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

by Louis Hémon

  CHAPTER X

  STRAYING TRACKS

  NEW YEAR'S DAY, and not a single caller! Toward evening the motherof the family, a trifle cast down, hid her depression behind a maskof extra cheeriness. "Even if no one comes," said she, "that is noreason for allowing ourselves to be unhappy. We are going to make latire."

  The children exclaimed with delight, and followed the preparationswith impatient eyes. Molasses and brown sugar were set on the stoveto boil, and when this had proceeded far enough Telesphore broughtin a large dish of lovely white snow. They all gathered about thetable as a few drops of the boiling syrup were allowed to fall uponthe snow where they instantly became crackly bubbles, deliciouslycold.

  Each was helped in turn, the big people making a merry pretence ofthe children's unfeigned greed; but soon, and very wisely, thetasting was checked, that appetite might not be in peril for thereal la tire, the confection of which had only begun. After furthercooking, and just at the proper moment, the cooling toffee must bepulled for a long time. The mother's strong hands plied unceasinglyfor five minutes, folding and drawing out the sugary skein; themovement became slower and slower, until, stretched for the lasttime to the thickness of a finger, it was cut into lengths withscissors-not too easily, for it was already hard. The la tire wasmade.

  The children were busy with their first portions, when a knockingwas heard on the door. "Eutrope Gagnon," at once declaredChapdelaine. "I was just saying to myself that it would be an oddthing if he did not come and spend the evening with us."

  Eutrope Gagnon it was in truth. Entering, he bade them all goodevening, and laid his woollen cap upon the table. Maria looked athim, a blush upon her cheek. Custom ordains that on the first day ofthe year the young men shall kiss the women-folk, and Maria knewwell enough that Eutrope, shy as he was, would exercise hisprivilege; she stood motionless by the table, unprotesting, yetthinking of another kiss she would have dearly welcomed. But theyoung man took the chair offered him and sat down, his eyes upon thefloor.

  "You are the only visitor who has come our way to-day," saidChapdelaine, "and I suppose you have seen no one either. I feltpretty certain you would be here this evening."

  "Naturally ... I would not let New Year's Day go by withoutpaying you a visit. But, besides that, I have news to tell."

  "News?"

  Under the questioning eyes of the household he did not raise hiseyes.

  "By your face I am afraid you have bad news."

  "Yes."

  With a start of fear the mother half rose. "Not about the boys?"

  "No, Madame Chapdelaine. Esdras and Da'Be are well, if that beGod's pleasure. The word I bring is not of them-not of your own kin.It concerns a young man you know." Pausing a moment he spoke a nameunder his breath:--"Fran?ois Paradis."

  His glance was lifted to Maria and as quickly fell, but she did notso much as see his look of honest distress. Deep stillness weighedupon the house-upon the whole universe. Everything alive and deadwas breathlessly awaiting news of such dreadful moment-touching himthat was for her the one man in all the world ...

  "This is what happened. You knew perhaps that he was foreman in ashanty above La Tuque, on the Vermilion River. About the middle ofDecember he suddenly told the boss that he was going off to spendChristmas and New Year at Lake St. John-up here. The boss objected,naturally enough; for if the men take ten or fifteen days' leaveright in the middle of the winter you might as well stop the workaltogether. The boss did not wish him to go and said so plainly; butyou know Fran?ois-a man not be thwarted when a notion entered hishead. He answered that he was set on going to the lake for theholidays, and that go he would. Then the boss let him have his way,afraid to lose a man useful beyond the common, and of suchexperience in the bush."

  Eutrope Gagnon was speaking with unusual ease, slowly, but withoutseeking words, as though his story had been shaped beforehand. Amidher overwhelming grief the thought flitted through Maria'sheart:--"Fran?ois wished to come here ... to me," and a fugitive joytouched it as a swallow in flight ruffles the water with his wing.

  "The shanty was not very far in the woods, only two days' journeyfrom the Transcontinental which passes La Tuque. But as the luck was,something had happened to the line and the trains were not running.I heard all this through Johnny Niquette of St. Henri, who arrivedfrom La Tuque two days ago."

  "Yes."

  "When Fran?ois found that he could not take the train he burst intoa laugh, and in that sort of a humour said that as it was a case ofwalking he would walk all the way-reaching the lake by following therivers, first the Croche and then the Ouatchouan which falls in nearRoberval."

  "That is so," said Chapdelaine. "It can be done. I have gone thatway."

  "Not at this time of year, Mr. Chapdelaine, certainly not just atthis time. Everyone there told Fran?ois that it would be foolhardyto attempt such a trip in midwinter, about Christmas, with the coldas great as it was, some four feet of snow lying in the woods, andalone. But he only laughed and told them that he was used to thewoods and that a little difficulty was not going to frighten him,because he was bound to get to the upper side of the lake for theholidays, and that where the Indians were able to cross he couldmake the crossing too. Only--you know it very well, Mr.Chapdelaine--when the Indians take that journey it is in company, andwith their dogs. Fran?ois set of alone, on snow-shoes, pulling hisblankets and provisions on a toboggan." No one had uttered a word tohasten or check the speaker. They listened as to him whose story'send stalks into view, before the eyes but darkly veiled, like afigure drawing near who hides his face.

