Je me souviens

"He thought of the war and the English with the same bitterness. How could French-Canadians -- the only real Canadians -- feel loyalty to a people who had conquered and humiliated them, and were Protestant anyway? France herself was no better; she had deserted her Canadians a century and a half ago, had left them in the snow and ice along the Saint Lawrence surrounded by their enemies, had later murdered her anointed king and then turned atheist. Father Beaubien had no fondness for the Germans and no wish for them to win the war; he knew nothing whatever about them. But he certainly knew if a people deserted God they were punished for it, and France was being punished now."

--- from Two Solitudes by Hugh Maclennan (1945)

The book Two Solitudes is apparently a landmark of Canadian literature (I confess my ignorance of all Canadian literature outright - unless you can count Life of Pi). It takes place during and after World War I in Quebec, and follows the soap-opera-esque actions of the aristocratic Tallards - an old French landowning family who practically run the small fictional town of Saint-Marc. Adding depth to the story are a Nova Scotia sea captain who buys land in Saint-Marc, causing a stir amongst the entirely French population; the parish priest who resents Mr Tallard's anticlerical streak; a prominent English banker in Montreal; and Mr Tallard's Irish wife and two sons. 

I remarked a few weeks ago about "the pre-revolution" and how interesting it is to me to see what gives rise to massive social change. In the 1960s, Quebec (and France, but that is a separate issue) went through a massive societal upheaval known as the Quiet Revolution. The Church and the conservative provincial government were swept out of politics and social life. What had been one of the most institutionally vibrant centers of global Catholicism saw all of its influence vanish almost overnight. Of course, the Quebecois still employ church vocabulary as swear-words, even if fewer and fewer of them understand their origin. 

In any event, Two Solitudes paints a rather convincing picture of pre-Quiet Revolution Quebec. The Church was The People and they both resented what they perceived as English intrusion on their land and their way of life. I read somewhere that apart from the various Native American cultures, the French Canadians and the American Confederacy are the only "defeated" peoples of North America. They are the only two groups who have been told that their way of life and their rights to self-determination are wrong. Of course, we can exhaust a lot of time arguing over the merits of each, but I present the comparison as a way of understanding the thinking of the time period. In any event, the Quebecois in the Nineteenth and early-Twentieth Century regarded the English in much the same way that a Southerner might've regarded a Yankee during Reconstruction. The difference, as you may have guessed, was the Quebecois saw their struggle through intensely religious eyes. Not only was their way-of-life being repudiated - their faith was as well.

Thus, it seemed only natural that Church and State would make an alliance to assail what both saw as a common enemy. Yet, not every French-Canadian refused to fight. And, after the war, Canada had begun to develop a cultural cohesion distinct from the rest of the British Empire. World War II sealed the deal, and the post-war economic boom brought prosperity to both English and French in Canada. Thus, what good were the old Church-approved nationalist arguments that hinged on English oppression? Hadn't the period of the Church's usefulness in French-Canadian society run its course? If the national government is going to allow our French schools and our French culture in our French province, why do our institutions still need to be in the hands of the Church?

This is in my mind when I read about people wanting to build "a Catholic culture" that simply stands in opposition to the mainstream. I think the experience of the French Canadians should give us pause to examine our motives. The Gospel is a freeing joy, not a hammer with which to pound away at a perceived grievance. A Catholic culture that rests on the joy of the Gospel - difficult though it may be - will be ten times stronger than one that has its basis in the negation of the current cultural climate. If that climate improves, at least one historical example warns us that the Church will have then have simply been viewed a means to an end.

Saint Jean Baptiste Day

Meanwhile, the crucifix remains in Parliament

Today is the 180th celebration of the Fête National of the Quebecois - the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist. Though this midsummer festival was observed with feasting and fanfare from the earliest days of New France, the first "official" celebrations of the day as a 'national' holiday date to 1834. St Pope Pius X encouraged the public celebration of St Jean Baptiste Day and named the Holy Forerunner of Christ as the patron saint of French Canadians in 1908.

