Five days after Laurier’s refusal, Borden introduced in the House of Commons the Military Service Bill, which would conscript men into the army At the same time, he approached other Liberals to urge them to enter his coalition party He had to act quickly, for the life of Parliament had nearly run out. He would soon have to call an election.
Borden then took other steps to make a Unionist election victory possible. First, the Military Voters Bill gave every service person, regardless of age, the right to vote. It was followed by the Wartime Elections Bill, which, for the first time in Canada’s history, gave women the right to vote in a federal election. Not all women, of course. Only the family members of men in uniform: wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters. The thinking behind these bills was clear. Soldiers and female relatives of soldiers would likely vote for a party that promised to force other Canadian men to fight. They would believe that a larger army might shorten the length of the war and take the pressure off those already abroad.
The Wartime Elections Bill had another important section that favoured the Unionists. Immigrants from countries at war with Canada would not be allowed to vote if they had become Canadian citizens after 1902. Most of these people lived in the Prairie provinces and the majority of them had voted Liberal in the past.
There were few protests against these bills. They won quick approval in the House of Commons despite the efforts of Laurier and other anti-conscription Liberals. Outside Quebec, as summer gave way to fall, support for conscription increased. It was also growing inside the Liberal party, for Borden was able to lure pro-conscription Liberals to his Unionist party.
For some of Laurier’s colleagues, it was wrenching to have to choose between respect for their leader and support for conscription. A few did remain loyal to “the Chief,” as he was affectionately known to party members. But by mid-September, many prominent Liberals outside Quebec had left him and offered their support to Borden and his Unionists. Laurier, as usual, hid his emotions. He had no harsh words for anyone, not even Sifton, who, for the third time, turned his back on the man who had supported and promoted him in the party.
By the beginning of October, the Liberal ranks were thin. Laurier knew that Borden would soon call an election, and he would have to rally his weakened forces for a campaign that he dreaded. Others were thinking the same thing. On Sunday October 8, as Laurier was working in his study, his secretary tapped on the door. “Four visitors to see you, Sir Wilfrid,” he announced.
Laurier rose to receive them. Fielding, his trusted political colleague for more than twenty years, and three other leading Liberals and friends entered. He greeted them warmly. His visitors shook hands stiffly, and seemed ill at ease.
“Come, gentlemen, out with it,” prodded Laurier, smiling.
The four exchanged glances, then Frank Calder spoke up. “Sir Wilfrid, there’s not a man among us who doesn’t recognize your contribution to the Liberal party. But… but we all feel that in the uh… the present circumstances, our party would be better off without a French-Canadian leader.”
Laurier struggled to hide his feelings. “Go on,” he said.
“For that reason, we have come to ask if you would be willing to resign as leader of the party.”
Laurier turned his gaze to Fielding, who dropped his eyes to the floor to avoid eye contact with Laurier. Even you, thought Laurier, dazed. At last he replied.
“If that is, in fact, the opinion of the majority of party members, I would consider it my duty to do so. But…”
He stood and gestured toward the door. “Since it’s impossible to learn the wishes of the majority today, I must return to the mound of papers on my desk. I bid you good day.”
Word of the meeting quickly leaked out to the press, which reported that Laurier had already resigned. During the next few days, many Liberals, shocked by the news, rushed to assure him of their loyalty. Their pledges of support convinced him that he still spoke for a large number of party members. Though losing Fielding’s support hurt him deeply, he gained comfort from the fidelity of others. One loyal Liberal, Allen Aylesworth of Ontario, had written to him: “Whither thou goest I will go.” No, Laurier decided, he would not resign; he would lead his few followers into an election that he knew he could not win. He had to contest conscription for the sake of national unity.
The following Friday, October 12, Borden announced the names of the members of his Union cabinet. Half of them were Liberals. Several days later, he named the election date: December 17. “Now,” Laurier wrote to a friend, “I am in the fight to face a murderous winter election, even if I have to die for it.”
The next fifty-seven days were the most demanding in his political life. They were also his finest. At first, however, things went badly. His health broke down in October and again in November, and he was sick for days at a time. Undeterred, he continued to direct the campaign from his bed. But beyond courage and his fervent commitment to hold together the country he loved, he had scant resources. Few Liberal party organizers remained loyal, and most businessmen who had contributed funds in past elections refused to do so now. Laurier was virtually alone.
The issue of conscription was deeply emotional. Many Canadians believed that Canada was honour-bound to do whatever had to be done to support Great Britain. If this meant forcing men to put on a uniform and go to war, so be it. Many believed that by adopting conscription the country was paying respect to the soldiers who had already gone to war out of their own free will.
