Maria Chapdelaine: A Tale of the Lake St. John Country

by Louis Hémon

  Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

  MARIA CHAPDELAINE

  A TALE OF THE LAKE ST. JOHN COUNTRY

  BY

  LOUIS HEMON

  TRANSLATED BYW. H. BLAKE

  Author of "Brown Waters," etc.

  New York

  1921

  CONTENTS

  I PERIBONKA II HOME IN THE CLEARING III FRANCOIS PASSES BY IV WILD LAND V THE VOWS VI THE STUFF OF DREAMS VII A MEAGER REAPING VIII ENTRENCHED AGAINST WINTER IX ONE THOUSAND AVES X STRAYING TRACKS XI THE INTERPRETER OF GOD XII LOVE BEARING GIFTS XIII LOVE BEARING CHAINS XIV INTO THE DEEP SILENCE XV THAT WE PERISH NOT XVI PLEDGED TO THE RACE

  CHAPTER I

  PERIBONKA

  Ite, missa est

  The door opened, and the men of the congregation began to come outof the church at Peribonka.

  A moment earlier it had seemed quite deserted, this church set bythe roadside on the high bank of the Peribonka, whose icysnow-covered surface was like a winding strip of plain. The snow laydeep upon road and fields, for the April sun was powerless to sendwarmth through the gray clouds, and the heavy spring rains were yetto come. This chill and universal white, the humbleness of thewooden church and the wooden houses scattered along the road, thegloomy forest edging so close that it seemed to threaten, these allspoke of a harsh existence in a stern land. But as the men and boyspassed through the doorway and gathered in knots on the broad steps,their cheery salutations, the chaff flung from group to group, thecontinual interchange of talk, merry or sober, at once disclosed theunquenchable joyousness of a people ever filled with laughter andgood humour.

  Cleophas Pesant, son of Thadee Pesant the blacksmith, was already inlight-coloured summer garments, and sported an American coat withbroad padded shoulders; though on this cold Sunday he had notventured to discard his winter cap of black cloth with harelinedear-laps for the hard felt hat he would have preferred to wear.Beside him Egide Simard, and others who had come a long road bysleigh, fastened their long fur coats as they left the church,drawing them in at the waist with scarlet sashes. The young folk ofthe village, very smart in coats with otter collars, gavedeferential greeting to old Nazaire Larouche; a tall man with grayhair and huge bony shoulders who had in no wise altered for the masshis everyday garb: short jacket of brown cloth lined with sheepskin,patched trousers, and thick woollen socks under moose-hidemoccasins.

  "Well, Mr. Larouche, do things go pretty well across the water?"

  "Not badly, my lads, not so badly."

  Everyone drew his pipe from his pocket, and the pig's bladder filledwith tobacco leaves cut by hand, and, after the hour and a half ofrestraint, began to smoke with evident satisfaction. The first puffsbrought talk of the weather, the coming spring, the state of the iceon Lake St. John and the rivers, of their several doings and theparish gossip; after the manner of men who, living far apart on theworst of roads, see one another but once a week.

  "The lake is solid yet," said Cleophas Pesant, "but the rivers areno longer safe. The ice went this week beside the sand-bank oppositethe island, where there have been warm spring-holes all winter."Others began to discuss the chances of the crops, before the groundwas even showing.

  "I tell you that we shall have a lean year," asserted one oldfellow, "the frost got in before the last snows fell."

  At length the talk slackened and all faced the top step, whereNapoleon Laliberte was making ready, in accord with his weeklycustom, to announce the parish news. He stood there motionless for alittle while, awaiting quiet,--hands deep in the pockets of theheavy lynx coat, knitting his forehead and half closing his keeneyes under the fur cap pulled well over his ears; and when silencefell he began to give the news at the full pitch of his voice, inthe manner of a carter who encourages his horses on a hill.

  "The work on the wharf will go forward at once ... I have been sentmoney by the Government, and those looking for a job should see mebefore vespers. If you want this money to stay in the parish insteadof being sent back to Quebec you had better lose no time in speakingto me."

  Some moved over in his direction; others, indifferent, met hisannouncement with a laugh. The remark was heard in an enviousundertone:--"And who will be foreman at three dollars a day?Perhaps good old Laliberte ..."

  But it was said jestingly rather than in malice, and the speakerended by adding his own laugh.

