves these great harbour basins, and the latest
mechanical loading gear can whip cargo out of ships or into them at
record speed and with infinite ease. Huge elevators--one concrete
monster that had been reared in a Canadian hustle of seven days--can
stream grain by the million tons into holds, while troops, passengers
and the whole mechanics of human transport can be handled with the
greatest facility.
The Prince went up the steep cobbled street of The Mountain under the
grey, solid old masonry of the Battery that hangs over the town in
front of Laval University, that with the Archbishop's palace looks like
a piece of old France translated bodily to Canada.
So he came to the big, green Place des Armes, not now a place of arms,
and at that particular moment not green, but as thick as a gigantic
flower-bed with the pretty dresses of pretty women--and there is all
the French charm in the beauty of the women of Quebec--and with the
khaki and commonplace of soldiers and civilians. A mighty and
enthusiastic crowd that did not allow its French accent to hinder the
shout of welcome it had caught up from the throng that lined the slopes
of The Mountain.
From this point the route twisted to the right along the Grande Allee,
going first between tall and upright houses, jalousied and severe
faced, to where a strip of side road swung it left again, and up hill
to the Citadel, where His Royal Highness lived during his stay.
From the Place des Armes the profile of the town pushes back along the
heights to the peak on which is the Citadel, a squat and massive
structure that seems to have grown rather than to have been built from
the living rock upon which it is based.
Between the Citadel and the Place des Armes there is a long, grey stone
wall above the green glacis of the cliff. It has the look of a
military wall, and it is not a military wall. It supports merely a
superb promenade, Dufferin Terrace, a great plank walk poised sheer
above the river, the like of which would be hard to equal anywhere. On
this the homely people of Quebec take the air in a manner more
sumptuous than many of the most aristocratic resorts in Europe.
At the eastern end of this terrace, and forming the wing of the Place
des Armes, is the medieval structure of the Chateau Frontenac, a
building not really more antique than the area of hotels _de luxe_, of
which it is an extremely fine example, but so planned by its designers
as to fit delightfully into the antique texture of the town.
Below and shelving away eastward again is the congested old town,
through which the Prince had come, and behind Citadel and promenade,
and stretching over the plateau of the cape, is a town of broad and
comely streets, many trees and great parks as modern as anything in
Canada.
That night the big Dufferin Terrace was thronged by people out to see
the firework display from the Citadel, and to watch the illuminations
of the city and of the ships down on the calm surface of the water. It
was rather an unexpected crowd. There were the sexes by the thousands
packed together on that big esplanade, listening to the band, looking
at the fireworks and lights, the whole town was there in a holiday
mood, and there was not the slightest hint of horseplay or disorder.
The crowd enjoyed itself calmly and gracefully; there were none of
those syncopated sounds or movements which in an English crowd show
that youth is being served with pleasure. The quiet enjoyment of this
good-tempered and vivacious throng is the marked attitude of such
Canadian gatherings. I saw in other towns big crowds gathered at the
dances held in the street to celebrate the Prince's visit. Although
thousands of people of all grades and tempers came together to dance or
to watch the dancing, there was never the slightest sign of rowdyism or
disorder.
On this and the next two nights Quebec added to its beauty. All the
public buildings were outlined in electric light, so that it looked
more than ever a fairy city hanging in the air. The cruisers in the
stream were outlined, deck and spar and stack, in light, and _Renown_
had poised between her masts a bright set of the Prince of Wales's
feathers, the lights of the whole group of ships being mirrored in the
river. On Friday _Renown_ gave a display of fireworks and
searchlights, the beauty of which was doubled by the reflections in the
water.
III
Friday and Saturday (August 22 and 23) were strenuous days for the
Prince. He visited every notable spot in the brilliant and curious
town where one spoke first in French, and English only as an
afterthought; where even the blind beggar appeals to the charitable in
two languages; where the citizens ride in up-to-date motor-cars and the
visitors in the high-slung, swing-shaped horse calache; where the
traffic takes the French side of the road; where the shovel hats and
cassocks of priests are as commonplace as everyday; where the vivacity
of France is fused into the homely good-fellowship of the Colonial in a
manner quite irresistible.
He began Friday in a wonderful crimson room in the Provincial
Parliament building, where he received addresses in French, and
answered them in the same tongue.
It was a remarkable room, this glowing chamber set in the handsome
Parliament house that looks down over a sweep of grass, the hipped
roofs and the pinnacles of the town to the St. Lawrence. It was a
great room with a floor of crimson and walls of crimson and white.
Over the mellow oak that made a backing to the Prince's dais was a
striking picture of Champlain looking out from the deck of his tiny
sloop _The Gift of God_ to the shore upon which Quebec was to rise.
The people in that chamber were not less colourful than the room
itself. Bright dresses, the antique robes of Les Membres du Conseil
Executif, the violet and red of clerics, with the blue, red and khaki
of fighting men were on the floor and in the mellow oak gallery.
