Qfatncll Httiocrsity ffithra^ryj 
 
 3tt(ara. Neni Inrtt t' 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 1891 
 
CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 3 1924 051 57 
 
 341 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924051571341 
 
MARIA GHAPDELAINE 
 
 A TALE OF THE 
 LAKE ST. JOHN COUNTRY 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK ■ BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
 ATLANTA ■ SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO.. Limited 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY ■ CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA. Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
MARIA 
 GHAPDELAINE 
 
 A TALE OF THE 
 LAKE ST. JOHN COUNTRY 
 
 BY 
 
 LOUIS HEMON 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 W. H. BLAKE 
 
 Author of "Brown Waters,'' etc. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1921 
 All rights reserved 
 
Printed in tlie United States of Amenra. 
 
 Copyright, 1921 
 By The IMacmillan Company 
 
 Set up and clectrotyped. Published December. 1921 
 Second printing January, 1922 
 Third printing February, 1922 
 
 CONDE NAST PRESS GREENWICH CONN. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Peribonica 1 
 
 II Home in the Clearing 27 
 
 III Francois Passes By 45 
 
 IV Weld Land 59 
 
 V The Vows 77 
 
 VI The Stuff of Dreams 105 
 
 VII A Meager Reaping 119 
 
 ^ III Entrenched Against Winter ... 125 
 
 IX One Thousand Aves 135 
 
 X Straying Tracks 153 
 
 XI The Interpreter of God 173 
 
 XII Love Bearing Gifts 185 
 
 XIII Love Bearing Chains 211 
 
 XIV Into the Deep Silence 225 
 
 XV That We Perish Not 257 
 
 XVI Pledged to the Race 285 
 
CHAPTER I 
 PERIBONKA 
 
 The door opened, and 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 PERIBONKA 
 
 Ite, missa est 
 HE door opened, and the men of 
 the congregation began to come 
 out of the chm-ch at Peribonka. 
 A moment eariier it had seemed 
 quite deserted, this chvu-ch set by 
 the roadside on the high bank of 
 the Peribonka, whose icy snow-covered sur- 
 face was Uke a winding strip of plain. The 
 snow lay deep upon road and fields, for the 
 April sxm was powerless to send warmth 
 through the gray clouds, and the heavy spring 
 rains were yet to come. This chiU and uni- 
 versal white, the humbleness of the wooden 
 church and the wooden houses scattered 
 along the road, the gloomy forest edging so 
 close that it seemed to threaten, these all 
 spoke of a harsh existence in a stern land. 
 But as the men and boys passed through the 
 doorway and gathered in knots on the broad 
 steps, their cheery salutations, the chaff 
 flung from group to group, the continual iu- 
 
 [3] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 terchange of talk, merry or sober, at once 
 disclosed the unquenchable joyousness of a 
 people ever filled with laughter and good 
 humour. 
 
 Cleophas Pesant, son of Thadee Pesant 
 the blacksmith, was already in light-coloured 
 summer garments, and sported an American 
 coat with broad padded shoulders; though on 
 this cold Sunday he had not ventured to dis- 
 card his winter cap of black cloth with hare- 
 lined ear-laps for the hard felt hat he would 
 have preferred to wear. Beside him Egide 
 Simard, and others who had come a long 
 road by sleigh, fastened their long fur coats 
 as they left the church, drawing them in at 
 the waist with scarlet sashes. The young 
 folk of the village, very smart in coats with 
 otter collars, gave deferential greeting to old 
 Nazaire Larouche; a tall man with gray hair 
 and huge bony shoulders who had in no wise 
 altered for the mass his everyday garb : short 
 jacket of brown cloth lined with sheepskin, 
 patched trousers, and thick woollen socks 
 under moose-hide moccasins. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Larouche, do things go pretty 
 well across the water.^" 
 [4] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Not badly, my lads, not so badly." 
 ^Everyone drew his pipe from his pocket, 
 and the pig's bladder filled with tobacco 
 leaves cut by hand, and, after the hour and a 
 half of restraint, began to smoke with evident 
 satisfaction. The first puffs brought talk of 
 the weather, the coming spring, the state of 
 the ice on Lake St. John and the rivers, of 
 their several doings and the parish gossip; 
 after the manner of men who, living far apart 
 on the worst of roads, see one another but 
 once a week. / 
 
 "The lake is sohd yet," said Cleophas Pe- 
 sant, " but the rivers are no longer safe. The 
 ice went this week beside the sand-bank op- 
 posite the island, where there have been 
 warm spring-holes all winter." Others began 
 to discuss the chances of the crops, before the 
 ground was even showing. 
 
 " I tell you that we shall have a lean year," 
 asserted one old fellow, "the frost got in be- 
 fore the last snows fell." 
 
 At length the talk slackened and all faced 
 the top step, where Napoleon Laliberte was 
 making ready, in accord with his weekly cus- 
 tofli, to announce the parish news. He stood 
 
M A R I A C H A P D E L A 1 ^ E 
 
 there molioniess for a little while, awaiting 
 quiet, — hands deep in the pockets of the 
 heavy lynx coat, knitting liis forehead and 
 haK closing his keen eyes under the fur cap 
 pulled well over his ears; and when silence 
 fell he began to give the news at the full pitch 
 of his voice, in the manner of a carter who 
 encourages his horses on a hill. 
 
 "The work on the wharf will go forward at 
 once ... I have been sent money by the Gov- 
 ernment, and those looking for a job should 
 see me before vespers. If you want this 
 money to stay in the parish instead of being 
 sent back to Quebec you had better lose no 
 time in speaking to me." 
 
 Some moved over in his direction; others, 
 indifferent, met his announcement with a 
 laugh. The remark was heard in an envious 
 xmdertone: — "And who will be foreman at 
 three dollars a day.^* Perhaps good old Lali- 
 berte . . ." 
 
 But it was said jestingly rather than in 
 malice, and the speaker ended by adding his 
 own laugh. 
 
 Hands still in the pockets of his big coat, 
 straightening himself and squaring his shoul- 
 
 [6] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 ders as he stood there upon the highest step, 
 Napoleon Laliberte proceeded iji loudest 
 tones: — "A surveyor from Roberval will be in 
 the parish next week. If anyone wishes his 
 land surveyed before mending his fences for 
 the summer, this is to let him know." 
 
 The item was received without interest. 
 Peribonka farmers are not particular about 
 correcting their boundaries to gain or lose a 
 few square feet, since the most enterprising 
 among them have still two-thirds of their 
 grants to clear, — endless acres of woodland 
 and swamp to reclaim. 
 
 He continued: — "Two men are up here 
 with money to buy furs. If you have any 
 bear, mink, muskrat or fox you will find these 
 men at the store until Wednesday, or you can 
 apply to Francois Paradis of Mistassini who 
 is with them. They have plenty of money 
 and will pay cash for fu-st-class pelts." His 
 news finished, he descended the steps. A 
 sharp-faced little fellow took his place. 
 
 " Who wants to buy a fine young pig of my 
 breeding .^i" he asked, indicating with his fin- 
 ger something shapeless that struggled in a 
 bag at his feet. A great burst of laughter 
 
 [7] 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N i: 
 
 greeted him. They knew them well, these 
 pigs of Hormidas' raising. No bigger than 
 rats, and quick 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 a dollar 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 another bid, but only got 
 jokes and laughter. 
 
 Meantime the women in their turn had be- 
 gun to leave the church. Young or old, pretty 
 or ugly, nearly all were well clad in fur cloaks, 
 or in coats of heavy cloth ; for, honouring the 
 Sunday mass, sole festival of their lives, they 
 had doffed coarse blouses and homespun 
 petticoats, and a stranger might well have 
 stood amazed to find them habited almost 
 with elegance in this remote spot ; stUl French 
 to their finger-tips in the midst of the vast 
 18] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 lonely forest and the snow, and as taste- 
 fully dressed, these peasant women, as 
 most of the middle-class folk in provincial 
 France. 
 
 Cleophas Pesant waited for Louisa Trem- 
 blay who was alone, and they went off to- 
 gether along the wooden sidewalk in the di- 
 rection of the house. Others were satisfied 
 to exchange jocular remarks with the young 
 girls as they passed, in the easy and familiar 
 fashion of the country, — natural enough too 
 where the children have grown up together 
 from infancy. 
 
 Pite Gaudreau, looking toward the door of 
 the church, remarked: — "Maria Chapdelaine 
 is back from her visit to St. Prime, and there is 
 her father come to fetch her." Many in the 
 village scarcely knew the Chapdelaines. 
 
 " Is it Samuel Chapdelaine who has a farm 
 in the woods on the other side of the river, 
 above Honlleur.^" 
 
 "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's people. They are 
 
 [9] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAlNi: 
 
 Bouchards, related to Wilfrid Bouchard of 
 St. Gedeon ..." 
 
 Interested glances were directed toward 
 the top of the steps. One of the young people 
 paid Maria the countryman's tribute of ad- 
 miration: — "A fine hearty girl!" said he. 
 
 "Right you are! A fine hearty girl, and 
 one with plenty of spirit too. A pity that she 
 lives so far off in the woods. How are the 
 young fellows of the village to manage an 
 evening at their place, on the other side of the 
 river and above the falls, more than a dozen 
 miles away and the last of them with next to 
 no road.**" 
 
 The smiles were bold enough as they spoke 
 of her, this inaccessible beauty; but as she 
 came down the wooden steps with her father 
 and passed near by, they were taken with 
 bashfulness and awkwardly drew back, as 
 though something more lay between her and 
 them than the crossing of a river and twelve 
 miles of indifferent woodland road. 
 
 Little by little the groups before the church 
 dissolved. Some returned to their houses, 
 after picking up all the news that was going ; 
 others, before departing, were for spending an 
 
 [10] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 hoiir in one of Lhe two gathering places of the 
 village; the cures house or the general store. 
 Those who came from the back concessions, 
 stretching along the very border of the forest, 
 one by one untied their horses from the row 
 and brought their sleighs to the foot of the 
 steps for their women and children. 
 
 Samuel Chapdelaine and Maria had gone 
 but a little way when a young man halted 
 them. 
 
 " Good day to you, Mr. Chapdelaine. Good 
 day. Miss Maria. I am in great luck at meet- 
 ing you, since your farm is so high up the river 
 and I don't often come this way myself." 
 
 His bold eyes travelled from one to the 
 other. When he averted them it seemed by a 
 conscious effort of pohteness ; swiftly they re- 
 turned, and their glance, bright, keen, fuU of 
 honest eagerness, was questioning and dis- 
 concerting. 
 
 "Frangois Paradis!" exclaimed Chapde- 
 laine. 
 
 " This is indeed a bit of luck, for I haven't 
 seen you this long while, Frangois. And your 
 father dead too. Have you held on to the 
 farm.3" 
 
 [11] 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A 1 N E 
 
 The young man did not answer; he was 
 looking expectantly at Maria with a frank 
 smile, awaiting a word from her. 
 
 "You remember Frangois Paradis of Mis- 
 tassini, Maria? He has changed very little." 
 
 "Nor have you, Mr. Chapdelaine. But 
 your daughter, that is a different story; she 
 is not the same, yet I should have known her 
 at once." 
 