  Hands still in the pockets of his big coat, straightening himselfand squaring his shoulders as he stood there upon the highest step,Napoleon Laliberte proceeded in loudest tones:--"A surveyor fromRoberval will be in the parish next week. If anyone wishes his landsurveyed before mending his fences for the summer, this is to lethim know."

  The item was received without interest. Peribonka farmers are notparticular about correcting their boundaries to gain or lose a fewsquare feet, since the most enterprising among them have stilltwo-thirds of their grants to clear,--endless acres of woodlandand swamp to reclaim.

  He continued:--"Two men are up here with money to buy furs. If youhave any bear, mink, muskrat or fox you will find these men at thestore until Wednesday, or you can apply to Fran?ois Paradis ofMistassini who is with them. They have plenty of money and will paycash for first-class pelts." His news finished, he descended thesteps. A sharp-faced little fellow took his place.

  "Who wants to buy a fine young pig of my breeding?" he asked,indicating with his finger something shapeless that struggled in abag at his feet. A great burst of laughter greeted him. They knewthem well, these pigs of Hormidas' raising. No bigger than rats, andquick as squirrels to jump the fences.

  "Twenty-five cents!" one young man bid chaffingly.

  "Fifty cents!"

  "A dollar!"

  "Don't play the fool, Jean. Your wife will never let you pay adollar for such a pig as that."

  Jean stood his ground:--"A dollar, I won't go back on it."

  Hormidas Berube with a disgusted look on his face awaited anotherbid, but only got jokes and laughter.

  Meantime the women in their turn had begun to leave the church.Young or old, pretty or ugly, nearly all were well clad in furcloaks, or in coats of heavy cloth; for, honouring the Sunday mass,sole festival of their lives, they had doffed coarse blouses andhomespun petticoats, and a stranger might well have stood amazed tofind them habited almost with elegance in this remote spot; stillFrench to their finger-tips in the midst of the vast lonely forestand the snow, and as tastefully dressed, these peasant women, asmost of the middle-class folk in provincial France.

  Cleophas Pesant waited for Louisa Tremblay who was alone, and theywent off together along the wooden sidewalk in the direction of thehouse. Others were satisfied to exchange jocular remarks with theyoung girls as they passed, in the easy and familiar fashion of thecountry,-natural enough too where the children have grown uptogether from infancy.

  Pite Gaudreau, looking toward the door of the church, remarked:--"MariaChapdelaine is back from her visit to St. Prime, and there is herfather come to fetch her." Many in the village scarcely knew theChapdelaines.

  "Is it Samuel Chapdelaine who has a farm in the woods on the otherside of the river, above Honfleur?"

  "That's the man."

  "And the girl with him is his daughter? Maria ..."

  "Yes, she has been spending a month at St. Prime with her mother'speople. They are Bouchards, related to Wilfrid Bouchard of St.Gedeon ..."

  Interested glances were directed toward the top of the steps. One ofthe young people paid Maria the countryman's tribute ofadmiration--"A fine hearty girl!" said he.

  "Right you are! A f
ine hearty girl, and one with plenty of spirittoo. A pity that she lives so far off in the woods. How are theyoung fellows of the village to manage an evening at their place, onthe other side of the river and above the falls, more than a dozenmiles away and the last of them with next to no road?"

  The smiles were bold enough as they spoke of her, this inaccessiblebeauty; but as she came down the wooden steps with her father andpassed near by, they were taken with bashfulness and awkwardly drewback, as though something more lay between her and them than thecrossing of a river and twelve miles of indifferent woodland road.

  Little by little the groups before the church dissolved. Somereturned to their houses, after picking up all the news that wasgoing; others, before departing, were for spending an hour in one ofthe two gathering places of the village; the cur?'s house or thegeneral store. Those who came from the back concessions, stretchingalong the very border of the forest, one by one untied their horsesfrom the row and brought their sleighs to the foot of the steps fortheir women and children.

  Samuel Chapdelaine and Maria had gone but a little way when a youngman halted them.

  "Good day to you, Mr. Chapdelaine. Good day, Miss Maria. I am ingreat luck at meeting you, since your farm is so high up the riverand I don't often come this way myself."

  His bold eyes travelled from one to the other. When he averted themit seemed by a conscious effort of politeness; swiftly theyreturned, and their glance, bright, keen, full of honest eagerness,was questioning and disconcerting.

  "Fran?ois Paradis!" exclaimed Chapdelaine.

