Just a word to wish you a Merry Christmas and other festivities. May the New Year bless all of you.
I thank you for the warmth you have brought me for some nine years. We create bonds with are colleagues, which I never expected.
We had a Christmas celebration last night, at one of my nephew’s home. So I may now write a post on La Comtesse d’Escarbagnas, Molière’s shortest play.
A very long time ago, my sister and I produced it. I can’t remember which role I played. Students enjoy producing plays. My sister is an award-winning actress.
I’m about to work again, but life changed drastically today (29 November). I took my cat Belaud to his vet. Cancer was diagnosed. Dr de Vette (that is his real name) thought the only humane thing to do was euthanasia. Belaud was the French chartreux who was my constant and beloved companion since 2008.
He had stopped eating several days ago, drank smaller and smaller amounts of fresh water, and he wouldn’t eat his treats. The last two nights, he didn’t sleep on the bed. This was unusual because he was always as close to me as possible.
I took him to the vet’s knowing what I would be told, yet hoping I was wrong.
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Dom Garcie de Navarre and Les Fâcheux have both been considered Précieux plays and both are a discussion on jealousy. Is jealousy a sign of love or is it destructive? The question was discussed in Salons, one of France’s major cultural and social institutions. Salons have now closed. In French seventeenth-century salons, questions d’amour were dissected by men and women. Topics discussed in salons changed from century to century and, to some extent, from salon to salon. In earlier posts, we have seen la carte du Tendre, the map of love. It appeared in Clélie, Histoire romaine, a novel by Madeleine de Scudéry. The Map of Tendre was engraved by François Chauveau. In Dom Garcie de Navarre, jealousy is as we have seen it in Molière’s Amphitryon. The seventeenth-century masterpiece on the subject of jealousy is Madame de La Fayette‘sPrincesse de Clèves, published in 1678.
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I’m so sorry my little Belaud has left us. He was affectionate, quiet, friendly, and always happy. He had been with me since he was old enough to be adopted and ran my life in a manner that suited us both. Belaud was named after Joachim du Bellay‘s Belaud, also a chartreux.
I will write on The Princess of El(l)is, but I can’t resist mentioning Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex, and Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex.
When I was a child in a very Catholic Quebec, we were taught that one could not speak ill of others. It was called médisance,and it was considered a sin. In fact, my parents would not allow us to engage in any form of gossiping and to judge others. We had to report mistreatment and were protected, but there were rules of conduct.
So, given the education I received, I have looked upon the negative comments about the Duchess of Sussex as uncharitable, and since it has been said, among other falsehoods, that she faked her pregnancy, the word uncharitable fails to describe the villainy of her detractors.
It started with the price of her clothes. As you know, Meghan is African-American, divorced, and a former actress. She may therefore have feared rejection from the Royal family of Britain and fought this fear by dressing impeccably. As a matter of fact, dressing well is expected of Britain’s Royals. Meghan’s beauty and elegance are assets to the Crown, and so is her engaging personality. She may not continue to purchase very expensive clothes at the rate she did, but she is unlikely to stop wearing lovely clothes.
Moreover, given that the Duchess of Sussex was in her mid-thirties and had a successful career when she and Prince Harry met, it was to be expected that she would combine certain personal endeavours and her duties as a Royal.
Meghan may not be perfect. Who is? But those who are defaming her are harming a human being and may destroy their prey, which is very wrong.
I admire Prince Harry and love Meghan’s spontaneity and warmth.
On 29 August 2019, I put in a short note at the very bottom of my post. The note was about my posts on Molière.
Navigating the Internet, I saw an invitation to rate one of my posts on Molière. This had never happened before. Besides only experts could rate scholarly articles, but they would not rate a post. Experts assess articles submitted for publication in a journal and books submitted for publication as monographs.
I wrote a PhD thesis on Molière and have published articles on some of his plays. I have not published a book on Molière because of other assignments. I would like to write a book on Molière, but that may not be possible. I no longer have access to a research library and my pension fund is too small for me to support the costs involved in writing a book.
Besides, I am now 75 years old and in poor health. I am nevertheless rereading the plays of Molière and writing posts as I read. These are accessible for free. There is no “pay” button on my site.
