"Isn't your husband kind to you?"
"Yes - sometimes."
"Is this your husband?"
"No! F - - - B - - - is; I am K - - -."
Again she was interrupted by coughing.
"Would you like something to ease that cough?" I asked.
"No! It isn't the body that's sick; it's the heart."
"Do you wish to tell me about it?"
"I lost my babies."
"'When?"
"Two years ago. I had two little ones, and both died in one month.
I am left much alone; my husband is away on the transport; our
lodge is nearby. The chief has all these dogs; they bark at every
little thing and disturb me, so I lie awake all night and think
about my babies. But that isn't the hardest thing."
"What is it?"
She hesitated, then burst out: "The tongues of the women. You don't
know what a hell of a place this is to live in. The women here don't
mind their work; they sit all day watching for a chance to lie about
their neighbours. If I am seen talking to you now, a story will be
made of it. If I walk to the store for a pound of tea, a story is
made of that. If I turn my head, another story; and everything is
carried to my husband to make mischief. It is nothing but lies,
lies, lies, all day, all night, all year. Women don't do that way
in your country, do they?"
"No," I replied emphatically. "If any woman in my country were
to tell a lie to make another woman unhappy, she would be thought
very, very wicked."
"I am sure of it," she said. "I wish I could go to your country
and be at rest." She turned to her work and began talking to the
others in Chipewyan.
Now another woman entered. She was dressed in semi-white style,
and looked, not on the ground, as does an Indian woman, on seeing
a strange man, but straight at me.
"Bon jour, madame," I said.
"I speak Ingliss," she replied with emphasis.
"Indeed! And what is your name?"
"I am Madame X - - - -."
And now I knew I was in the presence of the stuckup social queen.
After some conversation she said: "I have some things at home you
like to see."
"Where is your lodge?" I asked.
"Lodge," she replied indignantly; "I have no lodge. I know ze Indian
way. I know ze half-breed way. I know ze white man's way. I go ze
white man's way. I live in a house - and my door is painted blue."
I went to her house, a 10 by 12 log cabin; but the door certainly
was painted blue, a gorgeous sky blue, the only touch of paint in
sight. Inside was all one room, with a mud fireplace at one end
and some piles of rags in the corners for beds, a table, a chair,
and some pots. On the walls snow-shoes, fishing-lines, dried fish
in smellable bunches, a portrait of the Okapi from Outing, and a
musical clock that played with painful persistence the first three
bars of "God Save the King." Everywhere else were rags, mud, and
dirt.