 They had spent the last evening at St. 
 Michel de Mistassini — viewing everything in 
 the fuU light of the afternoon: the great 
 wooden bridge, covered in and painted red, 
 not unlike an amazingly long Noah's ark ; the 
 high hills rising almost from the very banks of 
 the river, the old monastery crouched be- 
 tween the river and the heights, the water 
 that seethed and whitened, flinging itself in 
 wild descent down the staircase of a giant. 
 But to see this young man after seven years, 
 and to hear his name spoken, aroused in 
 Maria memories clearer and more hvely than 
 she was able to evoke of the events and sights 
 of yesterday. 
 
 "Frangois Paradis! . . . Why surely, fa- 
 ther, I remember Frangois Paradis." And 
 
 [12] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Francois, content, gave answer to the ques- 
 tions of a moment ago. 
 
 "No, Mr. Chapdelaine, I have not kept the 
 farm. When the good man died I sold every- 
 thing, and since then I have been nearly aU 
 the time in the woods, trapping or bartering 
 with the Indians of Lake Mistassini and the 
 Riviere aux Foins. I also spent a couple of 
 years in the Labrador." His look passed 
 once more from Samuel Chapdelaine to 
 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 near your place in two or 
 three weeks, when the ice goes out. I am here 
 with some Belgians who are going to buy furs 
 from the Indians; we shall push up so soon as 
 the river is clear, and if we pitch a tent above 
 the falls close to your farm I will spend the 
 evening with you." 
 
 "That is good, Frangois, we will expect 
 you." 
 
 The alders formed a thick and unbroken 
 hedge along the river Peribonka; but the leaf- 
 less stems did not shut away the steeply slop- 
 
 [131 
 
.^I A R I A C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 ing bank, the levels of the frozen river, the 
 dark hem of the woods crowding to the far- 
 ther edge — leaving between the solitude of the 
 great trees, thick-set and erect, and the bare 
 desolateness of the ice only room for a few 
 narrow fields, still for the most part uncouth 
 with stumps, so narrow indeed that they 
 seemed to be constrained in the grasp of an 
 unkindly land. 
 
 To Maria Chapdelaine, glancing inatten- 
 tively here and there, there was nothing in all 
 this to make one feel lonely or afraid. Never 
 had she known other prospect from October 
 to May, save those still more depressing and 
 sad, farther yet from the dwellings of rgtan and 
 the marks of his labour; and moreover all 
 about her that morning had taken on a softer 
 outline, was brighter with a new promise, by 
 virtue of something sweet dnd gracious that 
 the future had in its keeping. Perhaps the 
 coming springtime . . . perhaps another 
 happiness that was stealing toward her, 
 nameless and unrecognized. 
 
 Samuel Chapdelaine and Maria were to 
 dine with their relative Azalma Larouche, a I 
 whose house they had spent the night. No 
 
 [14] 
 
MARIA C H A P D i: L A I N E 
 
 one was there but the liostess, for many years 
 a widow, and old Nazaire Larouche, her 
 brother-in-law. Azalma was a tall, flat- 
 chested woman with the undeveloped fea- 
 tm-es of a child, who talked very quickly and 
 almost without taking breath while she made 
 ready the meal in the kitchen. From time to 
 time she halted her preparations and sat 
 down opposite her visitors, less for the mo- 
 ment's repose than to give some special em- 
 phasis to what she was about to say ; but the 
 seasoning of a dish or the setting of the table 
 speedily claimed her attention again, and the 
 monologue went on amid the clatter of dishes 
 and frying-pans. 
 
 The pea-soup was soon ready and on the 
 table. While eating, the two men talked 
 about the condition of their farms and the 
 state of the spring ice. 
 
 "You should be safe enough for crossing 
 this evening," said Nazaire Larouche, "but it 
 win be touch-and-go, and I think you will be 
 about the last. The current is strong below 
 the fall and already we have had three days 
 of rain." 
 
 [15] 
 
MARIA C H A P D K L A I .\ J; 
 
 "Everybody says that the ice will hold for 
 a long time yet, " replied his sister-in-law. 
 "Better ^^leep here again to-night, and after 
 supper the young folks from the village will 
 drop in and spend the evening. It is only fair 
 that Maria should have a little more amuse- 
 ment before you drag her off into your woods 
 up there." 
 
 " She has had plenty of gaiety at St. Prime; 
 singing and games almost exery night. We 
 are greatly obliged to you, but I am going to 
 put the horse in immediately after dinner so 
 as to get home in good time." 
 
 Old Nazaire Larouche spoke of the morn- 
 ing's sermon which had struck him as well 
 reasoned and fine; then after a spell of 
 silence he exclaimed abruptly: — "Have you 
 baked.3" 
 
 His amazed sister-in-law gaped at him for 
 a moment before it stole upon her that this 
 was his way of asking for bread. A little later 
 he attacked her with another question: — "Is 
 your pump working well.''" 
 
 \Miich signified that there was no water on 
 the table. Azahna rose to get it, and behind 
 her back the old fellow sent a sly wink in the 
 
 1161 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 direction of Maria. "I assault her with par- 
 ables," chuckled he. " It's politer." 
 
 On the planlv walls of the house were pasted 
 old newspapers, and calendars hung there 
 such as the manufacturers of farm implements 
 or grain merchants scatter abroad, and also 
 prints of a religious character; a representa- 
 tion in crudest colour and almost innocent of 
 perspective of the basilica at Ste. Anne de 
 Beaupre; a likeness of Pope Pius X. ; a chromo 
 where the palely-smihng Virgin Mary dis- 
 closed her bleeding heart encircled with a 
 golden nimbus. 
 
 "This is nicer than our house," thought 
 Maria to herself. 
 
 Nazaire Larouche kept directing attention 
 to his wants with dark sayings: — "Was your 
 pig very lean.*^" he demanded; or perhaps: — 
 "Fond of maple sugar, are you.^' I never get 
 enough of it . . ." 
 
 And then Azalma would help him to a sec- 
 ond slice of pork or fetch the cake of maple 
 sugar from the cupboard. When she wearied 
 of these strange table-manners and bade him 
 help himself in the usual fashion, he smoothed 
 herruffledtemperwith good-humoured excuses. 
 
 [17] 
 
M ARIA C H \ P 1) E L \ I N E 
 
 "Quite right. Quite right. I won't do it 
 again; but you always loved a joke, AzaJma. 
 When you have youngsters lilic nie al dinner 
 you must look for a little nonsense." 
 
 Maria smiled to think how like he was to her 
 father; both tall and broad, with grizzled hair, 
 their faces tanned to the colour of leather, 
 and, shining from their eyes, the quenchless 
 spirit of youth which keeps alive in the 
 countryman of Quebec his imperishable sim- 
 ple-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 
 cold nights, gave an icy surface that slipped 
 aw^ay easily beneath the runners. The high 
 blue hills on the other side of Lake St. John 
 which closed the horizon behind them were 
 gradually lost to view as they returned up the 
 long bend of the river. 
 
 Passing the church, Samuel Chapdelaine 
 said thoughtfully: — "The mass is beautiful. 
 I am often very sorry that we live so far from 
 churches. Perhaps not being able to attend to 
 our religion every Sunday hinders us from be- 
 ing just so fortunate as other people." 
 fl8l 
 
ISI A R I A C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 "It is not our fault," sighed Maria, "we 
 are too far away." 
 
 Her father shook his head regretfully. The 
 imposing ceremonial, the Latin chants, the 
 Ughted tapers, the solemnity of the Sunday 
 mass never failed to fill him with exaltation. 
 In a Uttle he began to sing : — 
 
 J'irai la voir un jour, 
 M'asseoir prfes de son trone, 
 Recevoir ma couronne 
 Et regner a mon tour . . . 
 
 His voice was strong and true, and he used 
 the fuU volume of it, singing with deep fer- 
 vour; but ere long his eyes began to close and 
 his chin to drop toward his breast. Driving 
 always made him sleepy, and the horse, 
 aware that the usual drowsiness had posses- 
 sion of his master, 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. Charles Eugene resigned 
 himself and begem to trot again. Many gener- 
 ations ago a Chapdelaine cherished a long 
 feud with a neighbour who bore these names, 
 and had forthwith bestowed them upon an 
 
 [19] 
 
MARIA C: H A P U E L A I IN i: 
 
 old, tired, lame horse of his, that he might give 
 himself the pleasure every day when passing 
 the enemy's house of calling out very loudly : 
 — "Charles Eugene, ill-favoured beast that 
 you are! Wretched, badly brought up crea- 
 ture! Get along, Charles Eugene!" For a 
 whole century the quarrel was dead and 
 buried; but the Chapdelaines ever since had 
 named their successive horses Charles Eugene. 
 Once again the hymn rose in clear ringing 
 tones, intense with feeUng: — - 
 
 Au del, au ciel, au ciel, 
 J'irai la voir un jour . . . 
 
 And again sleep was master, the voice died 
 away, and Maria gathered up the reins 
 dropped from her father's hand. 
 
 The icy road held alongside the frozen river. 
 The houses on the other shore, each sur- 
 rounded with its patch of cleared land, were 
 sadly distant from one another. Behind the 
 clearings, and on either side of them to the 
 river's bank, it was always forest: a dark 
 green background of cypress against which a 
 lonely birch tree stood out here and there, its 
 bole naked and white as the column of a 
 ruined temple 
 
 [201 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 On the other side of the road the strip of 
 cleared land was continuous and broader; the 
 houses, set closer together, seemed an outpost 
 of the village; but ever behind the bare fields 
 marched the forest, following like a shadow, a 
 gloomy frieze without end between white 
 ground and gray sky. 
 
 "Charles Eugene, get on there!" 
 
 Chapdelaine woke and made his usual 
 good-humoured feint toward the whip; but by 
 the time the horse slowed down, after a few 
 livelier paces, he had dropped off again, his 
 hands lying open upon his knees showing the 
 worn palms of the horse-hide mittens, his 
 chin resting upon the coat's thick fur. 
 
 After a couple of miles the road cUmbed a 
 steep hill and entered the unbroken woods. 
 The houses standing at intervals in the flat 
 country all the way from the village came 
 abruptly to an end, and there was no longer 
 anything for the eye to rest upon but a wilder- 
 ness of bare trunks rising out of the universal 
 whiteness. Even the incessant dark green of 
 balsam, spruce and gray pine was rare; the 
 few young and Uving trees were lost among 
 the endless dead, either lying on the ground 
 
 [21] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and buried in snow, or still erccl but stripped 
 and blackened. Twenty years before great 
 forest fires had jwept through, and the new 
 growth was only pushing its way amid the 
 standing skeletons and the charred down- 
 timber. Little hills followed one upon the 
 other, and the road was a succession of ups 
 and downs scarcely more considerable than 
 the slopes of an ocean swell, from trough to 
 crest, from crest to trough. 
 
 Maria Chapdelaine drew the cloak about 
 her, slipped her hands under the warm robe 
 of gray goat-skin and half closed her eyes. 
 There was nothing to look at; in the settle- 
 ments new houses and barns might go up from 
 year to year, or be deserted and tumble into 
 ruin; but the life of the woods is so unhurried 
 that one must needs have more than the pa- 
 tience of a human being to await and mark its 
 advance. 
 
 Alone of the three travellers the horse 
 remained fully awake. The sleigh glided over 
 the hard snow, grazing the stumps on either 
 hand level with the track. Charles Eugene 
 accurately followed every turn of the road, 
 took the short pitches at a fiill trot and 
 [n] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 climbed the opposite hills with a leisurely 
 pace, Uke the capable animal he Avas, who 
 might be trusted to conduct his masters safely 
 to the door-step of their dwelling without 
 beiag annoyed by guiding word or touch of 
 rein. 
 