  "This is indeed a bit of luck, for I haven't seen you this longwhile, Fran?ois. And your father dead too. Have you held on to thefarm?" The young man did not answer; he was looking expectantly atMaria with a frank smile, awaiting a word from her.

  "You remember Fran?ois Paradis of Mistassini, Maria? He has changedvery little."

  "Nor have you, Mr. Chapdelaine. But your daughter, that is adifferent story; she is not the same, yet I should have known her atonce."

  They had spent the last evening at St. Michel de Mistassini-viewingeverything in the full light of the afternoon: the great woodenbridge, covered in and painted red, not unlike an amazingly longNoah's ark; the high hills rising almost from the very banks of theriver, the old monastery crouched between the river and the heights,the water that seethed and whitened, flinging itself in wild descentdown the staircase of a giant. But to see this young man after sevenyears, and to hear his name spoken, aroused in Maria memoriesclearer and more lively than she was able to evoke of the events andsights of yesterday.

  "Fran?ois Paradis! ... Why surely, father, I remember Fran?oisParadis." And Fran?ois, content, gave answer to the questions of amoment ago.

  "No, Mr. Chapdelaine, I have not kept the farm. When the good mandied I sold everything, and since then I have been nearly all thetime in the woods, trapping or bartering with the Indians of LakeMistassini and the Riviere aux Foins. I also spent a couple of yearsin the Labrador." His look passed once more from Samuel Chapdelaineto Maria, and her eyes fell.

  "Are you going home to-day?" he asked.

  "Yes; right after dinner."

  "I am glad that I saw you, for I shall be passing up the river nearyour place in two or three weeks, when the ice goes out. I am herewith some Belgians who are going to buy furs from the Indians; weshall push up so soon as the river is clear, and if we pitch a tentabove the falls close to your farm I will spend the evening withyou."

  "That is good, Fran?ois, we will expect you."

  The alders formed a thick and unbroken hedge along the riverPeribonka; but the leafless stems did not shut away the steeplysloping bank, the levels of the frozen river, the dark hem of thewoods crowding to the farther edge-leaving between the solitude ofthe great trees, thick-set and erect, and the bare desolateness ofthe ice only room for a few narrow fields, still for the most partuncouth with stumps, so narrow indeed that they seemed to beconstrained in the grasp of an unkindly land.

  To Maria Chapdelaine, glancing inattentively here and there, therewas nothing in all this to make one feel lonely or afraid. Never hadshe known other prospect from October to May, save those still moredepressing and sad, farther yet from the dwellings of man and themarks of his labour; and moreover all about her that morning hadtaken on a softer outline, was brighter with a new promise, byvirtue of something sweet and gracious that the future had in itskeeping. Perhaps the coming springtime ... perhaps anotherhappiness that was stealing toward her, nameless and unrecognized.

  Samuel Chapdelaine and Maria were to dine with their relative AzalmaLarouche, at whose house they had spent the night. No one was therebut the hostess, for many years a widow, and old Nazaire Larouche,her brother-in-law. Azalma was a tall, flat-chested woman with theundeveloped features of a child, who talked very quickly and almostwithout taking breath while she made ready the meal in the kitchen.From time to time she halted her preparations and sat down oppositeher visitors, less for the moments repose than to give some specialemphasis to what she was about to say; but the washing of a dish orthe setting of the table speedily claimed her attention again, andthe monologue went on amid the clatter of dishes and frying-pans.

  The pea-soup was soon ready and on the table. While eating, the twomen talked about the condition of their farms and the state of thespring ice.

  "You should be safe enough for crossing this evening," said NazaireLarouche, "but it will be touch-and-go, and I think you will beabout the last. The current is strong below the fall and already wehave had three days of rain.'"

  "Everybody says that the ice will hold for a long time yet," repliedhis sister-in-law. "Better sleep here again to-night, and aftersupper the young folks from the village will drop in and spend theevening. It is only fair that Maria should have a little moreamusement before you drag her off into your woods up there."

  "She has had plenty of gaiety at St. Prime; singing and games almostevery night. We are greatly obliged to you, but I am going to putthe horse in immediately after dinner so as to get home in goodtime."

  Old Nazaire Larouche spoke of the morning's sermon which had struckhim as well reasoned and fine; then after a spell of silence heexclaimed abruptly--"Have you baked?"