I have a loving community on WordPress, which is all I need.
In fact, I will have to spend more time resting. In my last post, I wrote “taught” instead of “thought.” That is a clear sign of fatigue.
I don’t know who decided that my posts on Molière should be rated. Moreover, I cannot understand why anyone would do this. Scholarly articles are much longer than posts. They contain several quotations by fellow scholars, and few images are used.
Let us hope this will not happen again, not without my consent.
While writing my post, I suddenly felt enormous, crippling, fatigue. There is nothing one can do. I transferred the post from Word to WordPress, but left out most of Act One, accidentally. The part I did not include was Reason, Destiny, Youth and a Father’s Love.
These words are keys to an understand of Molière’s Les Fourberies de Scapin, and to an understanding of Molière’s plays.
I copied my article, including Act One, and put it in a new post. I wanted to avoid old versions coming up.
Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is a difficult illness. I caught a virus in 1976, a long time ago, and never recovered fully. The same thing happened to Florence Nightingale, but the triggering factor may have been something other than a powerful virus. The virus damaged my brain because the rate of perfusion of blood to the brain slowed down. However, my intelligence has not been affected, so work was my best remedy and it has remained just that. Furthermore, myalgic should be removed because I am not in pain. I have migraines, but who doesn’t?
Allow me to rest a little and I will conclude reading Les Fourberies de Scapin. In Act Three, Scapin puts Géronte in a bag, changes his voice several times to make Géronte think others are beating him. Géronte gets out of the bag. The good news is that Octave is no longer a prisoner of the Turks, which was a fourberie, and Zerbinette has been saved.
Allan J. MacEachen, a long-serving Liberal MP and senator from Cape Breton, has died at St. Martha’s Hospital in Antigonish, N.S., on Monday night. (Mike Dembeck/Canadian Press)
My dear friend and former neighbour for 22 years, the Honourable Allan J. MacEachen, died on 12 September 2017, the year Canada celebrated its 150th birthday and the year he turned 96. Mr MacEachen passed away at St Martha’s Hospital in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He had studied at St Francis Xavier University and returned to StFX to teach Economics. He owned a house across the street from the campus, a few steps from my house. In fact, Allan J.’s backyard ran into mine. I didn’t fully own my backyard. We therefore shared the backyard and a barn.
In other words, this post isn’t about Allan J. MacEachen, a foremost Canadian politician and also a statesman. It is about the extraordinary gentleman who lived next door to me and about a very dear friend. Let us begin with the barn.
The Barn
That barn was quite the building. It could have been used as a garage, but it served as storage space. That is where we kept our gardening tools, a lawn mower, ladders, scaffolding, not to mention picks and shovels and tires. Paul mowed the lawn. To be precise, Paul mowed three adjoining lawns: Mr MacEachen’s, Dr Cecil MacLean’s and mine. Dr Cecil MacLean, a graduate of the Sorbonne, was Chair of the Department of Modern Languages. Initially, he was the Carnegie Chair of French.
The barn was somewhat special. For one thing, it had a hidden room. How else could it be so long a building on the outside, but not very deep inside? I was perplexed and I decided to investigate matters. I found a small door, hidden behind an apple tree and vegetation I had to cut my way through. The door had been left unlocked, so, I climbed in and explored. After it was found, I had a lock installed on the door. It was no longer hidden. The next time he came from Ottawa, Mr MacEachen was introduced to his collection of antiques. He was very interested and had some of these antiques refurbished.
I enjoyed looking after our backyard. In the summer, I filled a white urn with red flowers and put a tall green plant in the middle. I sat the urn close to his back door, which is where he parked the car. Finding the right place for this urn was not easy. I walked back and forth until I found what I believe was the best location. I also loved delineating the driveways, his and mine. I had gardeners put little white stones, crushed marble I believe, on one side of the two adjoining driveways. On the other side, we had a very long hedge which I trimmed so it wouldn’t scratch Mr MacEachen’s car.
The Drive from the Airport: poor Mr MacEachen
Before flying down from Ottawa to Antigonish, Mr MacEachen would phone me, or Pearl did. Pearl Hunter was Mr MacEachen’s secretary and, to a large extent, a colleague.