 Some miles farther, and the woods fell 
 away again, disclosing the river. The road 
 descended the last hiU from the higher land 
 and sank almost to the level of the ice. Three 
 houses were dotted along the mile of bank 
 above; but they were himibler buildings than 
 those of the village, and behind them scarcely 
 any land was cleared and there was little 
 sign of cultivation : — built there, they seemed 
 to be, only in witness of the presence of man. 
 
 Charles Eugene swung sharply to the right, 
 stiffened his forelegs to hold back on the slope 
 and pulled up on the edge of the ice. Chapde- 
 laine opened his eyes. 
 
 "Here, father," said Maria, "take the 
 reins! " He seized them, but before giving his 
 horse the word, took some moments for a 
 careful scrutiny of the frozen surface. 
 
 "There is a little water on the ice," said he, 
 "and the snow has melted ; but we ought to be 
 
 [23] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 able to cross all the same. Get up, Charles 
 Eugene." 
 
 The horse lowered his head and sniffed at 
 the white expanse in front of him, then adven- 
 tured upon it without more ado. The ruts of 
 the winter road were gone, the little firs which 
 had marked it at intervals were nearly all 
 fallen and lying in the half-thawed snow; as 
 they passed the island the ice cracked twice 
 without breaking. Charles Eugene trotted 
 smartly toward the house of Charles Lindsay 
 on the other bank. But when the sleigh 
 reached midstream, below the great fall, the 
 horse had perforce to slacken pace by reason 
 of the water which had overflowed the ice and 
 wetted the snow. Very slowly they ap- 
 proached the shore; there remained only some 
 thirty feet to be crossed when the ice began 
 to go up and down under the horse's hoofs. 
 
 Old Chapdelaine, fully awake now, was on 
 his feet; his eyes beneath the 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 and 
 sprang for the bank, throwing himself into 
 
 f24l 
 
iAIARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the collar at every leap. Just as they reached 
 land a cake of ice tilted beneath their weight 
 and sank, leaving a space of open water. 
 
 Samuel Chapdelaine turned about. "We 
 are the last to cross this year," said he. And 
 he halted the horse to breathe before putting 
 him at the hill. 
 
 After followuig the main road a little way 
 they left it for another which plunged into the 
 woods. It was scarcely more than a rough 
 trail, still beset with roots, turning and twist- 
 ing in all directions to avoid boulders and 
 stumps. Rising to a plateau where it wound 
 back and forth through burnt leinds it gave an 
 occasional glimpse of steep hillside, of the 
 rocks piled in the channel of the frozen rapid, 
 the higher and precipitous opposing slope 
 above the fall, and at the last resumed a 
 desolate way amid fallen trees and blackened 
 rampikes. 
 
 The little stony hillocks they passed 
 through seemed to close in behind them; the 
 burnt lands gave place to darkly-crowding 
 spruces and firs; now and then they caught 
 momentary sight of the distant mountains 
 on the Riviere Alec; and soon the travellers 
 
 [25] 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 discerned a clearing in the forest, a mounting 
 column of smoke, the bark of a dog. 
 
 "They will be glad to see you again, 
 Maria," said her father. "They have been 
 lonesome for you, every one of them." 
 
 ;26i 
 
CHAPTER II 
 HOME IN THE CLEARING 
 
 It was supper-time. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HOME IN THE CLEARING 
 
 T was supper-time before Maria 
 had answered all the questions, 
 told of her journey down to the 
 last and littlest item, and given 
 not only the news of St. Prime 
 and Peribonka but everything else 
 she had been able to gather up upon the road. 
 Tit 'Be, seated facing his sister, smoked pipe 
 after pipe without taking his eyes off her for a 
 single moment, fearful of missing some highly 
 important disclosure that she had hitherto 
 held back. Little Alma Rose stood with an 
 arm about her neck; Telesphore was hstening 
 too, as he mended his dog's harness with bits 
 of string. Madame Chapdelaine stirred the 
 fire in the big cast-iron stove, came and went, 
 brought from the cupboard plates and dishes, 
 the loaf of bread and pitcher of milk, tilted 
 the great molasses jar over a glass jug. Not 
 seldom she stopped to ask Maria something, 
 or to catch what she was saying, and stood for 
 a few moments dreaming, hands on her hips, 
 
 [29] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 as the villages spoken of rose before her in 
 memory. 
 
 "... And so the church is finished — a 
 beautiful stone church, with pictures on the 
 walls and coloured glass in the windows . . . 
 How splendid that must be! Johnny Bou- 
 chard built a new bam last year, and it is a 
 little Perron, daughter of Abelard Perron of 
 St. Jerome, who teaches school . . . Eight 
 years since I was at St. Prime, just to think 
 of it! A fine parish indeed, that would have 
 suited me nicely; good level land as far as you 
 can see, no rock cropping up and no bush, 
 everywhere square-cornered fields with hand- 
 some straight fences and heavy soil. Only 
 two hours' drive to the railway . . . Per- 
 haps it is wicked of me to say so; but all my 
 married Hfe I have felt sorry that your 
 father's taste was for moving, and pushing 
 on and on into the woods, and not for hving 
 on a farm in one of the old parishes." 
 
 Through the Httle square window she threw 
 a melancholy glance over the scanty cleared 
 fields behind the house, the bam built of ill- 
 joined planks that showed marks of fire, and 
 the land beyond still covered with stimaps and 
 
 [30] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 encompassed by the forest, whence any return 
 of hay or grain could only be looked for at the 
 end of long and patient waiting. 
 
 "0 look," said Alma Rose, "here is Chien 
 come for his share of petting." The dog laid 
 his long head with the sad eyes upon her knee; 
 uttering Uttle friendly words, Maria bent and 
 caressed him. 
 
 "He has been lonely without you like the 
 rest of us," came from Ahna Rose. "Every 
 morning he used to look at your bed to see 
 if you were not back." She called him to her. 
 "Gome, Chien; come and let me pet you too." 
 
 Chien went obediently from one to the 
 other, half closing his eyes at each pat. Maria 
 looked about her to see if some change, un- 
 hkely though that might be, had tEiken place 
 while she was away. 
 
 The great three-decked stove stood in the 
 centre of the house; the sheet-iron stove-pipe, 
 after mounting for some feet, turned at a 
 right angle and was carried through the house 
 to the outside, so that none of the precious 
 warmth should be lost. In a corner was the 
 large wooden cupboard; close by, the table; a 
 bench against the wall; on the other side of 
 [31] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the door the sink and the pump. A partition 
 beginning at the opposite wall seemed de- 
 signed to divide the house in two, but it 
 stopped before reaching the stove and did not 
 begin again beyond it, in such fashion that 
 these divisions of the only room were each 
 enclosed on three sides and looked hke a stage 
 setting — that conventional type of scene 
 where the audience are invited to imagine 
 that two distinct apartments exist although 
 they look into both at once. 
 
 In one of these compartments the father 
 and mother had their bed; Maria and Ahna 
 Rose in the other. A steep stairway ascended 
 from a corner to the loft where the boys slept 
 in the summer-time ; with the coming of winter 
 they moved their bed down and enjoyed the 
 warmth of the stove with the rest of the 
 family. 
 
 Hanging upon the wall were the illustrated 
 calendars of shopkeepers in Roberval and Ghi- 
 coutimi; a picture of the infant Jesus in his 
 mother's arms — a rosy-faced Jesus with great 
 blue eyes, holding out his chubby hands; a 
 representation of some unidentified saint look- 
 ing raptm-ously heavenward; the first page of 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the Christmas number of a Quebec newspa- 
 per, filled with stars big as moons and angels 
 flying with folded wings. 
 
 "Were you a good girl while I was away, 
 Alma Rose?" 
 
 It was the naother who repUed: — "Alma 
 Rose was not too naughty; but Telesphore 
 has been a perfect torment to me. It is not so 
 much that he does what is wrong; but the 
 things he says! One might suppose that the 
 boy had not all his wits." 
 
 Telesphore busied himself with the dog- 
 harness and made beheve not to hear. Young 
 Telesphore's depravities supphed this house- 
 hold with its only domestic tragedy. To sat- 
 isfy her own mind and give him a proper con- 
 viction of besetting sin his mother had fash- 
 ioned for herself a most involved kind of 
 polytheism, had peopled the world with evil 
 spirits and good who influenced him alter- 
 nately to err or to repent. The boy had come 
 to regard himself as a mere battleground 
 where devils who were very sly, and angels of 
 excellent purpose but little experience, waged 
 endless unequal warfare. 
 
 Gloomily would he mutter before the 
 
 [33] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 empty preserve jar: — "It was the Demon 
 of gluttony who tempted me." 
 
 Returning from some escapade with torn 
 and muddy clothes he would anticipate re- 
 proach with his explanation: — "The Demon 
 of disobedience lured me into that. Beyond 
 doubt it was he." With the same breath 
 asserting indignation at being so misled, and 
 protesting the blamelessness of his intentions. 
 
 "But he must not be allowed to come back, 
 eh, mother ! He must not be allowed to come 
 back, this bad spirit. I will take father's gun 
 and I wiU shoot him ..." 
 
 "You cannot shoot devils with a gun," ob- 
 jected his mother. "But when you feel the 
 temptation coming, seize your rosary and say 
 your prayers." 
 
 Telesphore did not dare to gainsay this; 
 but he shook his head doubtfully. The gun 
 seemed to him both the surer and the more 
 amusing way, and he was accustomed to pic- 
 ture to himself a tremendous duel, a lingering 
 slaughter from which he would emerge with- 
 out spot or blemish, forever set free from the 
 wiles of the Evil One. 
 . . Samuel Chapdelaine came into the house 
 
 [34] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and supper was served. The sign of the cross 
 around the table ; Ups moving in a silent Bene- 
 dicite, which Telesphore and Ahna Rose re- 
 peated aloud; again the sign of the cross; the 
 noise of chairs and bench drawn in; spoons 
 clattering on plates. To Maria it was as 
 though since her absence she was giving at- 
 tention for the first time in her Ufe to these 
 sounds and movements; that they possessed 
 a different significance from movements and 
 sounds elsewhere, and invested with some pe- 
 cuhar quaUty of sweetness and peace aU that 
 happened in that house far off in the woods. 
 
 Supper was nearly at an end when a foot- 
 step soimded without; Chien pricked up his 
 ears but gave no growl. 
 
 "A visitor," announced mother Chap- 
 delaine, "Eutrope Gagnon has come over to 
 see us." 
 
 Tt was an easy guess, as Eutrope Gagnon 
 was their only neighbour. The year before he 
 had taten up land two miles away, with his 
 brother; the brother had gone to the shanties 
 for the winter, and he was left alone in the 
 cabin they had built of charred logs. He ap- 
 peared on the threshold, lantern in hand. 
 
 [35] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Greeting to each and all," was the saluta- 
 tion as he pulled off his wooUen cap. "A fine 
 night, and there is still a crust on the snow ; 
 as the walking was good I thought that I 
 would drop in this evening to find out if you 
 were back." 
 
