LITMIR.BIZ

      October 24, 1929 falls on a Thursday. Black Thursday. A day of disaster. The Crash. The New York Stock Exchange spins out of control. Capitalism, the cherished ideal upon which Americans have built their dream of prosperity, is crumbling. Within a few weeks, thousands of workers are jobless. Unemployment is rampant.

      The province of Quebec doesn’t escape the effects of the crisis. The poor are lining up for their meagre meal. Soup kitchens are set up to feed hungry families. It promises to be a harsh winter. How will people heat their homes? There is no money for coal or warm clothes. In Montreal, the Meurling Shelter is looking after more than seven hundred men. On Berri Street, men, women, and children in rags wait in line for food at the doors of the institute for deaf-mutes.

      “It’s terrible to see, Miss Cloutier.”

      Maurice has made a short stopover in the metropolis. Like many others, he compares the hardships suffered by the urban poor to those who are farming the land.

      “The nuns give a sandwich to everyone: two slices of bread with lard, wrapped in newspaper. At least our farmers can eat from their gardens. Those who are leaving for the Saguenay and for Abitibi to homestead will have the greatest wealth there is – land to feed one’s family. Just like their predecessors did before them, the ones who listened to Curé Labelle¹ and settled the Pays-d’en-Haut.”²

      Duplessis is a friend of Ernest Laforce, the Canadian National Railway agent responsible for colonization who, like himself, is convinced that a return to the land would provide jobs for the unemployed, victims of the unbridled industrial development of the Twenties. Around this time Canon Lionel Groulx, whose idea of economic nationalism is quite narrow, is also appealing to “race,” that is, the French Canadians of Quebec. He reacts to the economic crisis by promoting a type of socio-economic nationalism. With six hundred dollars, impoverished Montrealers could rebuild their lives in the new territories that are opening up everywhere. Maurice finds himself singing the same tune. For his part, Father Albert Tessier, a friend and a powerful voice in his riding, convinces him to support a bona fide program of colonization at the Legislative Assembly:

      “Quebec must be agricultural. You know it better than any other civil servant, Maurice. You have always lived in Trois-Rivières. You know how proud and independent the people are. They are to be admired for that.”

      “Yes, agriculture is the cornerstone of our society. Our mission is to open up new territories and settle them like our ancestors did. When I see young French Canadians going to the Université de Montréal… there’s no future in that. People with bachelor’s degrees, poets? We don’t need that in the province.”

      “I’m counting on you, Maurice, and the Conservative Party, to vote for increased subsidies to fund colonization. Camillien Houde, as mayor, will be spending a lot of time in Montreal, and anyhow I have no confidence in him. You know, don’t you, many still regret that you didn’t take over the leadership of the Bleus last July Perhaps one day… when you have completely recovered from your accident…”

      “Ah, I’m feeling better, much better.”

      For Maurice, this is a bad memory he wants to forget. It happened a few months ago, on September 26. He was on his way back from a meeting in Compton. Just before arriving at Notre-Dame-du-Bon Conseil… he took a sharp turn too fast, and rolled his car. He woke up next day at the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital in Montreal.

      “Dr. Dufresne operated on me. Do you know Joseph-Arthur? We studied together at Trois-Rivières Seminary. He does good work. All that’s left is this scar.”

      Father Tessier is amazed by the deep scar that goes from the left eye to the back of his head. Just like a scalping.

      “I almost died. I’ll tell you a secret. I gave thirty dollars to Dr. Dufresne and asked him: ‘Go to the Precious Blood Monastery and light some candles in honour of St. Joseph.’ He’s the one who saved me. If I pray to St. Joseph, it is because of Brother André, whom I knew at Collége Notre-Dame. A real saint. I inherited my devotion from him. My great hope is that he will eventually get his oratory on Mount Royal in honour of St. Joseph.”

      Maurice Duplessis’s convalescence after his car accident works to his advantage.

      When Camillien Houde, the new head of the Opposition, makes his entrance into the Legislative Assembly, the enforced rest obliges Duplessis to stay away from the action. This does not, however, prevent him from following the debates to which the mayor of Montreal adds a certain flamboyance. Loud and brash, the ex-insurance salesman pays no attention to house rules. Premier Taschereau is incensed and demands his expulsion from the Assembly. Houde entertains the gallery with his antics. And yet strangely enough, the popularity of the Conservatives continues to grow.

      But Camillien has a problem. He is, first and foremost, mayor of Montreal. But his position as leader of the Opposition is also time-consuming. At the St-Jean-Baptiste¹ festivities, he parades around in coat and tails. Another day, he is present at the installation of a girder for the new Du Havre Bridge, which extends De Lorimier Avenue and is scheduled to open in 1931. When Maurice returns to the Assembly, it is obvious that Houde is often absent. Duplessis becomes the de facto leader of the Opposition. During the debates, the lawyer from Trois-Rivières shines. The Liberals come to appreciate him – he is an extraordinary speaker – in stark contrast to Houde’s awkward attitudes.

      After four years of parliamentary work, another election is on the horizon. Maurice is not caught napping. For a long time now, he has observed what has been going on in his riding. With Miss Cloutier’s help, he answers every letter. One day, he sends five dollars to the Gaieté Crocquet Club, with the words: “Your game is very interesting.” His secretary asks him:

      “Have you ever been to one of their tournaments?”

      “No, but players are … voters!” answers the wily Duplessis.

      Thérèse Casgrain is leading the movement to obtain the vote for women. One day, she calls upon Maurice. “You must promise to support our proposal and to vote for this law in the Legislative Assembly.” He doesn’t promise anything. He won’t commit himself, but he leaves the door open. In 1931, most members feel that Quebec is not ready for such an upset of traditional values. Duplessis is one of them. To win the election, he courts other pressure groups that are more powerful. Maurice is everyone’s friend, as long as no one questions the established order.

      At his office on Hart Street, he works long hours so that requests for government jobs, letters of thanks to the press, all kinds of letters do not pile up. This evening, he remembers to send his condolences to Mr. Lefebvre who has just lost his mother-in-law, and his congratulations to the son of a Conservative member. “I admire your talent. What a marvellous game of bowling you played last Friday night!”

      His work done, he takes a few moments to relax: a cigar and two glasses of gin. A grinding schedule. Maurice has to get up early the following day. Apparently, Taschereau intends to end the session one of these days and announce the date of the next election.

      In the courtyard of the LaSalle Academy in Trois-Rivières, a dense crowd is gathered about the podium. Maurice Duplessis takes the floor and launches into a diatribe against the government of

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