Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming

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      Wilfrid turns to the troops behind him. With the physical courage of the young, Murphy leads several MPs in a charge over the railing and onto the platform. They clear a space for steps to be lowered, and Wilfrid descends first, then helps Zoë down. Forming a flying wedge like footballers, the escorts force a passage through the mob. Wilfrid takes her arm, patting it firmly, and together they plunge into the crowd.

      Halfway to the station building, a fat man in a straw boater suddenly lunges to grab Wilfrid by the wrist. Zoë, who has schooled herself to think an outstretched arm never intends anything worse than a handshake, is frightened, then relieved as the man pumps Wilfrid’s hand. They push on through the station building and out onto Catherine Street. They enter the first of several open carriages. Other members of the entourage pile into the carriages behind, and they all pull away amid wild cheering. Even though Zoë is used to election mobs, something about this crowd has shaken her: something different, manic, uncontrolled. She seeks Wilfrid’s eyes for reassurance, but he’s turned away from her, still waving, still smiling his fixed, dreamy smile.

      Dusk softens the capital’s raw streets as the carriage proceeds up Elgin. Mosquito hawks swoop high above the rooftops, releasing distant shrieks into the dimming air. The Russell House lies ahead at the corner of Sparks, another crowd lying in wait: hundreds massed outside the row of smart shops on the hotel’s ground floor.

      This time the cheering is casual and good-natured. The carriage halts before the main entrance, and Wilfrid rises from his seat. Zoë watches his face bathed in electric light from the hotel façade. Wrought-iron balconies and striped awnings rise above him in tiers as he smiles and nods in all directions and finally, unable to resist appeals for a speech, delivers a shorter version of his remarks at the station. The people seem satisfied to have heard, however briefly, the famous silvery voice.

      Arm in armthey enter the hotel, the only home they’ve known in Ottawa. The lobby is bedlam. She’s never seen it so packed. People swarm over the mosaic tile floor, jamming the grand staircase all the way up to the stained-glass window on the landing. Cigar smoke rolls out of the long bar off the lobby, propelled by raucous male laughter. Pastel nymphs frolic on the domed ceiling, oblivious to it all.

      Men rush up to Wilfrid to grasp his hand. Zoë recognizes no one except Joseph-Israël Tarte, who has somehow got to the hotel ahead of them. He’s already holding forth at the base of one of the Corinthian columns, his stutter subdued, gesticulating with both arms, enjoying his celebrity as architect of victory in Quebec. Tarte’s strategy of open-air rallies, planted newspaper stories and bribery has been enormously successful, proving once again his favourite adage, “Elections are not won by prayers alone.” Of course Tarte remembers to pray, too.

      It’s beginning to seem unlikely they’ll ever get to their room when a familiar face appears out of the crowd: bearded, attractive John Willison, editor of The Globe. Ever since Wilfrid’s difficult early days as party leader, when Willison headed the Young Men’s Liberal Club in Toronto, he’s been Wilfrid’s most loyal and influential supporter in English Canada. Willison greets them with a broad grin, bowing to Zoë, clasping both Wilfrid’s hands.

      “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Wilfrid’s voice rings full of pleasure.

      “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Your thoroughly deserved moment of triumph!”

      “I’m rather enjoying it. But I was thankful to escape the crowd at the station with my skin intact.”

      Zoë knows how grateful Wilfrid feels for Willison’s friendship. But since it’s a political friendship, she wonders what Willison now expects in return. Men, even the most gentlemanly, always have a clear notion of their entitlements. Behind Willison she notices the inevitable presence of Alex “Silent” Smith, the party’s chief bagman for Ontario. Tall and taciturn, Smith exercises excessive influence over party affairs and always seems to hover in the background wherever Willison goes. He raises his homburg to Zoë.

      The Russell’s owner, François-Xavier St-Jacques, tells Wilfrid of his very great delight at the election outcome. Zoë is sure St-Jacques would say the same thing to Tupper if the Conservatives had won, but she’s forced to revise her opinion when he tells her, in French, “Imagine, Madame, a Prime Minister from Quebec! I never thought I’d live to see the day!”

      Their suite is ready, St-Jacques assures her, and she relishes the thought of undressing and lying down. But the longed-for moment will have to wait: Willison is coming upstairs with them, although thankfully without Silent Smith. Escorting them through the cheerfully inebriated crowd up the staircase, St-Jacques lets them into number sixty-five, reputedly the largest and best-appointed suite in the hotel.

      Once the door shuts behind them, everything is blessedly calm. A bundle of letters and another of telegrams, both neatly tied with string, wait on the writing desk. Beside them, a stack of newspapers and a beaded silver pitcher of ice water. Wilfrid goes straight for the telegrams. Tearing them open, he reads them aloud one after the other to Zoë and Willison: congratulations from an assortment of loyal supporters and blatant office-seekers.

      Finally he comes to the one he’s been waiting for. “Ah. Mowat is joining us.”

      Willison probably knows this already, may even have exerted some influence on the Ontario Premier’s decision to enter the cabinet. Earlier in the campaign, Sir Oliver Mowat accepted a cabinet post in principle, but has been awaiting the official result before committing himself to resigning his office in Toronto.

      “And to think Mowat was once Sir John A.’s law partner,” Wilfrid says.

      “He’s expecting Justice,” Willison comments dryly, “and not expecting to have to get himself elected.”

      “He’ll have Justice and a Senate seat to go with it. We’ll make Sir Oliver as comfortable as we possibly can.”

      “Ottawa not being the most comfortable city to live in,” Willison adds, glancing sympathetically at Zoë.

      Wilfrid telephones down to the front desk to dictate his reply to Mowat. Turning back to Willison and Zoë, he says, “Our team is nearly complete.” A note of wonderment enters his voice.

      “Things come to you more easily,” Willison tells him, “now that you’re in power.”

      Wilfrid looks intently at him. “Remember that speech I gave in Toronto years ago?”

      “That one.”

      “Mowat was against it, Cartwright was against it, and Edgar and Mulock, all our great Ontario Liberals opposed it. Too risky, they said, too dangerous. A French Catholic telling Tory Toronto about equality and harmony would lead to violence. The Orange Order didn’t want harmony—the Protestant Equal Rights Society didn’t want equality. There would be riots! But I went ahead anyway and faced them in that hall you rented. They tried to drown me out, and I sweated under my clothes, but I got my point across. I told them I’d fight bigotry and extremism in Quebec as hard as I’d fight it in Ontario.”

      “It was a superb speech,” Willison says. “A speech for the ages.”

      “And Premier Mowat was right there behind me on the platform, a man of our own party, with a secure hold on his province and a golden opportunity to stand up and endorse my views—but he said nothing. He did speak, as I recall, but said absolutely nothing. The next day he showered me with praise at our private luncheon, but nobody outside our inner circle ever heard him.”

      Zoë СКАЧАТЬ