She died on 22 July 2017, which must have saddened Mr MacEachen enormously. We had a marvellous lunch together a few summers ago. There were four of us: Allan J., Pearl, Craig Smith, who was Mr MacEachen’s devoted and constant companion after Mr MacEachen suffered a stroke in 2004, and there was little me. How thoughtful of Mr MacEachen to invite Pearl!
Sometimes, when I knew he was coming to Antigonish, I called in our cleaning ladies: Adèle and her sister. Both lived in Pomquet, a nearby Acadian community. As well, on one occasion, I drove Mr MacEachen’s car to the airport to pick him up. I arrived at the airport safely and on time. However, on our way back to Antigonish, we stopped to eat a doughnut at a Tim Horton‘s and, as we left, Mr MacEachen said that he would drive the rest of the way. Based on this one event, one can tell Mr MacEachen was a born diplomat. He was much too polite to tell me I was a poor driver and I didn’t ask why he wanted to drive.
The Frozen Pipes
One day, when Mr MacEachen arrived home, his heating system had failed and the radiators had burst. I was in Sherbrooke, Quebec, visiting with my family. As for Mr MacEachen’s tenant, Joe, he was also absent. Poor Allan J. could not sleep in his house. He went to see Cecil who considered sending him to my house. But what about the stuffed rabbit lying on my bed: a Steiff rabbit. Mr MacEachen went elsewhere. When his tenant left, I started visiting the house every day. Yet, there was another incident, which is my main story. It is about the intrusion of a raccoon.
The Raccoon
That event is an event to recall. The fellow–I called him Stokely in memory of another raccoon, found his way down the chimney to the bottom of the fireplace. The fireplace was in a beautiful room which the raccoon damaged extensively. The door to that room was closed, so I did not open it during my daily visit. As a result, Allan J. was the first to see the damage. In fact, the raccoon was still in the chimney. We blocked it from the room, but Stokely lived there. I said to Mr MacEachen that I would look after everything with the help of good friends.
Claude said that we would have to smoke Stokely out. Smoke him out? Wouldn’t that hurt him? No, he said. We used Cuban cigars, perhaps a gift from Fidel Castro himself. I protested. Imagine, history going up in flames so a raccoon would leave his comfortable nest in a chimney! But Claude insisted. We only needed a few cigars. Claude had made a grid that would block the chimney. I believe Richard was with us, waiting to see the raccoon emerge and leave. When Stokely came out, he looked in every direction and ran to safety. Richard told Claude to drop the grid.
I had to throw several cushions away and called in professional cleaners. I also had to replace one of the curtains. It had to be custom-made and Mr MacEachen always ran the risk of paying what I called the senatorial fee–by then Mr MacEachen was a senator. The curtain was sown shabbily and I have always regretted not making it myself.
There were other backyard adventures. For instance, the alarm system Mr MacEachen had installed was sensitive and would go off if a curtain moved. The Company would then phone me and I’d run to the house and inspect, sometimes fighting my way through heavy snow. But all was always well.
A Kind Gentleman
Mr MacEachen was very considerate. After Dr Cecil MacLean died–Cecil and I were always together, he told me he would protect me. I did not learn until much later that I needed protection. He knew that I lived alone and went to bed early so that fatigue would not prevent me from teaching the next day. At Christmas, he asked if I had a place to go and brought me a gift. He also made sure I was not left alone on my birthday.
One July, the week of our birthdays, I drove to Lake Ainslie, Cape Breton, where Mr MacEachen had a house. He had invited members of the Robichaud family and a relative of his, a priest. It turned out the Robichaud family knew one of my father’s best friends. As for the priest, he had been in Rome when my mother’s cousin taught theology at what was then called the Angelicum.
Mr MacEachen also toured my house. I had told him that my bedroom was the smallest room in the house. Why was I depriving myself of larger quarters? I led him from room to room. As he looked, he seemed reassured. The house was small but it was a jewel, the smallest room in particular. I had a beautiful blue house, covered with cedar shingles. Many of you know that this is the house I sold during the Summer of 2002. I had fallen ill because my workload had become too heavy.