  His amazed sister-in-law gaped at him for a moment before it stoleupon her that this was his way of asking for bread. A little laterhe attacked her with another question:--"Is your pump workingwell?"

  Which signified that there was no water on the table. Azalma rose toget it, and behind her back the old fellow sent a sly wink in thedirection of Maria. "I assault her with parables," chuckled he."It's politer."

  On the plank walls of the house were pasted old newspapers, andcalendars hung there such as the manufacturers of farm implements orgrain merchants scatter abroad, and also prints of a religiouscharacter; a representation in crudest colour and almost innocent ofperspective of the basilica at Ste. Anne de Beaupre--, a likenessof Pope Pius X.; a chromo where the palely-smiling Virgin Marydisclosed her bleeding heart encircled with a golden nimbus.

  "This is nicer than our house," thought Maria to herself. NazaireLarouche kept directing attention to his wants with dark sayings:--"Wasyour pig very lean?" he demanded; or perhaps:--"Fond of maplesugar, are you? I never get enough of it ..."

  And then Azalma would help him to a second slice of pork or fetchthe cake of maple sugar from the cupboard. When she wearied of thesestrange table-manners and bade him help himself in the usualfashion, he smoothed her ruffled temper with good-humoured excuses,"Quite right. Quite right. I won't do it again; but you always loveda joke, Azalma. When you have youngsters like me at dinner you mustlook for a little nonsense."

  Maria smiled to think how like he was to her father; both tall andbroad, with grizzled hair, their faces tanned to the colour ofleather, and, shining from their eyes, the quenchless spirit ofyouth which keeps alive in the countryman of Quebec his imperishablesimple-heartedness.

  They took the road almost as soon as the meal was over. The snow,thawed
on top by the early rains, and frozen anew during the coldnights, gave an icy surface that slipped away easily beneath therunners. The high blue hills on the other side of Lake St. Johnwhich closed the horizon behind them were gradually lost to view asthey returned up the long bend of the river.

  Passing the church, Samuel Chapdelaine said thoughtfully--"Themass is beautiful. I am often very sorry that we live so far fromchurches. Perhaps not being able to attend to our religion everySunday hinders us from being just so fortunate as other people."

  "It is not our fault," sighed Maria, "we are too far away."

  Her father shook his head regretfully. The imposing ceremonial, theLatin chants, the lighted tapers, the solemnity of the Sunday massnever failed to fill him with exaltation. In a little he began tosing:--

  J'irai la voir un jour, M'asseoir pres de son trone, Recevoir ma couronne Et regner a mon tour ...

  His voice was strong and true, and he used the full volume of it,singing with deep fervour; but ere long his eyes began to close andhis chin to drop toward his breast. Driving always made him sleepy,and the horse, aware that the usual drowsiness had possession of hismaster, slackened his pace and at length fell to a walk.

  "Get up there, Charles Eugene!"

  He had suddenly waked and put his hand out for the whip. CharlesEugene resigned himself and began to trot again. Many generationsago a Chapdelaine cherished a long feud with a neighbour who borethese names, and had forthwith bestowed them upon an old, tired,lame horse of his, that he might give himself the pleasure every daywhen passing the enemy's house of calling out very loudly:--"CharlesEugene, ill-favoured beast that you are! Wretched, badly broughtup creature! Get along, Charles Eugene!" For a whole century thequarrel was dead and buried; but the Chapdelaines ever since hadnamed their successive horses Charles Eugene.

  Once again the hymn rose in clear ringing tones, intense withfeeling:--

  Au ciel, au ciel, au ciel, J'irai la voir un jour . .

  And again sleep was master, the voice died away, and Maria gatheredup the reins dropped from her father's hand.

  The icy road held alongside the frozen river. The houses on the othershore, each surrounded with its patch of cleared land, were sadlydistant from one another. Behind the clearings, and on either side ofthem to the river's bank, it was always forest: a dark green backgroundof cypress against which a lonely birch tree stood out here and there,its bole naked and white as the column of a ruined temple.

  On the other side of the road the strip of cleared land was continuousand broader; the houses, set closer together, seemed an outpost of thevillage; but ever behind the bare fields marched the forest, followinglike a shadow, a gloomy frieze without end between white ground and graysky.

  "Charles Eugene, get on there!"

  Chapdelaine woke and made his usual good-humoured feint toward thewhip; but by the time the horse slowed down, after a few livelierpaces, he had dropped off again, his hands lying open upon his kneesshowing the worn palms of the horse-hide mittens, his chin restingupon the coat's thick fur.