There is perhaps no better way to start to understand modern Quebec than through the lens of St Jean Baptiste Day. Since the so-called Quiet Revolution of the 1960s, which upended the Catholic Church's societal dominance throughout the province, the day has taken on a much more nationalist tone. Some years, depending on the provincial government, the celebrations are more separatism-friendly than others. Regardless, the religious undertones have been largely expunged and relegated to the sterile confines of "cultural heritage".

The same statement might as well be applied to the entirety of La Belle Province. Flannery O'Connor once described the American South as "Christ-haunted" - the same could be said of Quebec. Our Lord haunts the countryside in the names of His saints, applied to every little village. Our Lord's cross and His Blessed Mother's fleur-de-lys haunt the provincial flag (one of the most graphically-pleasing flags in the world, but I digress). Our Lord even haunts the chambers of Parliament, where a crucifix has been allowed to remain "as an important component of the historical character of the Province."

Yet, rates of weekly mass attendance throughout the province are among the lowest in the Catholic world. In a society where formerly large families were encouraged and commonplace (my French Canadian great-great-grandmother was one of eighteen), the birth rate now limps toward replacement rate. What can we make of the rapid secularization of what was formerly one of the most devout regions on earth?

It is indeed a riddle. On the one hand, I am wary of seeing the Church too powerful or too cozy with the political establishment, as this has often lead to abuses. At the same time, the Quebecois church was not an egregious offender in this way - society simply changed the government and threw the Church out with it, because they were viewed as such close allies. Political abuses were projected onto the Church. Now, there exists what the French term laïcité - religion may play a discreet and private role in an individual's life, but that is it. This model is decidedly more pointedly secular than our American model, which envisioned churches as operating more or less as they please outside of government interference, with free exercise being a well-defined right of all citizens.

The more important question than how we got where we are, is to consider how we might successfully evangelize in such a culture that has actively decided to privatize religion and sees any corporate, institutional religion as a threat to a culture's way of life. How can the Church in Quebec, which was once an institutional marvel, recenter itself on Christ and authentic discipleship? How can things grow from the ground up, so that people are attracted to the lifestyle of other people and not to the perceived "institution" and its historical baggage?

The answers to these questions are many and can be difficult to parse, but things certainly can get much worse in Quebec for the Church before they get better. That's not to lose hope, though. Among the first batch of cardinals named by Pope Francis was the Archbishop of Quebec, Gerald Cyprien Lacroix. The Pontiff allegedly told the Cardinal in an audience that "the Church needs Quebec!" Perhaps to underscore this point, His Holiness canonized François de Laval, Lacroix's predecessor - the first bishop of Quebec - who evangelized much of the province himself. The Pope knows what needs to be done. Let us pray for the day that the Church in Quebec will stand proudly with her patron, John the Baptist, announcing the saving presence of Christ!

Two Saint-Jeans

We remarked at winding length on these pages a few days ago about the seigneurial system of New France, and its semi-feudal underpinnings. Since then, I have come across two beautiful relics of those days which now function as museums. They both exhibit typically French features in their architecture, and look as though they would be just as comfortable in Normandy as in Quebec. The first is the seigneurial manor of Saint-Jean-Port-Joli, located on the south side of the St Lawrence, downriver (which is to say, northeast) from Quebec City:

Red, white, and beige do seem to be the dominant palette in La Belle Province. And, look at that steep sloped roof, managing to keep the inundating Canadian snow at bay. The second manor is also in a place called Saint-Jean, but this Saint-Jean is located on the Ile d'Orleans, the large island that sits astride the St Laurence immediate north and east of Quebec City. This is the famed Mauvide-Genest manor, which was completed in 1734:

This house is certainly more manorial in its bearing, being a full two stories and exhibiting more detail in terms of door and window openings. This manor was the seat of a seigneur who possessed a portion of one of the most ancient areas of French Canada. The Ile d'Orleans, due to its proximity to Quebec City and its fertile soils, was one of the first places to be colonized. Many of my own ancestors can be found among the island's records. Some, in fact, even came from Saint-Jean. It is interesting to think of them working the land for the gentleman who resided in this very house. Their residences would probably be more akin to his type of home (also located on the Ile d'Orleans):

This is a typical example of the small cottages built by the habitants in New France. They are simple, but certainly have an elegance about them. The fine view of the Laurentian Mountains in the background certainly does not hurt their case either.