Mr MacEachen tried to prevent me from selling the house, but I thought it was too late to cancel. Two years later, my disability benefits were terminated. So, once again, Mr MacEachen tried to help me resume my career, but the Vice-President did not listen to him. I wanted to return to my office and it was available. However, I was being sent elsewhere. No, I had never been remiss in my duties despite chronic fatigue syndrome.
They didn’t know me, but Mr MacEachen did.
Conclusion
I knew a more private Mr MacEachen, but I agree with Justin Trudeau. Mr MacEachen (6 July 1921 – 12 September 2017), “made this country.”
The man who said to me: “I will protect you,” protected all of us Canadians. He knew about the social contract and lived it. Citizens pay their taxes and their government makes sure they are safe. Mr MacEachen made sure Canadians were safe.
The Government of Nova Scotia celebrated Mr MacEachen’s life on Sunday 17 September 2017, at the Keating Centre, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish. His funeral took place at Stella Maris Catholic Church in Inverness, Cape Breton and he was buried in the parish cemetery.
May you rest in peace, Mr MacEachen. You have built a country and will always be remembered.
I have moved to my new apartment, but it was a difficult and lengthy move, longer than I anticipated. My challenge was downsizing. The apartment I have bought is spacious, ±1056 sq ft (±98.1 sq meters), but it has fewer rooms than my former apartment. I had to give furniture, books and clothes, but I still have everything I need.
Given my age, this building is a safer environment than the building I left. It has elevators and it is situated within walking distance of a small market place and a café.
The time has come to return to my weblog. I have missed you. I still have boxes containing books to unpack. Some of these books will be given, but I am having bookcases built to house the ones I am keeping.
I wasn’t at my computer this week. However, I have published a page entitled Beast literature. It contains a list of most of the posts I have written on Beast fables, but not the fables themselves. These are listed on a separate page.
Missing is a post about the various naturalists whose descriptions were used to tell about animals. Herodotus was the first to describe animals, but most fabulists and naturalists used a book entitled the Physiologusto obtain the information they required.
I will post this short note and will return to my normal activities as soon as I feel better.
It happened once again. I was writing a post, had to go out, and obviously hit the “publish” button instead of the “safe draft” button.
Let me read what I have written down.
I’m feeling a little sad today. As you know, I am trying to sell my share of this building, one-ninth, but the co-owners of the building are sending away prospective buyers who may need to take a mortgage. In this building, if a co-owner fails to pay his or her mortgage, making payments becomes the responsibility of the other co-owners. That can be changed.
My Assignment
My realtor has asked me to speak to the co-owners of this building, but all I can say is that they are putting themselves at considerable risk. A few are very old. They may need to sell their share and move into a residence. My mother fell when she was 80 and lost the use of her legs. She spent the last three years of her life in an institution.
Wish me luck. I may not be able to persuade the other co-owners that they may have to change the rules and create a reserve fund.
Back to our Amerindians
I will now return to our Amerindians. Yesterday, I read James Mooney’s account of the removal of the Cherokee from Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, and Alabama. They were sent to Oklahoma, but not without resistance. As Mr Mooney wrote, the relocation of the Cherokees was worse than the expulsion of the Acadians.
Sequoya, featured at the top of this post, worked on developing a written language for his people: the Cherokee. They were able to publish a newspaper.
Last week, I lost a very dear aunt. During the last few days, posting articles was therefore rather difficult.
Patricia was my father’s sister and the kindest person I have ever known.
Her life was a love story. She met her husband before World War II. He went overseas and waited for D-Day. He and my aunt wrote to each other.
Somehow, my uncle survived D-Day. It was like a miracle. Bodies were falling all around him, but he was not even wounded. He and other survivors carried on to liberate other countries. When I think of all the lives lost because of a dictator, including thousands of German lives.
Roland and Patricia married soon after my uncle returned to Canada. They were provided with a veteran’s house where they brought up their family. They never left that little white house.
My cousins and medical helpers looked after my aunt, at home, during a long illness. Roland and a daughter were her main caregivers.
There was a lunch after the funeral. I lived outside Quebec during most of my life and had never met my cousins’ children, except one.
My poor uncle! He and Patricia had been together for more than sixty years in their little white house.