 Although he came to see Maria, as all 
 knew, it was to the father of the house that he 
 directed his remarks, partly through shyness, 
 partly out of deference to the manners of the 
 country. He took the chair that was offered 
 him. 
 
 "The weather is mild; if it misses turning 
 wet it will be by very little. One can feel that 
 the spring rains are not far off . . ." 
 
 It was the orthodox beginning to one of 
 those talks among country folk which are like 
 an interminable song, full of repetitions, 
 each speaker agreeing with the words last 
 uttered and adding more to the same effect. 
 And naturally the theme was the Canadian's 
 never-ending plaint; his protest, falling short 
 of actual revolt, against the heavy burden 
 of the long winter. 
 
 "The beasts have been in the stable since 
 the end of October and. the bam is just about 
 
 [36] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 empty," said mother Chapdelaine. "Unless 
 spring comes soon I don't know what we are 
 going to do." 
 
 "Three weeks at least before they can be 
 turned out to pasture." 
 
 "A horse, three cows, a pig and the sheep, 
 without speaking of the fowls; it takes some- 
 thing to feed them!" this from Tit'Be with 
 an air of grown-up wisdom. 
 
 He smoked and talked with the men now 
 by virtue of his fourteen years, his broad 
 shoulders and his knowledge of husbandry. 
 Eight years ago he had begun to care for the 
 stock, and to replenish the store of wood for 
 the house with the aid of his Uttle sled. 
 Somewhat later he had learned to call Heulle! 
 Heulle! very loudly behind the thin-flanked 
 cows, and Hue! Dia! Harrie! when the horses 
 were ploughing; to manage a hay-fork and to 
 build a rail-fence. These two years he had 
 taken turn beside his father with ax and 
 scythe, driven the big wood-sleigh over the 
 hard snow, sown and reaped on his own 
 responsibUity; and thus it was that no one 
 disputed his right freely to express an 
 opinion and to smoke incessantly the strong 
 [37] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 leaf-tobacco. His face was still smooth as a 
 child's, with immature features and guileless 
 eyes, and one not knowing him would 
 probably have been surprised to hear him 
 speak with all the deliberation of cin older 
 and experienced man, and to see him ever- 
 lastingly charging his wooden pipe; but in 
 the Province of Quebec the boys are looked 
 upon as men when they undertake men's 
 work, and as to their precocity in smoking 
 there is always the excellent excuse that it 
 affords some protection in summer against 
 the attacking swarms of black-flies, mos- 
 quitos and sand-flies. 
 
 "How nice it would be to live in a country 
 where there is hardly any winter, and where 
 the earth makes provision for man and beast. 
 Up here man himself, by dint of work, must 
 care for his animals and his land. If we did 
 not have Esdras and Da'Be earning good 
 wages in the woods how could we get along?" 
 
 "But the soil is rich in these parts," said 
 Eutrope Gagnon. 
 
 "The soil is good but one must battle for 
 it with the forest; and to hve at all you must 
 watch every copper, labour from morning to 
 
 [38] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 night, and do everything yourself because 
 there is no one near to lend a hand." 
 
 Mother Chapdelaine ended with a sigh. 
 Her thoughts were ever fondly revisiting the 
 older parishes where the land has long been 
 cleared and cultivated, and where the houses 
 are neighbourly — ^her lost paradise. 
 
 Her husband clenched his fists and shook 
 his head with an obstinate gesture. "Only 
 you wait a few months , . . When the boys 
 are back from the woods we shall set to 
 work, they two, Tit'Be and I, and presently 
 we shall have our land cleared. With four 
 good men ax in hand and not afraid of work 
 things will go quickly, even in the hard 
 timber. Two years from now there will be 
 grain harvested, and pasturage that will 
 support a good herd of cattle. I teU you 
 that we are going to make land." 
 
 ' ' Make land ! ' ' Rude phrase of the country, 
 summing up in two words all the heart- 
 breaking labour that transforms the incult 
 woods, barren of sustenance, to smiUng fields, 
 ploughed and sown. Samuel Chapdelaine's 
 eyes flamed with enthusiasm and determina- 
 tion as he spoke. 
 
 [39] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINK 
 
 For this was the passion of his life; the 
 passion of a man wliose soul was in the clear- 
 ing, not the tilling of the earth. Five times 
 since boyhood had he taken up wild land, 
 built a house, a stable and a barn, wrested 
 from the unbroken forest a comfortable farm; 
 and five times he had sold out to begin it all 
 again farther north, suddenly losing interest; 
 energy and ambition vanishing once the 
 first rough work was done, when neighbours 
 appeared and the countryside began to be 
 opened up and inhabited. Some there were 
 who entered into his feehngs; others praised 
 the courage but thought little of the wisdom, 
 and such were fond of saying that if good 
 sense had led him to stay in one place he 
 and his would now be at their ease. 
 
 "At their ease ..." dread God of the 
 Scriptures, worshipped by these countryfolk 
 of Quebec without a quibble or a doubt, who 
 hast condemned man to earn his bread in 
 the sweat of his face, canst Thou for a mo- 
 ment smooth the awful frown from Thy fore- 
 head when Thou art told that certain of these 
 Thy creatures have escaped the doom, and 
 , live at their ease? 
 
 [40] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "At their ease ..." Truly to know what 
 it means one must have toiled bitterly from 
 daAivn to dark with back and hands and feet, 
 and the children of the soil are those who 
 have best attained the knowledge. It means 
 the burden lifted; the heavy burden of labour 
 and of care. It means leave to rest, the which, 
 even if it be unused, is a new mercy every 
 moment. To the old it means so much of 
 the pride of life as no one would deny them, 
 the late revelation of unknown delights, an 
 hoiu" of idleness, a distant journey, a dainty 
 or a purchase indulged in without anxious 
 thought, the hundred and one things de- 
 sirable that a competence assures. 
 
 So constituted is the heart of man that 
 most of those who have paid the ransom 
 and won liberty — ease — have in the winning 
 of it created their own incapacity for enjoy- 
 ing the conquest, and toil on till death; it 
 is the others, the Hi-endowed or the unlucky, 
 who have been unable to overcome fortune 
 and escape their slavery, to whom the state of 
 ease has all those charms of the inaccessible. 
 
 It may be that the Chapdelaines so were 
 thinking, and each in his own fashion; 
 
 [41] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the father with the unconquerable optimism 
 of a man who knows himself strong and be- 
 lieves himself wise ; the mother with a gentle 
 resignation; the others, the younger ones, 
 in a less definite way and without bitterness, 
 seeing before them a long life in which they 
 could not miss attaining happiness. 
 
 Maria stole an occasional glance at Eu- 
 trope Gagnon, but she quickly turned away, 
 for she always surprised his humbly worship- 
 ping eyes. For a year she had become used 
 to his frequent visits, nor felt displeasure when 
 every Sunday evening added to the family 
 circle this brown face that was continually so 
 patient and good-himioured; but the short ab- 
 sence of a month had not left things the same, 
 for she had brought home to the fireside an 
 undefined feeHng that a page of her life was 
 turned, in which he would have no share. 
 
 The ordinary subjects of conversation ex- 
 hausted, they played cards: quatre-sept and 
 boeuf; then Eutrope looked at his big silver 
 watch and said that it was time to be going. 
 His lantern Ht, the good-byes said, he halted 
 on the threshold for a moment to observe 
 the night. 
 
 [42] 
 
 I 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "It is raining!" he exclaimed. 
 
 His hosts made toward the door to see 
 for themselves; the rain had in truth begun, 
 a spring rain with great drops that fell 
 heavily, under which the snow was already 
 softening and melting. 
 
 "The sou'east has taken hold," announced 
 the elder Chapdelaine. "Now we can say 
 that the winter is practically over." 
 
 Everyone had his own way of expressing 
 relief and delight; but it was Maria who 
 stood longest by the door, hearkening to the 
 sweet patter of the rain, watching the in- 
 distinct movement of cloud in the dark sky 
 above the darker mass of the forest, breath- 
 ing the mild air that came from the south. 
 
 "Spring is not far . . . Spring is not 
 far . . ." 
 
 In her heart she felt that never since the 
 earth began was there a springtime like this 
 springtime to-be. 
 
 [43] 
 
CHAPTER III 
 FRANCOIS PASSES BY 
 
 One morning three days later 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 FRANCOIS PASSES BY 
 
 ^NE morning three days later, on 
 opening the door, Maria's ear 
 caught a sound that made her 
 stand motionless and listening. 
 The distant and continuous thun- 
 der was the voice of wUd waters, 
 silenced all winter by the frost. 
 
 "The ice is going out," she annoimced to 
 those within. "You can hear the falls." 
 
 This set them all talking once again of the 
 opening season, and of the work soon to be 
 commenced. The month of May came in with 
 alternate warm rains and fine sunny days 
 which gradually conquered the accumulated 
 ice and snow of the long wiater. Low stumps 
 and roots were beginning to appear, although 
 the shade of close-set cypress and fir pro- 
 longed the death-struggleof the perishingsnow- 
 drifts; the roads became quagmires; wherever 
 the brown mosses were uncovered they were 
 fuU of water as a sponge. In other lands it 
 was already spring; vigorously the sap was 
 [47] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 running, buds were bursting and presently 
 leaves would unfold; but the soil of far 
 northern Canada must be rid of one chill and 
 heavy mantle before clothing itself afresh in 
 green. 
 
 A dozen times in the course of the day 
 Maria and her mother opened the window 
 to feel the softness of the air, hsten to the 
 tinkle of water rurming from the last drifts on 
 higher slopes, or hearken to the mighty roar 
 teUing that the exulting Peribonka was free, 
 and hurrying to the lake a freight of ice-floes 
 from the remote north. 
 
 Chapdelaine seated himself that evening 
 on the door-step for his smoke; a stirring of 
 memory brought the remark: — "Frangois 
 will soon be passing. He said that perhaps 
 he would come to see us." Maria repUed 
 with a scarce audible "Yes," and blessed 
 the shadow hiding her face. 
 
 Ten days later he came, long after night- 
 fall. The women were alone in the house 
 with Tit'B6 and the children, the father 
 having gone for seed-grain to Honfleur 
 whence he would only return on the morrow. 
 Telesphore and Alma Rose were asleep, 
 
 [48] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Tit'Be was having a last pipe before the 
 family prayer, when Chien barked several 
 times and got up to sniff at the closed door. 
 Then two Ught taps were heard. The visitor 
 waited for the invitation before he entered 
 and stood before them. 
 
 His excuses for so late a call were made 
 without touch of awkwardness. "We are 
 camped at the end of the portage above the 
 rapids. The tent had to be pitched and 
 things put in order to make the Belgians 
 comfortable for the night. When I set out 
 I knew it was hardly the hour for a call emd 
 that the paths through the woods must be 
 pretty bad. But I started all the same, and 
 when I saw your hght . ." 
 
 His high Indian boots were caked with 
 mud to the knee; he breathed a little deeply 
 between words, Uke a man who has been 
 running; but his keen eyes were quietly 
 confident. 
 
 "Only Tit'Be has changed," said he. 
 "When you left Mistassini he was but so 
 high ..." With a hand he indicated the 
 stature of a child. Mother Chapdelaine's 
 face was bright with interest; doubly pleased 
 
 [49] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 to receive a visitor and at the chance of talk- 
 ing about old times. 
 
 " Nor have you altered in these seven years; 
 not a bit; as for Maria . . . surely you find 
 a difference!" 
 