  "You will remember the weather a week before Christmas-the heavysnow that fell, and after it the nor'west gale. It happened that Fran?ois wasthen in the great burnt lands, where the fine snow drives and driftsso terribly. In such a place the best of men have little chance whenit is very cold and the storm lasts. And, if you recall it, thenor'wester was blowing for three days on end, stiff enough-to flayyou."

  "Yes, and then?"

  The narrative he had framed did not carry him further, or perhaps hecould not bring himself to speak the final words, for it was sometime before the low-voiced answer came--"He went astray ..."

  Those who have passed their lives within the shadow of the Canadianforests know the meaning but too well. The daring youths to whomthis evil fortune happens in the woods, who go astray-are lost-butseldom return. Sometimes a search-party finds their bodies in thespring, after the melting of the snows. In Quebec, and above all inthe far regions of the north, the very word, ecarte, has taken on anew and sinister import, from the peril overhanging him who loseshis way, for a short day only, in that limitless forest.

  "He went astray ... The storm caught him in the burnt country andhe halted for a day. So much we know, for the Indians found ashelter of fir branches he had made for himself, and they saw histracks. He set out again because his provisions were low and he wasin haste to reach the end of his journey, as I suppose; but theweather did not mend, snow was falling, the nor'west wind nevereased, and it is likely he caught no glimpse of the sun to guidehim, for the Indians said that his tracks turned off from the riverCroche which he had been following and wandered away, straight tothe north."

  There was no further speech; neither from the two men who hadlistened with assenting motions of their heads while they followedevery turn of Eutrope's grim story; nor from the mother whose handswere clasped upon her knees,--as in a belated supplication; nor fromMaria . .

  "When they heard this, men from Ouatchouan set forth after theweather was a little better. But all his footsteps were covered, andthey returned saying that they had found no trace; that was threedays ago... He is lost ..."

  The listeners stirred, and broke the stillness with a sigh; the talewas told, nor was there a word that, anyone might speak. The fate ofFran?ois Paradis was as mournfully sure as though he were buried inthe cemetery at St. Michel de Mistassini to the sound of chants,with the blessing of a priest.

  Silence fell upon the house and all with
in it. Chapdelaine was leaningforward, elbows on his knees, his face working,--mechanically strikingone fist upon the other. At length he spoke:--"It shows we are butlittle children in the hand of the good God. Fran?ois was one of thebest men of these parts in the woods, and at finding his way; peoplewho came here used to take him as guide, and always did he bring themback without mishap. And now he himself is lost. We are but littlechildren. Some there be who think themselves pretty strong-able toget on without God's help in their houses and on their lands...butin the bush..." With solemn voice and slowly-moving head he repeated:"We are but little children."

  "A good man he was," said Eutrope Gagnon, "in very truth a goodman, strong and brave, with ill-will to none.'

  "Indeed that is true. I am not saying that the good God had causeto send him to his death-him more than another. He was a finefellow, hard-working, and I loved him well. But it shows you ..."

  "No one ever had a thing against him." Eutrope's generousinsistence carried him on. "A man hard to match for work, afraid ofnothing and obliging withal. Everyone who knew him was fond ofhim. You will not find his like."

  Raising his eyes to Maria he repeated with emphasis:--"He was agood man, you will not find his like."

  "When we were at Mistassini," began Madame Chapdelaine, "seven yearsago, he was only a lad, but very strong and quick and as tall as heis now--I mean as he was when he came here last summer. Alwaysgood-natured too. No one could help liking him."

  They all looked straight before them in speaking, and yet what theysaid seemed to be for Maria alone, as if the dear secret of herheart were open to them. But she spoke not, nor moved, her eyesfixed upon the frosted panes of the little window, impenetrable asthe wall.

  Eutrope Gagnon did not linger. The Chapdelaines, left to themselves,were long without speech. At last the father said in a haltingvoice:--"Fran?ois Paradis was almost alone in the world; now, aswe all had an affection for him, we perhaps might have a mass or twosaid. What do you think, Laura?"

  "Yes indeed. Three high masses with music, and when the boys returnfrom the woods--in health, if such be the will of the goodGod-three more for the repose of his soul, poor lad! And everySunday we shall, say a prayer for him."

  "He was like the rest of us," Chapdelaine continued, "not withoutfault, of course, but kindly and well-living. God and the HolyVirgin will have pity on him."

  Again silence. Maria well knew it was for her they said thesethings-aware of her grief and seeking to assuage it; but she was notable to speak, either to praise the dead or utter.-her sorrow. Ahand had fastened upon her throat, stifling her, as the narrativeunfolded and the end loomed inevitable; and now this hand found itsway into her breast and was crushing her heart. Presently she wouldknow a yet more intolerable pain, but now she only felt the deadlygrasp of those five fingers closed about her heart.

  Other words were said, but they scarce reached her ear; then camethe familiar evening stir of preparation for the night, the father'sdeparture on a last visit to the stable and his swift return, facered with the cold, slamming the door hastily in a swirl of frostyvapour.

