On board the SS Parisian, 5 September 1908 (in front, from left, Jacques, Philippe, André; Jean, standing at far right, next to Etienne)
On board the SS Parisian, 5 September 1908 (in front, from left, Jacques, Philippe, André; Jean, standing at far right, next to Etienne)
YEARS AGO, ON MY WAY TO GENEVA, I used to stay at my Oncle Robert’s apartment in Paris. We used to talk about the fun he and his brothers and sisters had with my father and uncles. He liked to tell the story about my grandfather’s decision to immigrate. Apparently, one day, my grandfather, Charles, met with his brother-in-law, Oncle Charles, and explained to him that he had had enough of the too-frequent trips, often third class, which his mission as general agent of the Sunday Schools of France imposed on him, and he was hoping to find a new activity of a more intellectual character, perhaps overseas, where the cost of educating his children would be more reasonable. He presented him with a printed sheet of paper, listing three positions available at McGill University. My grandfather said proudly that he had decided to choose America, and he felt that he could apply for all three: “I would be well suited to take on the Theology job at the Presbyterian College; I’m good at maths, so the Math job would be great; and geography is my passion, I could sure do that!” Oncle Charles was reading the paper carefully and suddenly said: “Charles! McGill is not in America. It’s in Canada!”
“What’s the difference!” replied my grandfather in a loud voice.
McGill University was a leading English-speaking university in Canada, but it was already conscious of its role in educating French-speaking citizens of the Province of Quebec. My grandfather’s background fitted well. They were looking for a French-speaking gentleman with an ecclesiastical background to head the French department of their Presbyterian college. Before he had much of a chance to have second thoughts, he and my grandmother, Blanche, were packing their bags. Little did they know the adventures that they were about to face.
BUT YOU WERE GROWING UP, my dear sons, and your future would not be secure without our help. I had not taken the steps to be naturalized in France, and, as foreigners, you did not have a clear future in the country. Half the careers at least would not be available for you … what could we do? At one time I was tempted to become the pastor of the Église Libre Française in Strasbourg. Happily for us, this post wasn’t offered to me. Your mother asked herself whether you might not consider finding careers in America; which would have resulted in a separation. Instead of a separation could we not perhaps go over together? But how could we?
In 1907, I heard that two gentlemen had come from Canada to search for a successor to Professor Coussinat of the Presbyterian College in Montreal. I would have liked to have met them, but they left without my being able to. Nevertheless, they had been given my name, and, in the spring of 1908, when the professor whom they had hired for a period of three months decided that he did not want the job for the long term, they offered it to me. We had very little time to dispose of our furniture, pack our things, send our luggage, and say goodbye to our family and our friends. I am still a little surprised that we had the courage to undertake such an adventure!
It wasn’t easy for our whole family, and our luggage, to leave Europe. Your mother more than I organized the move from the rue Gide in Levallois-Perret, and the Maison Blanche on the Lac de Bret. We had to sort, pack, sell, and buy. We had no experience with a long-distance voyage; we were going to a country that we didn’t know, to people that we had never seen. Everything for us was new, and a little daunting. It took determination and a good deal of faith to cast off so many ties that could have kept us in Europe. Many people didn’t understand, and one of our neighbours at Lac de Bret sighed as she thought of us going to a country of cannibals!
You will remember that, at the end of August 1908, we made a trip to London, arranged by Tante Julia. We were taking advantage of some special travel arrangement, which allowed us to visit this great Anglo-Saxon metropolis and to view the huge Franco-British Exhibition, in which Canada had an important place.
We were emotional on the afternoon of 5 September 1908, as the SS Parisian lifted her anchor and we left Le Havre, and we broke our link with our countries and our families. Two of our good friends had expressed their love with two memorable receptions. The first one, on an evening in May at the Union Chrétienne de Paris, in the heart of the noisy metropolis, where the representatives of the École du Dimanche expressed their regrets and their wishes and had assembled a lovely volume of parables by Bunand. The second, a charming garden party, held on the Thomas estate in Frontenac, left us with a souvenir of sunflowers, and affection from these genevois friends. With all those impressions fresh in our minds, and Tante Julia, who came on board to say goodbye, how could we leave without tears in our eyes?
However, despite the emotion, as parents, we felt a sudden relief. There would be ten days of rest to look forward to, and the joy of leaving together, as opposed to leaving in Europe our poor mother, who was tired and almost at the point of collapsing. We were also filled with this incurable optimism, this spark of adventurous spirit that was bringing us to Canada, where we would work to plant deep roots. We would water them with a few tears, strengthen them mostly from the sun, our good humour, and our Father in heaven, who had protected us until now, and hopefully, would continue to bless us.
So, in fact, everything was smiling at us: the calm of the first days, the saline air that was restoring our strength, the courteous Canadians, prepared to tell us about their country, and finally the service on our Parisian (not inferior to those of current transatlantic steamers).
Lying comfortably on my deck chair, I was comparing this passage with our trips in Europe. Those trips between our homes in Paris and Lac de Bret, where we disembarked in Dijon with a pile of half-awake children and a stack of suitcases on the platform open to the weather. Then a long wait and, at 1 o’clock, a shrill whistle throwing us into a frenetic chase towards the crowded carriages with their hard seats. They were less hard than the voices of the passengers complaining about the arrival of this large family with their boxes and endless items!
Despite the increasing swell, and the moments of seasickness, we were well off. First Class on the Allan Line was better than Third Class on the PLM.
We felt the cold of the Strait of Belle Isle, and then the calm and the sun of the St Lawrence. My boys were excited and fought for my binoculars to look along the green shore at the rows of little white houses and small villages with tin steeples. It was not far from Quebec, with its promise of a few hours’ stop. We improvised a picnic under the old fort, and spent a fortune on postcards. Finally, we arrived in Montreal in the afternoon of the following day, in tropical temperatures. A group of clergymen were waiting for us, and quite surprisingly old Mr. Provost, formerly a student of the Oratoire, had recognized us from afar with his opera glasses, because of Blanche’s resemblance to her brother. “That’s Mrs Bieler, surrounded by her husband and her five sons.” —Charles Bieler (CB)