Canadian Feudalism

We in the United States tend to myopically view the western hemisphere through the lens of democracy, as if every republic on the continent sprang forth fully-formed from the mind of Libertie herself. Reality, of course, tells a quite different story. While the English colonies were certainly more egalitarian, the French and Spanish possessions were often more reminiscent of the old world. New France, in particular, imported a peculiar brand of Gallican feudalism from the ancien regime.

The seigneurial system was used throughout Quebec, Louisiana, and Acadia as a means of encouraging settlement. Much like the feudal system of the Medieval period, the King would grant fiefs, called seigneuries to nobles, called seigneurs, who would take possession of the land in person and parcel out land to commoners who would pay him a small rent. The people who lived upon the land were known as habitants. Cardinal Richelieu, the administrative mastermind of Louis XIV, devised the particulars of the seigneurial system for New France, which began with the granting of the Seigneury of Beauport just outside of Quebec City to Robert Giffard, a surgeon from Mortagne-au-Perche in Normandy.

Charles Le Moyne, Baron Longueuil

The seigneurial system was one means by which the French middle class was able to ascend social strata. This, in itself, encouraged emigration from the old country. Following their countryman Giffard, dozens of people from Mortagne and other villages in the Perche région made their way to Quebec. My own ancestor, Michel Messier, left Rouen and settled in Montreal, where, after a strategic marriage and successes in the fur trade in Michigan, he was made Seigneur de Cap-Saint-Michel et de La Guillaudière, encompassing much of the land around Varennes, the ancestral home of my maternal grandmother's family. More interesting, perhaps, is the story of Messier de La Guillaudière's wife's family. Anne Le Moyne was the daughter of an innkeeper from Dieppe in Normandy. Her brother, Charles, came to Quebec with her and, after beginning at age fifteen as an indentured servant in the service of Jesuit missionaries followed by a distinguished military career in the service of the colony, was named Seigneur de Longueuil et de Châteauguay. He had twelve sons, many of which reached illustrious heights in the government of New France. Among them were Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville, the great soldier, tradesman, and explorer; Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, the founder of New Orleans, Mobile, and Biloxi, governor of Louisiana; and Charles Le Moyne de Longueuil, who was governor of Montreal and was made a baron - the first native born Canadian to be so named.

*     *     *

Not only are these stories interesting from a personal point of view, since they compose a part of my family's history, but, I think they illustrate several useful points. The first is they help abolish the misconception that the class divisions of the ancien regime were completely static. The case of the Le Moynes, for instance, shows how, with a lot of work and a little luck, it was possible to go from an innkeeper to an indentured servant to a baron in three generations. In general, hard work - whether military or otherwise - was rewarded in the colony. Even the habitants were not the hovel-dwelling, dirt-scraping peasants of popular imagination. Many of them - sometimes even women - became quite wealthy in terms of land and possessions (I think of Adrienne Du Vivier-Hebert, widow of the first colonist of Montreal, who expanded her family's landholdings in her own name). Some even had hired servants. 

Thus, in New France, there was a sense of Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité within a hierarchical, monarchical system. People who deserved to be honored were given honors that then became associated with the entire family. Those who lived average lives were not "oppressed", but they were not elevated beyond their rank for no reason. This, I think, is one of the virtues of aristocracy.

I came across this quote earlier this week by the conservative Colombian philosopher Nicolás Gómez Dávila, which, I think, sums it up quite nicely: "In societies where everybody believes they are equal, the inevitable superiority of a few makes the rest feel like failures. Inversely, in societies where inequality is the norm, each person settles into his own distinct place, without feeling the urge, nor even conceiving the possibility, of comparing himself to others. Only a hierarchical structure is compassionate towards the mediocre and the meek."