Two addresses were read to His Royal Highness, twice, first in French
and then in English, and each address in each language was prefaced by
his list of titles--a long list, sonorous enough in French, but with an
air of thirdly and lastly when oft repeated. One could imagine his
relief when the fourth Earl of Carrick had been negotiated, and he was
steering safely for the Lord of the Isles. A strain on any man,
especially when one of the readers' pince-nez began to contract some of
the deep feeling of its master, and to slide off at every comma, to be
thrust back with his ever-deepening emotion.
The Prince answered in one language, and that French, and the surprise
and delight of his hearers was profound. They felt that he had paid
them the most graceful of compliments, and his fluency as well as his
happiness of expression filled them with enthusiasm. He showed, too,
that he recognized what French Canada had done in the war by his
reference to the Vingtdeuxieme Battalion, whose "conduite intrepide" he
had witnessed in France. It was a touch of knowledge that was
certainly well chosen, for the province of Quebec, which sent forty
thousand men by direct enlistment to the war, has, thanks to the
obscurantism of politics, received rather less than its due.
From the atmosphere of governance the Prince passed to the atmosphere
of the seminary, driving down the broad Grand Allee to the University
of Laval, called after the first Bishop of Quebec and Canada. It has
been since its foundation not merely the fountain head of Christianity
on the American continent, but the armoury of science, in which all the
arts of forestry, agriculture, medicine and the like were put at the
service of the settler in his fight against the primitive wilds.
In the bleached and severe corridors of this great building the Prince
examined many historic pictures of Canada's past, including a set of
photographs of his own father's visit to the city and university. He
also went from Laval to the Archbishop's Palace, where the Cardinal, a
humorous, wise, virile old prelate in scarlet, showed him pictures of
Queen Victoria and others of his ancestors, and stood by his side in
the Grand Saloon while he held a reception of many clerics, professors
and visitors.
The afternoon was given to the battlefield, where he unfurled a Union
Jack to inaugurate the beautiful park that extends over the whole area.
The beauty of this park is a very real thing. It hangs over the St.
Lawrence with a sumptuous air of spaciousness. Leaning over the
granite balustrade, one can look down on the tiny Wolfe's cove, where
three thousand British crept up in the blackness of the night to
disconcert the French commander.
It is not a very imposing slope, and a modern army might take it in its
stride. Across the formal grass of the park itself the learned trace
the lines of England and of France.
At the town end there is a slight hill above a dip. The British were
in the dip, France was on the hill. That hill lost the battle. It
placed the French between the British and the guns of the Citadel in
days when there was neither aerial observation nor indirect fire.
A wind, as on the day of the battle, was blowing while the Prince was
on the field. The British fired one volley, and the smoke from their
black powder was blown into the faces of the French. Bewildered by the
dense cloud, uncertain of what was in the heart of it, the French broke
and fled. In twenty minutes Canada was won.
There is a plain monument to mark the exact spot where Wolfe fell; the
Prince placed a wreath upon it, as he had placed wreaths on the
monuments of Champlain and Montcalm earlier, and as he did later at the
monument Aux Braves on the field of Foye, which commemorates the dead
of both races who fell in the battle when Murray, a year after Wolfe's
victory, endeavoured to loosen the grip the French besiegers were
tightening round Quebec, and was defeated, though he held the city.
On the Plains of Abraham--it has no romantic significance, Abraham was
merely a farmer who owned the land at the time of the battle--French
and English were again gathered in force, but in a different manner.
It was a bright and friendly gathering of Canadians, who no longer
permitted a difference of tongue to interfere with their amity. It was
also a gathering of men and women and children (Quebec is the province
of the quiverful), notably vigorous, well-dressed and prosperous.
The thing to remark here, as well as in all the gatherings of the
people of this city, was the absence of dinginess and dowdiness that
goes with poverty. In the great mass of stone houses, pretty brick and
wood villas, and apartment "houses," the upper flats of which are
reached by curving iron Jacob stairways, that make habitable Quebec
there are patches of cramped wooden houses, each built under the
architectural stimulus of the packing-case, though rococo little
porches and scalloped roofs add a wedding-cake charm to the poverty of
size and design. But though there are these small but not mean houses,
there appear to be no poor people.
All those on the Plains had an independent and self-supporting air (as,
indeed, every person has in Canada), and they gave the Prince a
reception of a hearty and affable kind, as he declared this fine park
the property of the city, and made the citizens free of its historic
acreage for all time.
From the Plains His Royal Highness went by car to the huge new railway
bridge that spans the St. Lawrence a few miles above the town. It was
a long ride through comely lanes, by quiet farmsteads and small
habitant villages. At all places where there was a nucleus of human
life, men and women, but particularly the children, came out to their
fences with flags to shout and wave a greeting.
At the bridge station were two open cars, and on to the raised platform
of one of these the Prince mounted, while "movie" men stormed the other
car, and a number of ordinary human beings joined them. This special
train was then passed slowly under the giant steel girders and over the
central span, which is longer than any span the Forth Bridge can boast.