 He gazed at Maria with something of 
 wonder in his eyes. "You see that . . . that 
 I saw her the other day at Peribonka." 
 Tone and manner showed that the meeting 
 of a fortnight ago had been allowed to blot 
 the remoter days from his recollection. But 
 since the talk was of her he ventured an 
 appraising glance. 
 
 Her young vigour and health, the beautiful 
 heavy hair and sunburnt neck of a country 
 girl, the frank honesty of eye and gesture, 
 all these things, thought he, were possessions 
 of the child of seven years ago; and twice 
 or thrice he shook his head as though to 
 say that, in truth, she had not changed. 
 But the consciousness too was there that he, 
 if not she, had changed, for the sight of her 
 before him took strange hold upon his heart. 
 
 Maria's sredle was a little timid, but soon 
 she dared to raise her eyes and look at him 
 in turn. Assuredly a handsome feUow; comely 
 [50] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of body, revealing so much of supple strength; 
 comely of face in weU-cut feature and fear- 
 less eye ... To herself she said with some 
 surprise that she had not thought him thus — 
 more forward perhaps, talking freely and 
 rather positively — ^but now he scarcely spoke 
 at all and everything about him had an air 
 of perfect simphcity. Doubtless it was his 
 expression that had given her this idea, and 
 his bold straightforward manner. 
 
 Mother Chapdelaine took up her question- 
 ing: — "And so you sold the farm when your 
 father died, Frangois.!^" 
 
 "Yes, I sold everything. I was never a 
 very good hand at farming, you know. 
 Working in the shanties, trapping, making 
 a little money from time to time as a guide 
 or ia trade with the Indians, that is the life 
 for me; but to scratch away at the same 
 fields from one year's end to another, and 
 stay there forever, I would not have been 
 able to stick to that all my life; I would 
 have felt like a cow tethered to a stake." 
 
 "That is so, some men are made that way. 
 Samuel, for example, and you, and many 
 another. It seems as if the woods had some 
 
 [51] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 magic for you ..." She shook her head 
 and looked at him iii wonderment. "Frozen 
 in winter, devoured by flies in summer; 
 living in a tent on the snow, or in a log cabin 
 full of chinks that the wind blows through, 
 you like that better than spending your life 
 on a good farm, near shops and houses. 
 Just think of it; a nice bit of level land 
 without a stump or a hollow, a good warm 
 house all papered inside, fat cattle pasturing 
 or in the stable; for people well stocked with 
 implements and who keep their health, 
 could there be anything better or happier .i^" 
 
 Frangois Paradis looked at the floor with- 
 out making answer, perhaps a trifle ashamed 
 of these wrong-headed tastes of his. "A fine 
 hfe for those who are fond of the land," 
 he said at last, "but I should never have 
 been content." 
 
 It was the everlasting conflict between 
 the types: pioneer and farmer, the peasant 
 from France who brought to new lands his 
 ideals of ordered life and contented im- 
 mobihty, and that other in whom the vast 
 wilderness awakened distant atavistic in- 
 stincts for wandering and adventure. 
 [52] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Accustomed for fifteen years to hear her 
 mother vaunting the idyllic happiness of the 
 farmer in the older settlements, Maria had 
 very naturally come to beheve that she was 
 of the same mind; now she was no longer 
 certain about it. But whoever was right she 
 well knew that not one of the well-to-do 
 yoimg fellows at St. Prime, with his Sunday 
 coat of fine cloth and his fur collar, was the 
 equal of Frangois Paradis in muddy boots 
 and faded woollen jersey. 
 
 Replying to further questions he spoke of 
 his journeys on the North Shore and to the 
 head-waters of the rivers — of it all very 
 naturally and with a shade of hesitation, 
 scarcely knowing what to tell and what to 
 leave out, for the people he was speaking 
 to Uved in much the same kind of country 
 and their manner of life was little different. 
 
 "Up there the winters are harder yet than 
 here, and still longer. We have only dogs to 
 draw our sleds, fine strong dogs, but bad- 
 tempered and often half wild, and we feed 
 them but once a day, in the evening, on 
 fro/en fish. . . . Yes, there are settlements, 
 but almost no farming; the men Hve by trap- 
 
 [53] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 ping and fishing . . . No, I never had any 
 difficulty with the Indians; I always got on 
 very well with them. I know nearly aU those 
 on the Mistassini and this river, for they used 
 to come to our place before my father died. 
 You see he often went trapping in winter when 
 he was not in the shanties, and one season 
 when he was at the head of the Riviere aux 
 Foins, quite alone, a tree that he was cutting 
 for firewood shpped in falling, and it was the 
 Indians who foimd him by chance next day, 
 crushed and half-frozen though the weather 
 was nuld. He was in their game preserve, 
 and they might very well have pretended 
 not to see him and have left him to die there; 
 but they put him on their toboggan, brought 
 him to their camp, and looked after him. 
 You knew my father: a rough man who 
 often took a glass, but just in his dealings, 
 and with a good name for doing that sort of 
 thing himself. So when he parted with these 
 Indians he told them to stop and see him in 
 the spring when they would be coming down 
 to Pointe Bleue with their furs: — 'Frangois 
 Paradis of Mistassini,' said he to them, 
 'will not forget what you have done . . . 
 
 [54] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Frangois Paradis.' And when they came in 
 sprmg while running the river he looked 
 after them well and every one carried away 
 a new ax, a fine woollen blanket and tobacco 
 for six months. Always after that they used 
 to pay us a visit in the spring, and father 
 had the pick of their best skins for less than 
 the companies' buyers had to pay. When he 
 died they treated me in the same way be- 
 cause I was his son and bore the same name, 
 Frangois Paradis. With more capital I 
 could have made a good bit of money in 
 this trade — a good bit of money." 
 
 He seemed a Httle uncomfortable at having 
 talked so much, and arose to go. "We shall 
 be coming down in a few weeks and I will try 
 to stay a httle longer," he said as he de- 
 parted. "It is good to see you again." 
 
 On the door-step his keen eyes sought in 
 Maria's for something that he might carry 
 into the depth of the green woods whither he 
 was bent; but they found no messuage. In 
 her maidenly simplicity she feared to show 
 herself too bold, and very resolutely she 
 kept her glance lowered, like the young girls 
 with richer parents who return from the 
 
 [55] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 I 
 
 convents in Chicoutimi trained to look on 
 the world with a superhuman demureness. 
 
 Scarcely was Frangois gone when the two 
 woincn a)id TiL'Be knelt for the evening 
 prayer, '^ilie motlicr led in a high voice, 
 speaking very rapidly, the others answering 
 in a low murmur. Five Paters, five Aves, 
 the Acts, and then a long responsive Litany. 
 
 "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us 
 now and at the hour of our death ..." 
 
 " Immaculate heart of Jesus, have pity on 
 us . . ." 
 
 The window was open and through it came 
 the distant roaring of the falls. The first 
 mosquitos of the spring, attracted by the 
 Ught, entered likewise and the slender music 
 ■ of their wings filled the house. Tit'Be went 
 and closed the window, then fell on his knees 
 again beside the others. 
 
 "Great St. Joseph, pray for us . . ." 
 
 "St. Isidore, pray for us . . ." 
 
 The prayers over, mother Chapdelaine 
 sighed out contentedly: — "How pleasant it 
 is to have a caller, when we see hardly any- 
 one but Eutrope Gagnon from year's end 
 to year's end. But that is what comes of 
 
 [561 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 living so far away in the woods . . . Now, 
 when I was a girl at St. Gedeon, the house 
 was full of visitors nearly every Saturday 
 evening and all Sunday: Adelard Saiiit- 
 Onge who courted me for such a long time; 
 Wilfrid Tremblay, the merchant, who had 
 nice manners and was always trying to speak 
 as the French do; many others as well — 
 not counting your father who came to see 
 us almost every night for three years, while 
 I was making up my mind ..." 
 
 Three years! Maria thought to herself 
 that she had only seen Frangois Paradis 
 twice since she was a child, and she felt 
 ashamed at the beating of her heart. 
 
 [57] 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 WILD LAND 
 
 After a few chilly days. , 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 WILD LAND 
 
 FTER a few chilly days, June 
 suddenly brought veritable spring 
 weather. A blazing sun warmed 
 field and forest, the lingering 
 patches of snow vanished even 
 in the deep shade of the woods; 
 the Peri^Donka rose and rose between its 
 rocky banks until the alders and the roots 
 of the nearer spruces were drowned; in the 
 roads the mud was incredibly deep. The 
 Canadian soil rid itself of the last traces of 
 winter with a semblance of mad haste, as 
 though in dread of another winter already on 
 the way. 
 
 Esdras and Da'Be returned from the shan- 
 ties where they had worked all the whiter. 
 Esdras was the eldest of the family, a tail 
 fellow with a huge frame, his face bronzed, 
 his hair black; the low forehead and promi- 
 nent chin gave him a Neronian profile, domi- 
 neering, not without a suggestion of brutality; 
 but he spoke softly, measuring his words, and 
 [61] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 was endlessly patient. In face alone had he 
 anything of the tyrant; it was as though the 
 long rigours of the climate and the fine sense 
 and good humour of the race had refined his 
 heart to a simphcity and kindliness that his 
 formidable aspect seemed to deny. 
 
 Da'Be, also tall, was less heavily built and 
 more hvely and merry. He was like his father. 
 
 The married couple had given their first 
 children, Esdras and Maria, fine, high-sound- 
 ing, sonorous names; but they had apparently 
 wearied of these solemnities, for the next 
 two children never heard their real names 
 pronoimced; always had they been called by 
 the affectionate diminutives of childhood, 
 Da'Be and Tit'Be. With the last pair, how- 
 ever, there had been a return to the earUer 
 ceremonious manner: — Telesphore , . . Alma 
 Rose. 
 
 "When the boys get back we are going to 
 make land," the father had promised. And, 
 with the help of Edwige Legare, their hired 
 man, they set about the task. 
 
 In the Province of Quebec there is much 
 uncertainty in the spelUng and the use of 
 names. A scattered people in a huge half- 
 
 [621 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 wild country, unlettered for the most part 
 and with no one to turn to for counsel but 
 the priests, is apt to pay attention only to 
 the sound of names, caring nothing about 
 their appearance when written or the sex 
 to which they pertain. Pronunciation has 
 naturally varied in one mouth or another, 
 in this family or that, and when a formal 
 occasion calls for writing, each takes leave 
 to spell his baptismal name in his own way, 
 without a passing thought that there may 
 be a canonical form. Borrowings from other 
 languages have added to the uncertainties 
 of orthography and gender. Individuals sign 
 indifferently, Denise, Denije or Deneije; 
 Conrad or Courade; men bear such names 
 as Hermenegilde, Aglae, Edwige. - 
 
 Edwige Legare had worked for the Chap- 
 delaines these eleven summers. That is to 
 say, for wages of twenty dollars a month he 
 was in harness each day from four in the 
 morning tiU nine at night at any and every 
 job that called for doing, bringing to it a sort 
 of frenzied and inexhaustible enthusiasm; 
 for he was one of those men incapable by 
 his nature of working save at the full pitch 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of strength and energy, in a series of berserk 
 rages. Short and broad, his eyes were the 
 brightest blue — a thing rare in Quebec — at 
 once piercing and guileless, set in a visage 
 the colour of clay that always showed cruel 
 traces of the razor, topped by hair of nearly 
 the same shade. With a pride in his appear- 
 ance that was hard to justify he shaved 
 himself two or three times a week, qiways in 
 the evening, before the bit of looking-glass 
 that hung over the pump and by the feeble 
 light of the little lamp — driving the steel 
 through his stiff beard with groans that 
 showed what it cost him in labour and 
 anguish. Clad in shirt and trousers of brown- 
 ish homespun, wearing huge dusty booLs, 
 he was from head to heel of a piece with the 
 soil, nor was there aught in his face to re- 
 deem the impression of rustic uncouthness. 
 Chapdelaine, his three sons and man, pro- 
 ceeded then to "make land." The forest 
 stiU pressed hard upon the buildings they 
 had put up a few years earKer: the little 
 square house, the bam of planks that gaped 
 apart, the stable built of blackened logs and 
 chinked with rags and earth. Between the 
 [641 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 scanty fields of their clearing and the darkly 
 encircling woods lay a broad stretch which 
 the ax had but half-heartedly attacked. A 
 few Uving trees had been cut for timber, and 
 the dead ones, sawn and split, fed the great 
 stove for a whole winter; but the place was 
 a rough tangle of stumps and interlacing 
 roots, of fallen trees too far rotted to burn, 
 of others dead but still erect amid the alder 
 scrub. 
 