I think of our current culture when I read this quote. I think we have the worst scourges of aristocracy without the graces of nobility. We have fabulously wealthy and influential families and people in this country, yet we refuse to honor them in the way that the ancien regime would have. We pretend that "all men created equal" erases the fact that some men are born to higher stations than others. As if the Medieval monarch thought he was a "higher being". He knew, as all Christians know, that rights come from God, and that souls are equal, though station in life may not be.

I am reminded of the burial custom of the Habsburg monarchs. When the body of the deceased is brought before the Franciscan Church in Vienna, where the family crypt is, the steward of the church knocks on the door three times. The monks inside inquire thrice as to who is begging admittance. The first two times, the steward responds with the full list of titles of the deceased. The door remains unopened. The last time, the steward simply announces the first name of the deceased, followed by "a humble, sinful man." The door is than opened.

*     *     *

So, let the Le Moynes keep the Baronetcy of Longueuil. Give a duchy to the Kennedys. Make the Vanderbilts Viscounts of Asheville. Name George H.W. Bush the Earl of Kennebunkport. Give Americans the benefit of having a codified upper class to lampoon. Give them little privileges and little responsibilities. Like the seigneurs of New France, let them have a nice house, but make them build a grist mill for the community. Let the President name new nobles for meritorious service to the nation, so that people have a goal to aspire to above and beyond the jet-set lifestyle of Malibu and Miami.

Churches of Quebec

La Belle Province is home to the finest collection of French Colonial architecture anywhere in the New World. Because of Quebec's relatively sparse population and largely undisturbed culture (away from the St. Lawrence, that is), the province is littered with hundreds of beautiful churches dating from the 17th century to the early 20th century. Here are a few to give you a taste. These are taken from the fascinating Flickr group Églises du Québec. Of course, I will remind the readers that I have 300 years of Québecois ancestry on my mother's side of the family, so I have a special interest in the history of that part of the continent.

 

As you can see, there is some stylistic variation, but the uniformity of building materials (granite walls, limestone details, tin roofs) leads to a fairly cohesive architectural genre. Much like the stereotypical white, neoclassical Congregational church of New England, the paroisse stood at the center of the cultural life of New France - first out of a necessity for social cohesion in the face of the wilderness, and later as a bastion against British imperialism. With these two exterior pressures largely gone, Quebec has become one of the most religiously arid places in the Catholic world. Though, in a typical display of Québecois contrarianism, the crucifix remains steadfastly affixed to the wall of the provincial parliament chambers in Quebec City. Only time will tell what the fate of these beautiful buildings will ultimately be.

Champion Grandparents

The eighteen children of Francis Xavier and Delphine Pilon as photographed at their home in Bay City, Michigan in 1905. Mr. and Mrs. F.X. Pilon are my great-great-great-grandparents on my mother's side. Mr. Pilon's forbears hailed from Bayeux, Normandy, via a two-century stay in the Province of Quebec. Mrs. Pilon (nee Waters) was of mixed Belgian, French, Irish, and English ancestry, though she was born in Montreal. The couple moved to Michigan around the turn-of-the-century and lived in Bay City before eventually settling in River Rouge, a downriver suburb of Detroit.

An article in a Detroit paper in August 1936 lauded the pair as "Champion Grandparents". At press time, Mr. and Mrs. Pilon had 17 living children, 71 living grandchildren, and 54 living great-grandchildren. A mass in honor of their 60th wedding anniversary was attended by over 100 of their living descendants at the now-demolished but formerly grand church of Our Lady of Lourdes.

Delphine Pilon the younger, the third child of Francis Xavier and the elder Delphine, is my great-great-grandmother (pictured second row, second from left). She met and fell in love with Henry Hebert, scion of one of French Canada's most ancient families, whose roots go to the very foundations of the colony. She was widowed at a fairly young age, and she lived with her parents for the remainder of their lives.