Outside of Quebec, the once-friendly press turned its back on Laurier and his candidates. Traditional Liberal newspapers such as the influential Manitoba Free Press and the Toronto Globe were strongly pro-conscription. They joined Conservative newspapers in a fierce attack against Laurier.
As the campaign continued, it became more vicious. What was clearly behind most anti-Liberal opposition was an acutely felt antagonism to Quebec. Maps of Canada with Quebec shaded black and described as “the foul spot on Canada” appeared in many newspapers. Those same newspapers also took great delight in pointing out that Bourassa, the man who had campaigned against Canada’s participation in the war, was no longer speaking out against Laurier. Because he too opposed conscription, Bourassa was now on Laurier’s side. John Willison, the editor of the Toronto News, and once a friend and supporter of Laurier when he was prime minister, now turned on him savagely. Willison’s pro-conscription publicity committee stated that “Laurier, Bourassa and Quebec… are in favour of deserting our men… and trailing Canada’s honour in the mud of world opinion.”
Laurier knew his base of support was solid in Quebec, and though Ontario was lost, he had some backing in the Maritimes. The situation in the West, on the other hand, was less clear. Many farmers had reacted against the idea of conscription. And the West had always welcomed Laurier warmly. Now, from each of the four provinces west of Lake Superior, he had received requests to come. Perhaps there was a chance to pick up some votes.
Late in the campaign he decided to make a rushed trip. On December 10, he and three Liberal colleagues set out for the West in a private railway car, courtesy of the CPR. It was freezing on the Prairies and cool and wet in Vancouver, but the crowds were enthusiastic and large. The warm reception he received everywhere outweighed the tight schedule and the long days. He was in good speaking form and looked forward to each stop along the way: Winnipeg, Regina, Calgary, and finally, Vancouver. Words poured out of him, words and more words. Words for the unity of Canada.
On election night, December 17, he was on his homeward journey. The train reached Fort William at 10 o’clock. During the brief stop Laurier’s companions rushed to the telegraph office in the train station to collect messages sent from Liberal headquarters in each of the five eastern provinces where the polls had closed. The results were disappointing, but not surprising. The Unionists, with seventy-four seats in Ontario, had a total of ninety-eight; the Liberals, with sixty-two in Quebec, had a total of eighty seats. It looked bad, but there was still a slim chance. Everything now depended on the four western provinces and the Yukon Territory, which had a total of fifty-seven seats. Because of the time differences, the polls were still open on the coast. There would be no returns for a few hours, until the votes were counted.
The following morning, after a fretful sleep, Laurier received the results from the West. They were heartbreaking. He had picked up only two seats; the Unionists had taken the other fifty-five. Remembering the resounding cheers, and the huge overflow crowds that had waited in sub-zero temperatures just for a glimpse of him, Laurier found it hard to believe the vote count, though he had feared just such an outcome. Trying bravely to hide his pain, he joked: “They cheered for me, but they didn’t vote for me.” But the defeat was crushing. He had given his all for his most cherished belief. And he had lost.
The bitter campaign ended just days before Christmas, and darkened the holiday season for the Lauriers. Still, he and Zoë filled their house with family and friends. And Laurier rested – for just two days. He had to start again, he told himself. He had no option. The election had isolated both him and the province of Quebec. Of the eighty-two seats won by the Liberals, ten were in the Maritimes, eight in Ontario, and two in the West. The remaining sixty-two were in Quebec.
His greatest fear had come true: Conscription had divided Canada. And the split in the Liberal party mirrored the division in the country. Despite all that, he had to fight on to keep Quebec within Canada. To leave now would be to run away from province and country as well as party. His duty was to stay.
When Parliament opened on March 18, 1918, he was in his seat as leader of the Opposition. Two weeks later, the question of conscription came up for discussion. A mob had attacked federal government offices in Quebec City, where conscription records were stored. This started a series of riots, which kept the city in violent turmoil for four days. When soldiers arrived, they exchanged fire with the protesters and killed four. Many on both sides were wounded.
Again, newspapers pointed the finger of scorn at Quebec. Yet one of the reasons for the riots was the strong-arm methods used by military police to hunt down and drag in young Québécois who had refused to join the Canadian army. In addition, Québécois were not alone in trying to avoid service in the army. The truth was, though few knew it at the time, in every province, more than 90 per cent of the men called up for service had asked to be excused.