  After a couple of miles the road climbed a steep hill and enteredthe unbroken woods. The houses standing at intervals in the flatcountry all the way from the village came abruptly to an end, andthere was no longer anything for the eye to rest upon but awilderness of bare trunks rising out of the universal whiteness.Even the incessant dark green of balsam, spruce and gray pine wasrare; the few young and living trees were lost among the endlessdead, either lying on the ground and buried in snow, or still erectbut stripped and blackened. Twenty years before great forest fireshad swept through, and the new growth was only pushing its way amidthe standing skeletons and the charred down-timber. Little hillsfollowed one upon the other, and the road was a succession of upsand downs scarcely more considerable than the slopes of an oceanswell, from trough to crest, from crest to trough.

  Maria Chapdelaine drew the cloak about her, slipped her hands underthe warm robe of gray goat-skin and half closed her eyes. There wasnothing to look at; in the settlements new houses and barns might goup from year to year, or be deserted and tumble into ruin; but thelife of the woods is so unhurried that one must needs have more thanthe patience of a human being to await and mark its advance.

  Alone of the three travellers the horse remained fully awake. Thesleigh glided over the hard snow, grazing the stumps on either handlevel with the track. Charles Eugene accurately followed every turnof the road, took the short pitches at a full trot and climbed theopposite hills with a leisurely pace, like the capable animal hewas, who might be trusted to conduct his masters safely to thedoor-step of their dwelling without being annoyed by guiding word ortouch of rein.

  Some miles farther, and the woods fell away again, disclosing theriver. The road descended the last hill from the higher land andsank almost to the level of the ice. Three houses were dotted alongthe mile of bank above; but they were humbler buildings than thoseof the village, and behind them scarcely any land was cleared andthere was little sign of cultivation:-built there, they seemed tobe, only in witness of the presence of man.

  Charles Eugene swung sharply to the right, stiffened his forelegs tohold back on the slope and pulled up on the edge of the ice.Chapdelaine opened his eyes.

  "Here, father," said Maria, "take the reins!" He seized them, butbefore giving his horse the word, took some moments for a carefulscrutiny of the frozen surface.

  "There is a little water on the ice," said he, "and the snow hasmelted; but we ought to be able to cross all the same. Get up,Charles Eugene." The horse lowered his head and sniffed at the whiteexpanse in front of him, then adventured upon it without more ado.The ruts of the winter road were gone, the little firs which hadmarked it at intervals were nearly all fallen and lying in thehalf-thawed snow; as they passed the island the ice cracked twicewithout breaking. Charles Eugene trotted smartly toward the house ofCharles Lindsay on the other bank. But when the sleigh reachedmidstream, below the great fall, the horse had perforce to slackenpace by reason of the water which had overflowed the ice and wettedthe snow. Very slowly they approached the shore; there remained onlysome thirty feet to be crossed when the ice began to go up and downunder the horse's hoofs.

  Old Chapdelaine, fully awake now, was on his feet; his eyes beneaththe fur cap shone with courage and quick resolve.

  "Go on, Charles Eugene! Go on there!" he roared in his big voice.The wise beast dug his calked shoes through the deep slush andsprang for the bank, throwing himself into the collar at everyleap. Just as they reached land a cake of ice tilted beneath theirweight and sank, leaving a space of open water.

  Samuel Chapdelaine turned about. "We are the last to cross thisyear," said he. And he halted the horse to breathe before puttinghim at the hill.

  After following the main road a little way they left it for anotherwhich plunged into the woods. It was scarcely more than a roughtrail, still beset with roots, turning and twisting in alldirections to avoid boulders and stumps. Rising to a plateau whereit wound back and forth through burnt lands it gave an occasionalglimpse of steep hillside, of the rocks piled in the channel of thefrozen rapid, the higher and precipitous opposing slope above thefall, and at the last resumed a desolate way amid fallen trees andblackened rampikes.

  The little stony hillocks they passed through seemed to close inbehind them; the burnt lands gave place to darkly-crowding sprucesand firs; now and then they caught momentary sight of the distantmountains on the Riviere Alec; and soon the travellers discerned aclearing in the forest, a mounting column of smoke, the bark of adog.

  "They will be glad to see you again, Maria," said her father. "Theyhave been lonesome for you, every one of them."