 Thither the five men made their way one 
 morning and set to work at once, without a 
 word, for every man's task had been settled 
 beforehand. 
 
 The father and Da'Be took their stand face 
 to face on either side of a tree, and their axes, 
 helved with birch, began to swing in rhythm. 
 At first each hewed a deep notch, chopping 
 steadily at the same spot for some seconds, 
 then the ax rose swiftly and fell obHquely on 
 the trunk a foot higher up; at every stroke a 
 great chip flew, thick as the hand, spHtting 
 away with the grain. When the cuts were 
 nearly meeting, one stopped and the other 
 slowed down, leaving his ax in the wood for 
 a moment at every blow; the mere strip, by 
 
 [65] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 some miracle still holding the tree erect, 
 yielded at last, the trunk began to lean and 
 the two axmen stepped back a pace and 
 watched it fall, shouting at the same instant 
 a warning of the danger. 
 
 It was then the turn of Edwige Legare and 
 Esdras; when the tree was not too heavy 
 each took an end, clasping their strong hands 
 beneath the trunk, and then raised them- 
 selves — backs straining, arms cracking under 
 the stress — and carried it to the nearest 
 heap with short unsteady steps, getting over 
 the fallen timber with stumbling effort. 
 When the burden seemed too heavy, Tit'Be 
 came forward leading Charles Eugene drag- 
 ging a tug-bar with a strong chain; this was 
 passed round the trunk and fastened, the 
 horse bent his back, and with the muscles 
 of his hindquarters standing out, hauled 
 away the tree which scraped along the stumps 
 and crushed the young alders to the ground. 
 
 At noon Maria came out to the door-step 
 and gave a long call to tell them that diimer 
 was ready. Slowly they straightened up 
 among the stumps, wiping away with the 
 backs of their hands the drops of sweat that 
 
 [66] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 ran into their eyes, and made their way to 
 the house. 
 
 Already the pea-soup smoked in the plates. 
 The five men set themselves at table without 
 haste, as if sensation were somewhat dulled 
 by the heavy work; but as they caught their 
 breath a great hunger awoke, and soon they 
 began to eat with keen appetite. The two 
 women waited upon them, filling the empty 
 plates, carrying about the great dish of pork 
 and boiled potatoes, pouring out the hot 
 tea. When the meat had vanished the diners 
 filled their saucers with molasses in which 
 they soaked large pieces of bread; hunger 
 was quickly appeased, because they had 
 eaten fast and without a word, and then 
 plates were pushed back and chairs tilted 
 with sighs of satisfaction, while hands were 
 thrust into pockets for their pipes, and the 
 pigs' bladders bulging with tobacco. 
 
 Edwige L6gar6, seating himself on the 
 door-step, proclaimed two or three times: — 
 "I have dined well ... I have dined well 
 ..." with the air of a judge who renders 
 an impartial decision; after which he leaned 
 against the post and let the smoke of his 
 [67] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 pipe and the gaze of his small light-coloured 
 eyes pursue the same purposeless wander- 
 ings. The elder Chapdelaine sank deeper 
 and deeper into his chair, and ended by fall- 
 ing asleep; the others smoked and chatted 
 about their work. 
 
 "If there is anything," said the mother, 
 "which could reconcile me to living so far 
 away in the woods, it is seeing my men-folk 
 make a nice bit of land — a nice bit of land 
 that was all trees and stumps and roots, 
 which one beholds in a fortnight as bare as 
 the back of your hand, ready for the plough; 
 surely nothing in the world can be more 
 pleasing or better worth doing." The rest 
 gave assent with nods, and were sUent for a 
 while, admiring the picture. Soon however 
 Chapdelaine awoke, refreshed by his sleep 
 and ready for work; then all arose and went 
 out together. 
 
 The place where they had worked in the 
 morning was yet full of stimips and over- 
 grown with alders. They set themselves to 
 cutting and uprooting the alders, gathering 
 a sheaf of branches in the hand and severing 
 them with the ax, or sometimes digging the 
 
 [68] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 eartib away about the roots and tearing up 
 the whole bush together. The alders dis- 
 posed of, there remained the stumps. 
 
 Legare and Esdras attacked the smaller 
 ones with no weapons but their axes and 
 stout wooden prizes. They first cut the roots 
 spreading on the surface, then drove a lever 
 well home, and, chests against the bar, threw 
 all their weight upon it. When their efforts 
 could not break the hundred ties binding the 
 tree to the soil Legare continued to bear 
 heavily that he might raise the stump a httle, 
 and while he groaned and grunted under the 
 strain Esdras hewed away furiously level 
 with the groimd, severing one by one the 
 remaining roots. 
 
 A little distance away the other three men 
 handled the stumping-machine with the aid 
 of Charles Eugene. The pyramidal scaffold- 
 ing was put in place above a large stump and 
 lowered, the chains which were then at- 
 tached to the root passed over a pulley, and 
 the horse at the other end started away 
 quickly, flinging himself against the traces 
 and showering earth with his hoofs. A short 
 and desperate charge, a mad leap often 
 
 [69] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 arrested after a few feet as by the stroke of 
 a giant fist; then the heavy steel blades 
 would swing up anew, gleaming in the sun, 
 and fall with a dull sound upon the stubborn 
 wood, while the horse took breath for a 
 moment, awaiting with excited eye the word 
 that would launch him forward again. And 
 afterwards there was still the labour of 
 hauling or rolling the big stumps to the 
 pile — at fresh effort of back, of soU-stained 
 hands with swoUen veins, and stiffened arms 
 that seemed grotesquely striving with the 
 heavy trunk and the huge twisted roots. 
 
 The sun dipped toward the horizon, dis- 
 appeared; the sky took on softer hues above 
 the forest's dark edge, and the hour of supper 
 brought to the house five men of the colour 
 of the soil. 
 
 While waiting upon them Madame Chap- 
 delaine asked a hundred questions about the 
 day's work, and when the vision arose before 
 her of this patch of land they had cleared, 
 superbly bare, lying ready for the plough, 
 her spirit was possessed with something of a 
 mystic's rapture. 
 
 With hands upon her hips, refusing to seat 
 
 [701 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 herself at table, she extolled the beauty of 
 the world as it existed for her : not the beauty 
 wherein human beings have no hand, which 
 the townsman makes such an ado about with 
 his unreal ecstasies — mountains lofty and 
 bare, wild seas — ^but the quiet unaffected 
 loveliness of the level champaign, finding its 
 charm in the regularity of the long furrow 
 and the sweetly-flowing stream — ^the naked 
 champaign courting with willing abandon 
 the fervent embraces of the sun. 
 
 She sang the great deeds of the four Chap- 
 delaines and Edwige Legare, their struggle 
 against the savagery of nature, their triumph 
 of the day. She awarded praises and displayed 
 her own proper pride, albeit the five men 
 smoked their wooden or clay pipes in silence, 
 motionless as images after their long task; im- 
 ages of earthy hue, hollow-eyed with fatigue. 
 
 "The stumps are hard to get out," at 
 length said the elder Chapdelaine, "the roots 
 have not rotted in the earth so much as I 
 should have imagined. I calculate that we 
 shall not be through for three weeks." 
 He glemced questioningly at Legare who 
 gravely confirmed him. 
 [71] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Three weeks . . . Yes, confound it! 
 That is what I think too." 
 
 They fell silent again, pat i: -at and deter- 
 mined, like men who face a long war. 
 
 The Canadian spring had but known a 
 few weeks of life when, by calendar, the sum- 
 mer was already come; it seemed as if the 
 local weather god had incontinently pushed 
 the season forward with august finger to 
 bring it again into accord with more favoured 
 lands to the south. For torrid heat fell 
 suddenly upon them, heat well-nigh as un- 
 measured as was the winter's cold. The tops 
 of the spruces and cypresses, forgotten by 
 the wind, were utterly still, and above the 
 frowning outline stretched a sky bare of 
 cloud which likewise seemed fixed and 
 motionless. From dawn tiU nightfall a 
 merciless sun calcined the ground. 
 
 The five men worked on unceasingly, while 
 from day to day the clearing extended its 
 borders by a little; deep wounds in the un- 
 covered soil showed the richness of it. 
 
 Maria went forth one morning to carry 
 them water. The father and Tit'Be were 
 cutting alders, Da'Be and Esdras piled the 
 [72] 
 
MAKIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 cut trees. Edwige Legare was attacking a 
 stump by himself; a hand against the trunk, 
 he had grasped a root with the other as one 
 seizes the leg of some gigantic adversary in 
 a struggle, and he was fighting the combined 
 forces of wood and earth like a man furious 
 at the resistance of an enemy. Suddenly the 
 stump yielded and lay upon the ground; he 
 passed a hand over his forehead and sat 
 down upon a root, running with sweat, over- 
 come by the exertion. When Maria came 
 near him with her pail half full of water, 
 the others having drunk, he was still seated, 
 breathing deeply and saying in a bewildered 
 way: — "I am done for . . . Ah! I am done 
 for." But he pulled himself together on 
 seeing her, and roared out: — "Cold water! 
 Perdition! Give me cold water." 
 
 Seizing the bucket he drank half its con- 
 tents and poured the rest over his head and 
 neck; still dripping, he threw himself afresh 
 upon the vanquished stump and began to 
 roll it toward a pile as one carries off a prize. 
 
 Maria stayed for a few moments looking 
 at the work of the men and the progress they 
 had made, each day more evident, then hied 
 
 [73] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 her back to the house swinging the empty 
 bucket, happy to feel herself alive and well 
 under the bright sun, dreaming of all the 
 joys that were to be hers, nor could be long 
 delayed if only she were earnest and patient 
 enough in her prayers. 
 
 Even at a distance the voices of the men 
 came to her across the surface of the ground 
 baked by the heat; Esdras, his hands be- 
 neath a young jack pine, was saying in his 
 quiet tones: — "Gently . . . together now!" 
 