As the train travelled forward the Prince showed his eagerness for
technical detail, and kept the engineers by his side busy with a stream
of questions.
The bridge is not only a superb example of the art of the engineer,
perhaps the greatest example the twentieth century can yet show, but it
is a monument to the courage and tenacity of man. Twice the great
central span was floated up-stream from the building yards, only to
collapse and sink into the St. Lawrence at the moment it was being
lifted into place. Though these failures caused loss of life, the
designers persisted, and the third attempt brought success.
There was, one supposes, a ceremonial idea connected with this
function. His Royal Highness certainly unveiled two tablets at either
end of the bridge by jerking cords that released the covering Union
Jack. But this ritual was second to the ceremonial of the "movies."
The "movies" went over the top in a grand attack. They put down a box
barrage close up against the Prince's platform, and at a distance of
two feet, not an inflection of his face, nor a movement of his head,
escaped the unwinking and merciless eye of the camera.
The "movie" men declare that the Prince is the best "fil-lm" actor
living, since he is absolutely unstudied in manner; but it would have
taken a Douglas Fairbanks of a super-breed to remain unembarrassed in
the face of that cold line of lenses thrust close up to his medal
ribbons. And in the film he shows his feelings in characteristic
movements of lips and hands.
The men who did not take movies, the men with plain cameras, the
"still" men, were also active. Not to be outdone by their comrades
with the machine-gun action, they sprang from the car at intervals, ran
along the footway, and snapped the party as the train drew level with
them.
It was a field day for cameras, but enthusiastic people also counted.
Men and women had clambered up the hard, stratified rock of the
cuttings that carry the line to the bridge, and they were also standing
under the bridge on the slopes, and on the flats by the river. They
were cheering, and--yes, they were busy with their cameras
also--cameras cannot be evaded in Canada, even in the wilds.
One had the impression, from the difficult perches on which people were
to be found, that wherever the Prince would go in Canada, to whatever
lonely or difficult spot his travels would lead him, he would always
find a Canadian man, and possibly a Canadian woman standing waiting or
clinging to precarious holds, glad to be there, so long as he (or she)
had breath to cheer and a free hand to wave a flag. And this
impression was confirmed by the story of the next months.
IV
Saturday, August 23, was supposed to give His Royal Highness the
half-day holiday which is the due of any worker. That half day was
peculiarly Canadian.
The business of the morning was one of singular charm. The Prince
visited the Convent of the Ursulines, to which in the old days wounded
Montcalm was taken, and in whose quiet chapel his body lies.
The nuns are cloistered and do not open their doors to visitors, but on
this day they welcomed the Prince with an eagerness that was altogether
delightful. They showed him through their serene yet bare reception
rooms, and with pride placed before him the skull of Montcalm, which
they keep in their recreation room, together with a host of historic
documents dealing with the struggles of those distant days.
The party was taken through the nuns' chapel, and sent on with smiles
to the public chapel to look on Montcalm's tomb, originally a hole in
the chapel fabric torn by British shells. The nuns could not go into
that chapel. "We are cloistered," they told us.
These child-like nuns, with their serene and smiling faces, were
overjoyed to receive His Royal Highness and anxious to convey to him
their good will.
"We cannot go to England--we cannot leave our house--but our hearts are
always with you, and there are none more loyal than us, and none more
earnest in teaching loyalty to all the girls who come to us to study.
Yes, we teach it in French, but what does that matter? We can express
the Canadian spirit just as well in that language." So said a very
vivid and practical little nun to me, and she was anxious that England
should realize how dear they felt the bond.
The Prince's afternoon "off" was spent out of Quebec at the beautiful
village of St. Anne's Beaupre, where, set in lovely surroundings, there
is a miraculous shrine to St. Anne. The Prince visited the beautiful
basilica, and saw the forest of sticks and crutches left behind as
tokens of their cure by generations of sufferers.
News of his visit had got abroad, and when he left the shrine in
company of the clergy, he was surrounded by a big crowd who restricted
all movement by their cheerful importunity. A local photographer,
rising to the occasion, refused to let His Royal Highness escape until
he had taken an historic snap. Not merely a snap of the Prince and the
priests with him, but of as many of the citizens of Beaupre as he could
get into a wide angle lense. This was a tremendous occasion, and he
yelled at the top of his voice to the people to:
"Come and be photographed with the Prince. Come and be taken with your
future King."
Taken with their future King, the people of Beaupre were entirely
disinclined to let him go. They crowded round him so that it was only
force that enabled his entourage to clear a tactful way to his car.
Even in the car the driver found himself faced with all the
opportunities of the chauffeur of the Juggernaut with none of his
convictions. The car was hemmed in by the crowd, and the crowd would
not give way.
It is possible that at this jolly crisis somebody mentioned the
Prince's need for tea, and at the mention of this solemn and
inexplicable British rite the crowd gave way, and the car got free.