THE VICTORY THAT ENDED IN A DRAW

Otago Daily Times, Issue 27499, 20 September 1950, Page 8

THE VICTORY THAT ENDED IN A DRAW

TRAVEL-LOG

VI.

It is no part of our intention in this casual chronicle to be diverted from the journey by contemplation of the muses. Yet now that Quebec rears its Heights before us (including the Chateau Frontenac, which out-rears all) digressions both historical and literary are almost inescapable. To take the literary aspect first, Quebec must recall to many a visitor those Immortal lines of Rudyard Kipling:

There was a young boy in Quebec Who was burled in snow to his neck. When asked, “Are you friz? ” He replied, " Yes, I is. “ But we don’t call this cold in Quebec.” That we arrived in the summer heat, with waistcoats a burden and any head covering but a panama hat or a knotted handkerchief a severe trial, does not detract from the appositeness of the comment. One could understand nothing of Canada if one could not realise that in winter time this land is snow-covered, the ground lying sleeping before its amazing spring flowering. And one could not be long in Quebec without realising that anything which happens there, even a snowfall, must necessarily be bigger and better than if it happened anywhere else on the continent. * * * , * *

Samuel (“ Erewhon ’’) Butler used another Quebecan theme, when he castigated Montreal for being the abiding place of a taxidermist' who had a Greek statue in his shop and was the brother-in-law of the haberdasher to Mr Spurgeon. It sounds, and it is, too complicated a poem to work out in this column: Preferrest thou the gospel of Montreal to the gospel of Hellas, The gospel of thy connection with Mr

Spurgeon’s haberdasher to the gospel of the discobolus? But it gave us a memorable line with which to confront Montreal’s more literary civic boosters: “Oh God! Oh Montreal! ” In that handsome, gay and lovely city they are still trying, it seems, to live down a satirist’s stray shaft. * * * *

As for the history, Quebec province is absorbed in it; while in Quebec city it is breathed in with one’s oxygen. Elsewhere in Canada the automobile licence plates have a crown as emblem —in Quebec they have the fleur-de-lis; elsewhere in Canada, which like the United States is very fond of bunting, there is much display of flags. Every lakeside cabin—and there are thousands of lakes and hundreds of thousands of log-cabins—flaunts the Canadian flag, every pleasure craft wears it in its bows. In Quebec, the flag everywhere displayed carries the Papal cross and the flour-de-lis. * * * * Statistics are something we have rio wish to stew in, but here is the Canadian brew: Per cent. British extraction 49 Canadlen (i.e., French-Canadian extraction) 31 Other races 20 Quebec city gives you the measure of the problem—or perhaps it is more accurately designated as the Situation. Quebec- is French-speaking. That is not to-say that the people do not speak English—they do, for the most part—but rather that they prefer the French tongue and, more importantly, they are French-thinking. * * * *"’ We met the Prime Minister’s grandchildren, two charming little girls, who curtsied prettily as 4hey shook hands and greeted us in French. They speak no English, nor will do until at school, later on, English is taught to them as a secondary language, the way our children learn French. But, of course, their English will be better than our French because they will be using it constantly; and also because their esteemed and wise family, the St. Laurents, have thrown a bridge across the chasm which divides one race into two. ■ Not all Canadien families are so wise; hence the Situation. * * * *

At the banquets which Quebec turned on in lavish quantity and quality for the visiting pressmen, the chasm was never closed, though we could shake hands over it. The chasm provided a cause for geniality, for tedium and for amusement. The

geniality sprang from the happy dawning in Canadiens minds of the fact that we had come to Quebec without chips on our shoulders, poison peps in our pockets or sneers on our flaces—that we had come expecting to see, to learn and to be among friends, nay, relatives. This approach put Canadiens in thought of toasts, both public and private, and no self-respecting visiting pressman would refuse a toast. * * * *

The tedium came when, chairs pushed back and cigars glowing, we prepared ourselves for the speechmaking. After-dinner speaking, and after-luncheon speaking still more, is something which the Anglo-Saxon realises should be brief and seasonable. The Anglo-Saxon, we aver, pays lip-service to this profound truth, though unfortunately his lips very often let him down and babble interminably. The Frenchman, or anyway the French-Canadian, doesn’t seem even to realise such a truth exists. He speaks well, he speaks fluently, he even speaks entertainingly, but he speaks and speaks. When the conviction that is within him, and the tradition of his citizenship within a city, demand that he makes his discourse first in French, and then again in English. . . . Well, it was no wonder that the newspaper delegation was frequently late for its afternoon engagements and its cars back to the hotel at nights. * * * *

Amusement stemmed from the worried preoccupation of the Canadiens with an argument which took place on the Plains of Abraham at approximately 10 a.m. on September 13. 1759. On that occasion, as is fairly well known, James Wolfe, a visiting Englishman, and Louis-Joseph Montcalm, the resident French champion, met in a bout lasting about a quarter of an hour. Both Wolfe and Montcalm were knocked out.

As to certain facts, even the Canadiens seem to be clear enough. There on the Heights they will show you the imposing array of old cannon that might well have been used in the engagement. Actually they weren’t, as Wolfe had only a pair of brass cannon, and Montcalm had sent to the town for 25 field guns, but only three turned up. But you certainly can peer down the Heights up which 4800 men scrambled in darkness nearly 200 years ago—a fair scramble it would be today, with daylight assisting and no sentries up aloft. And you can inspect a monument which was erected to mark the scene of the engagement With, shall we say, a fine Gallic impartiality it has the name of Wolfe on one panel and the name of Montcalm on the other.

What worries the Canadiens, it seems, is not that visitors have been taught there was a battle on the Plains of Abraham, but that there is an idea that somebody won it—somebody who failed to be a Frenchman. They are very concerned to clear up any misconceptions about this. The French and the English live together in Canada under one flag (or one and a-half flags, anyway), the Canadien after-dinner speakers say. Therefore, they are all Canadians together (or Canadians and Canadiens more or less together, to be precise). That being the case, they are friends and compatriots, which means that they couldn’t really have fallen out back in 1759; ergo, there wasn’t really a battle worth talking about, or if there was, well, it was more or draw —just look at that monument with the names of both Wolfe and Montcalm on it, and that proves it. And, indeed, if you think the matter over calmly, they imply, you’ll probably be prepared to allow that Montcalm actually had rather the better of it, and it was his very bad luck that Vaudreuil refused the order to send out the 25 field guns, for that would have settled the affair in Montcalms’ favour conclusively. This is, in general terms, how the argument goes, served up with the best of Canadien cuisine, and washed down with the most acceptable of wines— French, of course. In such circumstances, what group of honest, factfinding newspapermen could refuse to concede the palm to him who wants to bear it? J. M.

(Continued on Saturday.)