 Legare was wrestling with some new inert 
 foe, and swearing in his half-stifled way: — 
 "Perdition! I'U make you stir, so I will." 
 His gasps were nearly as audible as the words. 
 Taking breath for a second he rushed once 
 more into the fray, arms straining, wrench- 
 ing with his great back. And yet again his 
 voice was raised in oaths and lamentations: 
 — "I teU you that I'U have you . . . Oh 
 you rascal! Isn't it hot.^ ... I'm pretty 
 nearly finished ..." His complaints ripened 
 into one mighty cry: — "Boss! We are going 
 to kill ourselves making land." 
 
 Old Chapdelaine's voice was husky but 
 still cheerful as he answered: "Tough! 
 
 [74] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Edwige, tough! The pea-soup will soon be 
 ready." 
 
 And in truth it was not long before Maria, 
 once more on the door-step, shaping her 
 hands to carry the sound, sent forth the ring- 
 ing call to dinner. 
 
 Toward evening a breeze arose and a deli- 
 cious coolness fell upon the earth like a 
 pardon. But the sky remained cloudless. 
 
 "If the fine weather lasts," said mother 
 Chapdelaine, "the blueberries will be ripe 
 for the feast of Ste. Anne." 
 
 [75] 
 
CHAPTER V 
 THE VOWS 
 
 The fine weather continued, and. ., , 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE VOWS 
 
 HE fine weather continued, and 
 early in July the blueberries were 
 ripe. 
 
 Where the fire had passed, on 
 rocky slopes, wherever the woods 
 were thin and the sun could 
 penetrate, the ground had been clad in 
 almost unbroken pink by the laurel's myr- 
 iad tufts of bloom; at first the reddening 
 blueberries contended with them in glowing 
 colour, but under the constant sun these 
 slowly turned to pale blue, to royal blue, 
 to deepest purple, and when July brought 
 the feast of Ste. Anne the bushes laden with 
 fruit were broad patches of violet amid the 
 rosy masses now beginning to fade. 
 
 The forests of Quebec are rich in wild 
 berries; cranberries, Indian pears, black cur- 
 rants, sarsapariUa spring up freely in the 
 wake of the great fires, but the blueberry, 
 the bilberry or whortleberry of France, is 
 of all the most abundant and delicious. 
 [79] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 The gathering of them, from July to Sep- 
 tember, is an industry for many famiUes who 
 spend the whole day in the woods; strings 
 of children down to the tiniest go swinging 
 their tin pails, empty in the morning, full 
 and heavy by evening. Others only gather 
 the blueberries for their own use, either to 
 make jam or the famous pies national to 
 French Canada. 
 
 Two or three times in the very begirming 
 of July Maria, with Telesphore and Alma 
 Rose, went to pick blueberries ; but their day 
 had not come, and the gleanings barely 
 sufficed for a few tarts of proportions to 
 excite a smile. 
 
 "On the feast of Ste. Anne," said their 
 mother by way of consolation, "we shall all 
 go a-gathering; the men as well, and whoever 
 fails to bring back a full pail is not to have 
 any." 
 
 But Saturday, the eve of Ste. Anne's day, 
 was memorable to the Chapdelaines ; an even- 
 ing of company such as their house in the 
 forest had never seen. 
 
 When the men returned from work Eu- 
 trope Gagnon was already there. He had 
 
 [801 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 supped, he said, and while the others were 
 at their meal he sat by the door in the cooler 
 air that entered, balancing his chair on two 
 legs. The pipes going, talk naturally turned 
 toward the labours of the soil, and the care 
 of stock. 
 
 "With five men," said Eutrope, "you 
 have a good bit of land to show in a short 
 while. But working alone, as I do, without 
 a horse to draw the heavy logs, one makes 
 poor headway and has a hard time of it. How- 
 ever you are always getting on, getting on." 
 
 Madame Chapdelaine, liking him, and 
 feeling a great sympathy for his solitary 
 labour in this worthy cause, gave him a few 
 words of encouragement. "You don't make 
 very quick progress by yourself, that is true 
 enough, but a man hves on very little when 
 he is alone, and then yovtr brother Egide will 
 be coming back from the drive with two or 
 three hundred doUars at least, in time for 
 the hay-making and the harvest, and, if you 
 both stay here next winter, in less than two 
 years you will have a good farm." 
 
 Assenting with a nod, his glance found 
 Maria, as though drawn thither by the thought 
 [81] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 that in two years, fortune favouring, he 
 might hope . . . 
 
 "How does the drive go?" asked Esdras. 
 "Is there any news from that quarter?" 
 
 "I had word through Ferdina Larouche, a 
 son of Thadee Larouche of HonQeur, who 
 got back from La Tuque last month. He 
 said that things were going well; the men 
 were not having too bad a. time." 
 
 The shanties, the drive, these are the two 
 chief heads of the great lumbering industry, 
 even of greater importance for the Province 
 of Quebec than is farming. From October 
 till April the axes never cease falling, while 
 sturdy horses draw the logs over the snow 
 to the banks of the frozen rivers; and, when 
 spring comes, the piles melt one after another 
 into the rising waters and begin their long 
 adventurous journey through the rapids. 
 At every abrupt turn, at every fall, where 
 logs jam and pile, must be found the strong 
 and nimble river-drivers, practised at the 
 dangerous work, at making their way across 
 the floating timber, breaking the jams, aid- 
 ing with ax and pike-pole the free descent 
 of this moving forest. 
 
 [82] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "A hard time!" exclaimed Legare with 
 scorn. "The young fellows of to-day don't 
 know the meaning of the words. After three 
 months in the woods they are in a hurry 
 to get home and buy yellow boots, stiff hats 
 and cigarettes, and to go and see their girls. 
 Even in the shanties, as things are now, they 
 are as well fed as in a hotel, with meat and 
 potatoes all winter long. Now, thirty years 
 ago . . ." 
 
 He broke off for a moment, expressing 
 with a shake of his head those prodigious 
 changes that the years had wrought. 
 
 " Thirty years ago, when the railway from 
 Quebec was built, I was there; that was some- 
 thing like hardship, I can tell you ! I was only 
 sixteen years of age but I chopped with the 
 rest of them to clear the right of way, always 
 twenty-five miles ahead of the steel, and for 
 fourteen months I never clapped eye on a 
 house. We had no tents, summer or winter, 
 only shelters of boughs that we made for 
 ourselves, and from morning tiU night it was 
 chop, chop, chop, — eaten by the flies, and in 
 the course of the same day soaked with rain 
 and roasted by the sun." 
 [83] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Every Monday morning they opened a 
 sack of flour and we made oiirselves a bucket- 
 ful of pancalies, and all the rest of the week, 
 three times a day, one dug into that pail for 
 something to eat. By Wednesday, no longer 
 any pancakes, because they were all stuck 
 together; nothing there but a mass of dough. 
 One cut oif a big chunk of dough with one's 
 knife, put that in his belly, and then chopped 
 and chopped again!" 
 
 "When we got to Chicoutimi where provi- 
 sions could reach us by water we were worse 
 off than Indians, pretty nearly naked, all 
 scratched and torn, and I well remember 
 some who began to cry when told they could 
 go home, because they thought they would 
 find all their people dead, so long had the 
 time seemed to them. Hardship I That was 
 hardship if you like." 
 
 "That is so," said Chapdelaine, "I can 
 recall those days. Not a single house on the 
 north side of the lake: no one but Indians 
 and a few trappers who made their way up 
 here in summer by canoe and in winter 
 with dog-sleds, much as it is now in the 
 Labrador." 
 
 [84] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 The young folk were listening keenly to 
 these tales of former times. "And now," 
 said Esdras, "here we are fifteen miles be- 
 yond the lake, and when the Roberval boat 
 is running we can get to the railway in 
 twelve hours." 
 
 They meditated upon this for a while 
 without a word, contrasting past and present; 
 the cruel harshness of life as once it was, 
 the easy day's journey now separating them 
 from the marvels of the iron way, and the 
 thought of it filled them with naive wonder. 
 
 All at once Chien set up a low growl; the 
 sound was heard of approaching footsteps. 
 "Another visitor!" Madame Chapdelaine 
 announced in a tone mingling pleasure and 
 astonishment. 
 
 Maria also arose, agitated, smoothing her 
 hair with unconscious hand; but it was 
 Ephrem Surprenant of Honfleur who opened 
 the door. 
 
 "We have come to pay you a visit!" He 
 shouted this with the air of one who an- 
 nounces a great piece of news. Behind him 
 was someone unknown to them, who bowed 
 and smiled in a very mannerly way. 
 
 [85] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "My nephew Lorenzo," was Ephrem 
 Surprenant's introduction, "a son of my 
 brother Elzear who died last autumn. You 
 never met him, it is a long time since he left 
 this country for the States." 
 
 They were quick to find a chair for the 
 young man from the States, and the uncle 
 undertook the duty of es' ^'ishing the 
 nephew's genealogy on both sid^S oi the house, 
 and of setting forth his age, trade and the 
 particulars of his life, in obedience to the 
 Canadian custom. "Yes, a son of my brother 
 Elzear who married a young Bourglouis of 
 Kiskisink. You should be able to recall 
 that, Madame Chapdelaine.**" 
 
 From 'the depths of her memory mother 
 Chapdelaine unearthed a number of Surpre- 
 nants and as many Bourglouis, and gave the 
 Ust with their baptismal names, successive 
 places of residence and a full record of their 
 aUiances. 
 
 "Right. Precisely right. Well, this one 
 here is Lorenzo. He has been in the States 
 for many years, working in a factory." 
 
 Frankly interested, everyone took another 
 good look at Lorenzo Surprenant. His face 
 
 . [86] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 was rounded, with well-cut features, eyes 
 gentle and unwavering, hands white; with 
 his head a httle on one side he smiled ami- 
 ably, neither superior nor embarrassed under 
 this concentrated gaze. 
 
 "He came here," continued his uncle, "to 
 settle affairs after the death of Elzear, and 
 to try to f-^^jthe farm." 
 
 "He has x.o wish to hold on to the land 
 and cultivate it?" questioned the elder 
 Chapdelaine. 
 
 Lorenzo Surprenant's smile broadened and 
 he shook his head. "No, the idea of settling 
 down on the farm does not tempt me, not in 
 the least. I earn good wages where I am and like 
 the place very well; I am used to the work." 
 
 He checked himself, but it was plain that 
 after the kind of life he had been living and 
 what he had seen of the world, existence on 
 a farm between a humble little village and 
 the forest seemed a thing insupportable. 
 A'-^When I was a girl," said mother Chap- 
 delaine, "pretty nearly everyone went off 
 to the States. Farming did not pay as well 
 as it does now, prices were low, we were 
 always hearing of the big wages earned over 
 
 [871 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 there in the factories, and every year one 
 family after another sold out for next to 
 nothing and left Canada. Some made a lot 
 of money, no doubt of that, especially those 
 famiUes with plenty of daughters; but now 
 it is different and they are not going as once 
 they did .--. . So you are selling the farm?" 
 
 "Yes, there has been some talk with three 
 Frenchmen who came to Mistook last month. 
 I expect we shall make a bargain." 
 
 "And axe there many Canadians where 
 you are living.^' Do the people speak French.^" 
 
 "At the place I went to first, in the State 
 of Maine, there were more Canadians than 
 Americans or Irish; everyone spoke French; 
 but where I live now, in the State of Mas- 
 sachusetts, there are not so many. A few 
 families however; we call on one another in 
 the evenings." 
 