One bright personal moment shone through the gloom of the political turmoil and the war in Europe. On May 13, Laurier and Zoë marked their golden wedding anniversary. There were many letters, telegrams, and telephone calls of congratulations, including a cable from King George and Queen Mary. They received flowers from well-wishers and a golden salver from the Liberal MPs and Senators. The day before, when they arrived at Sacré Coeur Church to attend mass, there was a large crowd waiting for a glimpse of the elegant gentleman and his loving wife. Too blind to see the admiring throng, too deaf to hear their good wishes, Zoë clung to Laurier’s arm as they entered the church.
Ten days later, the session of Parliament ended and Laurier left with the others, looking forward to a holiday. In July, he spent some time with an old friend in his summer home in the Gatineau Hills. While he was there, Bourassa, who had a cottage nearby, came to pay a visit. They spent two hours in friendly conversation before Bourassa said goodbye.
It was the last time they saw each other. The struggle against Bourassa had dominated the final years of Laurier’s life. In a letter to a friend, Laurier wrote: “Bourassa is a man of great ability, but his ability is negative and destructive… He was at one time a close friend of mine, but we separated. His aim was to isolate the French population from the rest of the community and make them a separate body…” Many years later, Bourassa said of Laurier, “Although I fought him because of differences of principle, I loved him all my life and he knew that.”
On the way back to Ottawa, Laurier’s chauffeur took a route that passed by L’Assomption. As they neared his old school, Laurier directed the chauffeur to drive through the gates. The unexpected visit delighted the priests, who gathered around him. After chatting a while, he took one last, long look at the buildings he had known so well, said goodbye, and returned to the waiting car.
In September, he was back at work. A feeling of optimism about the war was beginning to spread, and he shared it. Every day, the news from the European battlefields was getting better and better. A few even dared to believe that the nightmare war might soon end. Laurier also dreamed of bringing the Liberal party back together again. There were signs that gave him hope. Fielding, his once-trusted colleague, had attended a meeting he had called in Ottawa that month. Perhaps others too would return to the fold. As long as he had the strength to keep working, he might be able to reunite the party. Once the war ended, he was sure, it would be only a matter of time.
At last the news came. On November 11, the guns stopped firing on all the fronts. The war that had shattered the peace of the world, and so severely damaged the unity of Canada, had ended. After a day of celebrations, Laurier was back to work, certain now that Canada’s wounds would begin to heal.
Ten days later, he was in Ontario to speak to a group of Young Liberals. It was his seventy-seventh birthday, and the audience was impressed by his vigour. He stood before them, erect as always and impeccably dressed, his long silvery hair resting on his collar. His voice still had its old power as he urged his listeners to reject hate, learn to love, and to make the betterment of society their goal in life. To them, as to many, Wilfrid Laurier was the greatest living Canadian.
Christmas came and went, the first joyful holiday since 1913. By the beginning of the new year, Laurier was already making political plans. He sent out a message to all Liberal MPs asking them to be in Ottawa by February 17, 1919 to discuss strategy for the opening of Parliament three days later.
On Saturday, February 15, he attended a luncheon of the Canadian Club in the Chateau Laurier, the hotel named in his honour. Then he returned to his office to do some work. Nearly two hours later, he was getting ready to leave when he began to feel dizzy Suddenly he fell, striking his head as he hit the floor. Somehow he struggled to his feet and put on his coat and hat. Fighting a terrible weakness, he made his way out of the building and managed to board the streetcar for the short ride home.
There, he removed his coat and told Zoë only that he had no appetite. He felt a bit tired, he said, and wanted to go to bed early. Unable to see how ill he looked, she let him go. His sleep was fretful, but he got up as usual Sunday morning and slowly began to dress for Mass. Then, without warning, he collapsed. This time he did not get up.
Laurier’s valet put him to bed, then called a doctor. When he arrived and examined him, the doctor discovered that Laurier had suffered a stroke. He informed Zoë that Laurier must remain in bed.
For the following twenty-four hours, Laurier drifted in and out of consciousness. On Monday morning, shortly after a priest had administered the last rites, he stirred briefly. Then he murmured, “C’est fini.” A few minutes before three o’clock that afternoon he stopped breathing.
Five days later, on Saturday, February 22, 1919, more than 100,000 people lined the route of the two-kilometre-long funeral procession, which slowly made its way through the streets of Ottawa. It carried the body of Henry-Charles-Wilfrid Laurier to the Basilica for the celebration of the funeral Mass, and then to its resting place in Notre Dame Cemetery.
Zoë survived Laurier for fewer than three years. She passed away on November 1, 1921, and following her expressed wish, she was buried beside her husband. They lie there together today. The main inscription on the tomb reads, simply, Laurier. It is enough.