Having published one hundred and sixteen stories in The New Yorker, Mavis Gallant’s regular readers would have had to wait from April 15 until July 8 in 1985, to learn how life has been for the Carette sisters.
The story opens like this: “The family’s experience of Raymond was like a long railway journey with a constantly shifting point of view.”
Directly, readers are reminded of how differently Raymond’s mother and aunt view a journey, how differently time moves for them, being of another generation.
Indirectly, readers are reminded of how differently one views a single character’s experience from not only a different vantage of time in relationship to other characters, but from the shifting points of view between those characters’ author and that author’s readers.
The next paragraph begins like this: “To make a short story shorter….” But that’s not how readers will experience this story, not that shorter short story, simply a short story. And, so, we readers are reminded that this is only one version of the Carette family’s story.
If you recall, we first met the Carette family in 1933, in the wake of a man’s death, then spent some time with them in 1949, in the wake of another man’s death. Here, in 1969, another man has died:
“(It was the summer of the moon walk. Raymond’s mother still mentions this, as though it had exerted a tidal influence on her affairs.)”
Even though I have read these stories before, I don’t remember any of the details about the Carette family, but I’m still anxious, now, about the events to come in the final of these four tales, “Florida”.
But rather than dwell on the plot developments (and there is plot here—by now readers are invested in this family’s fate and yearn to know how the women will cope, in the wake of another loss, how the decisions made after the funeral will play out), we can also peer into Gallant’s way of situating characters and readers.
How we can chuckle a little at these observations about Marie and the moon’s tidal pull and other mysteries in her life, without laughing at her. “She fainted easily; it was her understanding that the blood in her arms and legs congealed, leaving her brain unattended. She seemed content with this explanation and did not seek another.”
It is comical, but we are also pleased that Marie has someone to cover her bare legs with a lace quilt, and remove her glasses and hat, on this summer afternoon when she falls asleep. (It’s comedy with compassion; the family is making adjustments following a death, so these mystical phenomena–tides and blood–are other ways of answering the unanswerable.)
How the sisters situate themselves in terms of language remains important. From those few phrases their mother taught them, they now inhabit a world in which English has become associated with business and success. And even though Marie falls asleep during the English news and pays attention to the French, she can understand both broadcasts.
The tombstone is bilingual because Raymond’s father spoke English in the office but French at home. Berthe’s English is superior to every other character’s English, because her “th”s never degrade into “d” sounds. And Raymond’s “French filled up with English, as with a deposit of pebbles and sand”.
And how the women understand the world beyond Montréal is influenced by language but not decisively so, for instance, they imagine Vietnam to be an American place, because of the news about the war. And when a family member moves to the United States and adopts American citizenship, Marie answers by saying “that 98 percent of the world’s forest fires were started by Americans”. (Yes, the wit remains.)
The end of this story loops back to 1969 again. Raymond longs for that time, feels “homesick for the summer of 1969, for the ease with which he jumped from cloud to cloud”.
But what are we readers to make of his wish: are these stories the clouds? or, are they the spaces between the clouds? Either way, I’m all in.
Often in my reading, I find my attention begins to wander at a ¾ mark, when I’m as eager to be finished reading a tale as I am keen to continue with it, but here I am equally reluctant and eager to read, because I do want to know what’s in store for the Carettes, but I’m also concerned that what I don’t know is even more important.
Across the Bridge‘s Stories: 1933 / The Chosen Husband / From Cloud to Cloud / Florida / Dédé / Kingdom Come / Across the Bridge / Forain / A State of Affairs / Mlle. Dias de Corta / The Fenton Child
Note: This is part of a series of posts on Mavis Gallant’s stories, as I read through her short fiction. This is the third story in Across the Bridge. Please feel free to check the schedule and join in, for the series, or for a single story; I would love the company. Next story: “Florida”.
It’s interesting that each of the three Carette stories you’ve covered is set in the aftermath of a death. I wonder if that’s because such an event can represent a crux or time of crisis in our day to day lives, thereby heightening tensions that have been suppressed or lying latent for some time. Do you have any thoughts on that?
That seems to fit with at least some of Mavis Gallant’s stories. Certainly this one, with the son suddenly able to act without restraint (and not being equipped to manage that very well either, but that makes for interesting narrative I suppose). I wonder, too, if the absence of her parents and her decision to move from Montreal to Paris, left her in a position of grieving certain elements of her life, might-have-beens, even when there wasn’t a death to mourn exactly–so that stories about death allow her to brush up against that from another angle. It’s funny, because she writes so collectedly, so deliberately, but there’s often a surge of emotion off-stage or simmering beneath the stories. Whenever you get to reading them, I’m sure you’ll have more thoughts on these theories!
I found this story sadder than the first two. I don’t know if it really is, or if it’s just because I imagine my own son as Raymond, and… well… I wouldn’t be happy with some of his decisions. But the sisters have each other. Which makes me think about family and how they are always changing, but the only family that will remain around about the same time as you (hopefully) are your siblings and your partner (if you have any or one of these). The older generation will die off, and the younger will wander off. I hadn’t really thought about it like that before – I can’t imagine why! Maybe because it’s so normal, right in front of my face all the time.
You’ve already mentioned most of the things that stuck out to me – like the language and the comical bits. And the jumps in time between stories – what a difference 20 years makes! I also like this line: “He didn’t mind learning, but he hated to be taught.”
Raymond just seems so caught up in his own priorities. It makes me wonder whether he had a much more problematic childhood than we are shown as readers, so that he feels he needs to act out. For instance, his need to keep his “best outfits” (the rodeo bits!) at his aunt’s house. They must not have been acceptable to his mother and father? Was there more to his flamboyance than we are shown directly, and his reason for marrying late more complicated than we’re privy to? He seems to see the death as a powerful motivator to leave but, then, he doesn’t seem to be able to make his dreams land. And of course, by that time, he’s got wartime trauma to sort through. I feel like there’s a lot to wonder about with him. And I agree that she has a way of pointing out essential truths, that feel like they’ve always been right in front of us, but she has drawn our attention to them in a fresh way. And, oh, yes! I actually quoted that line the next day, because I think that’s true of all of us in some moments (and true for some of us for a lifetime)!
I had barely heard of Gallant but based on your commentary she seems like a very worthy writer. Your comment about the reader experiencing characters differently based upon time and character point of view is something that good writers do.