  "Come, Maria." The mother called her very gently, and laid a handupon her shoulder. She rose and went to kneel and pray with theothers. Voice answered to voice for ten minutes, murmuring thesacred words in low monotone.

  The usual prayer at an end, the mother whispered:--"Yet fivePaters and five Aves for the souls of those who have sufferedmisfortune in the forest." And the voices again rose, this time moresubdued, breaking sometimes to a sob.

  When they were silent, and all had risen after the last sign of thecross, Maria went back to the window. The frost upon the panes madeof them so many fretted squares through which the eye could notpenetrate, shutting away the outside world; but Maria saw them not,for the tears welled to her eyes and blinded her. She stood theremotionless, with arms hanging piteously by her side, a strickenfigure of grief; then a sudden anguish yet keener and moreunbearable seized upon her; blindly she opened the door and went outupon the step.

  The world that lay beyond the threshold, sunk in moveless whiterepose, was of an immense serenity; but when Maria passed from thesheltering walls the cold smote her like the hungry blade of a swordand the forest leaped toward her in menace, its inscrutable faceconcealing a hundred dreadful secrets which called aloud to her inlamentable voices. With a little moan she drew back, and closing thedoor sat shivering beside the stove. Numbness was yielding, sorrowtaking on an edge, and the hand that clutched her heart set itselfto devising new agonies, each one subtler and more cruel than thelast.

  How he must have suffered, far off there amid the snows! So thoughtshe, as still her own face remembered the sting of the bitter air.Men threatened by this fate had told her that death coming in such aguise smote with gentle and painless hand-a hand that merely lulledto sleep; but she could not make herself believe it, and all thesufferings that Fran?ois, might have endured before giving up andfalling to the white ground passed before her eyes.

  No need for her to see the spot, too well she knew the winterterrors of the great forest, the snow heaped to the firs' lowerbranches, alders almost buried beneath it, birches and aspens nakedas skeletons and shuddering in the icy wind, a sunless sky above themassed and gloomy spires of green. She sees Fran?ois making his waythrough the close-set trees, limbs stiffened with the cold, his skinraw with that pitiless nor'wester, gnawed by hunger, stumbling withfatigue, his feet so weary that with no longer strength to lift themhis snowshoes often catch the snow and throw him to his knees.

  Doubtless when the storm abated he saw his error, knew that he waswalking toward the barren northland, turned at once and took theright course--he so experienced, the woods his home from boyhood.But his food is nearly gone, the cold tortures him; with loweredhead and clenched teeth he fights the implacable winter, calling toaid his every reserve of strength and high courage. He thinks of theroad he must follow, the miles to be overcome, measures his chancesof life; and fitful memories arise of a house, so warm and snug,where all will greet him gladly; of Maria who, knowing what he hasdared for her sake, will at length raise to him her truthful eyesshining with love.

  Perhaps he fell for the last time when succour was near, a few yardsonly from house or shanty. Often so it happens. Cold and hisministers of death flung themselves upon him as their prey; theyhave stilled the strong limbs forever, covered his open handsomeface with snow, closed the fearless eyes without gentleness or pity,changed his living body into a thing of ice ... Maria has no moretears that she may shed, but she shivers and trembles as he musthave trembled and shivered before he sank into mercifulunconsciousness; horror and pity in her face, Maria draws nearer thestove as though she might thus bring him warmth and shield his dearlife against the assassin.

  "O Christ Jesus, who didst stretch forth Thine arm to those in need,why didst Thou not disperse the snows with those pale hands ofThine? Holy Virgin, why didst Thou not sustain him by Thy powerwhen, for the last time, his feet were stumbling? In all the legionsof heaven why was there found no angel to show him the way?"

  But it is her grief that utters these reproaches, and the steadfastheart of Maria is fearful of having sinned in yielding to it.Another dread is soon to assail her. Perhaps Fran?ois Paradis wasnot able quite faithfully to keep the promises he made to her. Inthe shanty, among rough and careless men, may he not have hadmoments of weakness; blasphemed or taken the names of the saints invain, and thus have gone to his death with sin upon his conscience,under the weight of divine wrath.

  Her parents had promised but a little ago that masses should besaid. How good they were! Having guessed her secret how kindly hadthey been silent! But she herself might help with prayers the poorsoul in torment. Her beads still lay upon the table; she takes themin her hands, and forthwith the words of the Ave mount to herlips,--"Hail Mary, full of grace..."

  Did you doubt of her, O mother of the Galilean? Since that onlyeight days before she strove to reach your ear with her thousandprayers, and you but clothed yours
elf in divine impassivity whilefate accomplished its purpose, think you that she questions yourgoodness or your power? It would indeed have been to misjudge her.As once she sought your aid for a man, so now she asks your pardonfor a soul, in the same words, with the same humility and boundlessfaith.

  "Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of Thywomb, Jesus."

  But still she cowers by the great stove, and though the fire's heatstrikes through her, she ceases not to shudder as she thinks of thefrozen world about her, of Paradis, who cannot be insentient, whomust be so bitter cold in his bed of snow.