 "Samuel once thought of going West," 
 said Madame Chapdelaine, "but I was never 
 willing. Among people speaking nothing but 
 Enghsh I should have been unhappy all the 
 rest of my days. I used to say to him: — 
 'Samuel, we Canadians are always better 
 off among Canadians.' " 
 
 [88] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 When the French Canadian speaks of 
 himself it is invariably and simply as a 
 "Canadian"; whereas for all the other races 
 that followed in his footsteps, and peopled 
 the country across to the Pacific, he keeps 
 the name of origin: EngUsh, Irish, Polish, 
 Russian; never admitting for a moment that 
 the children of these, albeit born in the 
 country, have an equal title to be caUed 
 "Canadians." Quite naturally, and without 
 thought of offending, he appropriates the 
 name won in the heroic days of his fore- 
 fathers. 
 
 "And is it a large town where you are?" 
 
 "Ninety thousand," said Lorenzo with a 
 little affectation of modesty. 
 
 "Ninety thousand! Bigger than Quebec!" 
 
 "Yes, and we are only an hour by train 
 from Boston. A really big place, that." 
 
 And he set himself to telling of the great 
 American cities and their magnificence, of 
 the life filled with ease and plenty, abounding 
 in refinements beyond imagination, which 
 is the portion of the well paid artisan. 
 
 In silence they listened to his words. 
 Framed in the open door-way the last crim- 
 
 [89] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 son of the sky, fading to paler tints, rose 
 above the vague masses of the forest, — a 
 column resting upon its base. The mosqui- 
 tos began to arrive in their legions, and the 
 humming of innumerable wings filled the 
 clearing with low continuous sound. 
 
 "Telesphore," directed the father, "make 
 us a smudge. Take the old tin pail." Teles- 
 phore covered the bottom of the leaky vessel 
 with earth, filling it then with dry chips and 
 twigs which he set ablaze. When the flame 
 was leaping up brightly he returned with an 
 armful of herbs and leaves and smothered it ; 
 the volume of stinging smoke which ascended 
 was carried by the wind into the house and 
 drove out the countless horde. At length 
 they were at peace, and with sighs of relief 
 could desist from the warfare. The very last 
 mosquito settled on the face of Uttle Alma 
 Rose. With great seriousness she pronounced 
 the ritual words: — "Fly, fly, get off my face, 
 my nose is not a pubhc place!" Then she 
 made a swift end of the creature with a slap. 
 The smoke drifted obliquely through the 
 door-way; within the house, no longer stirred 
 by the breeze, it spread in a thin cloud; the 
 
 [90] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 walls became indistinct and far-off; the group 
 seated between door and stove resolved into a 
 circle of dim faces banging in a white haze. 
 
 "Greetings to everyone!" The tones rang 
 clear, and Frangois Paradis, emerging from 
 the smoke, stood upon the threshold. For 
 weeks Maria had been expecting him. Half 
 an hour earUer the sound of a step without 
 had sent the blood to her cheek, and yet 
 the arrival of him she awaited moved her 
 with joyous surprise. 
 
 "Offer your chair, Da'Be!" cried mother 
 Ghapdelaine. Foiu- callers from three differ- 
 ent quarters converging upon her, truly 
 nothing more was needed to fill her with de- 
 Ughtful excitement. An evening indeed to 
 be remembered! 
 
 "There! You are forever saying that we 
 are buried in the woods and see no company," 
 triumphed her husband. "Count them over: 
 eleven grown-up people!" Every chair in the 
 house was filled; Esdras, Tit'Be and Eutrope 
 Gagnon occupied the bench, Ghapdelaine, a 
 box turned upside down; from the step 
 Telesphore and Alma Rose watched the 
 mounting smoke. 
 
 [91] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "And look," said Ephrem Surprenant, 
 "how many young fellows and only one girl!" 
 The young men were duly counted: three 
 Chapdelaines, Eutrope Gagnon, Lorenzo Sur- 
 prenant, Frangois Paradis. As for the one 
 girl . . . Every eye was turned upon Maria, 
 who smiled feebly and looked down, con- 
 fused. 
 
 "Had you a good trip, Frangois? — He 
 went up the river with strangers to buy 
 furs from the Indians," explained Chapde- 
 laine; who presented to the others with 
 formality — "Francois Paradis, son of Fran- 
 gois Paradis from St. Michel de Mistassini." 
 Eutrope Gagnon knew , him by name, Eph- 
 rem Surprenant had met his father: — "A 
 tall man, taller still than he, of a strength 
 not to be matched." It only remained to 
 account for Lorenzo Surprenant, — "who has 
 come home from the States" — and all the 
 conventions had been honoured. 
 
 "A good trip," answered Frangois. "No, 
 not very good. One of the Belgians took a 
 fever and nearly died. After that it was 
 rather late in the season; many Indian 
 families had already gone doAvn to Ste. 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Anne de Chicoutimi and could not be found; 
 and on top of it all a canoe was wrecked 
 when running a rapid on the way back, and 
 it was hard work fishing the pelts out of the 
 river, without mentioning the fact that one 
 of the bosses was nearly drowned, — the same 
 one that had the fever. No, we were un- 
 lucky all through. But here we are none 
 the less, and it is always another job over 
 and done with." A gesture signified to the 
 listeners that the task was completed, the 
 wages paid and the ultimate profits or losses 
 not his affair. 
 
 "Always another job over and done 
 with," — ^he slowly repeated the words. "The 
 Belgians were in a harry to reach Peribonka 
 on Sunday, to-morrow; but, as they had 
 another man, I left them to finish the journey 
 without me so that I might spend the even- 
 ing with you. It does one's heart good to 
 see a house ageiin." 
 
 His glance strayed contentedly over the 
 meager smoke-fiUed interior and those who 
 peopled it. In the circle of faces tanned by 
 wind and sun, his was the brownest and 
 most weather-beaten; his garments showed 
 
 [93] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 many rents, one side of the torn woollen 
 jersey flapped upon his shoulder, moccasins 
 replaced the long boots he had worn in the 
 spring. He seemed to have brought back 
 something of nature's wildness from the 
 head-waters of the rivers where the Indians 
 and the great creatures of the woods find 
 sanctuary. And Maria, whose life would 
 not allow her to discern the beauty of that 
 wilderness because it lay too near her, yet 
 felt that some strange charm was at work 
 and was throwing its influence about her. 
 
 Esdras had gone for the cards; cards with 
 faded red backs and dog-eared corners, 
 where the lost queen of hearts was replaced 
 by a square of pink cardboard bearing the 
 plainly-written legend dame de coRur. They 
 played at quatre-sept. The two Surprenants, 
 uncle and nephew, had Madame Chapde- 
 laine and Maria for partners; after each 
 game the beaten couple left the table and 
 gave place to two other players. Night had 
 fallen; some moscpiitos made their way 
 through the open window and went hither 
 and thither with their stings and irritating 
 music. 
 
 [94] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 " Telesphore !" called out Esdras, "see to 
 the smudge, the flies are coming in." In a 
 few minutes smoke pervaded the house again, 
 thick, almost stifling, but greeted with de- 
 hght. The party ran its quiet course. An 
 hour of cards, some talk with a visitor who 
 bears news from the great world, these are 
 still accoxmted happiness in the Province of 
 Quebec. 
 
 Between the games, Lorenzo Surprenant 
 entertained Maria with a description of his 
 life and his journeyings; in turn asking ques- 
 tions about her. He was far from putting on 
 airs, yet she felt disconcerted at finding so 
 httle to say, and her replies were halting 
 and timid. 
 
 The others talked Eunong themselves or 
 watched the play. Madame recalled the 
 many gatherings at St. Gedeon in the days 
 of her girlhood, and looked from one to the 
 other, with unconcealed pleasure at the fact 
 that three young men should thus assemble 
 beneath her roof. But Maria sat at the table 
 devoting herself to the cards, and left it for 
 some vacant seat near the door with scarcely 
 a glance about her. Lorenzo Siu-prenant was 
 
 [951 
 
MARIA CHAP DELAINE 
 
 always by her side and talking; she felt the 
 continual regard of Eutrope Gagnon with 
 that familiar look of patient waiting; she 
 was conscious of the handsome bronzed face 
 and fearless eyes of PVangois Paradis who 
 sat very silent beyond the door, elbows on 
 his knees. 
 
 "Maria is not at her best this evening," 
 said Madame Chapdelaine by way of ex- 
 cusing her, "she is really not used to 
 having visitors you see . . ." Had she but 
 known! . . . 
 
 Four hundred miles away, at the far head- 
 waters of the rivers, those Indians who have 
 held aloof from missionaries and traders 
 are squatting round a fire of dry cypress be- 
 fore their lodges, and the world they see 
 about them, as in the earhest days, is filled 
 with dark mysterious powers: the giant 
 Wendigo pursuing the trespassing hunter; 
 strange potions, carrying deatli or healing, 
 which wise old men know how to distil from 
 roots and leaves; incantations and every 
 magic art. And here on the fringe of another 
 world, but a day's journey from the railway, 
 in this wooden house fiUed with acrid smolce, 
 
 [96] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 another aU-conquering spell, charming and 
 hewildermg the eyes of three young men, is 
 being woven into the shifting cloud by a 
 sweet and guileless maid with downcast eyes. 
 
 The hour was late; the visitors departed; 
 first the two Surprenants, then Eutrope 
 Gagnon, only Francois Paradis was left, — 
 standing there and seeming to hesitate. 
 
 "You wiU sleep here to-night, Frangois?" 
 asked the father. 
 
 His wife heard no reply. "Of course!" 
 said she. "And to-morrow we wiU all gather 
 blueberries. It is the feast of Ste. Aime." 
 
 When a few moments later Frangois 
 mounted to the loft with the boys, Maria's 
 heart was filled with happiness. This seemed 
 to bring him a httle nearer, to draw him 
 within the family circle. 
 
 The morrow was a day of blue sky, a day 
 when from the heavens some of the sparkle 
 and brightness descends to earth. The green 
 of tender grass and young wheat was of a 
 ravishing deUcacy, even the dun woods 
 borrowed something from the azure of the 
 sky. 
 
 Frangois came down in the morning look- 
 [97] 
 
MAKIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 ing a different man, in clothes borrowed from 
 Da'Be Euid Esdras, and after he had shaved 
 and washed Madame Chapdelaine compU- 
 mented him on his appearance. 
 
 When breakfast was over and the hour of 
 the mass come, all told their chaplet to- 
 gether; and then the long delightful idle 
 Smiday lay before them. But the day's 
 programme was already settled. Eutrope 
 Gagnon came in just as they were finishing 
 dinner, which was early, and at once they 
 all set forth, provided with ptuls, dishes and 
 tin mugs of every shape and size. 
 
 The blueberries were fully ripe. In the 
 burnt lands the purple of the clusters and 
 the green of the leaves now overcame the 
 paling rose of the laurels. The children be- 
 gan picking at once with cries of dehght, but 
 their elders scattered through the woods in 
 search of the larger patches, where one might 
 sit on one's heels and fill a pail in an hour. 
 The noise of footsteps on dry twigs, of rus- 
 tUng in the alder bushes, the calls of Teles- 
 phore and Ahna Rose to one another, all 
 faded slowly into the distance, and about 
 each gatherer was only the buzzing of flies 
 
 [98] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 drunk with sunshine, and the voice of the 
 wind ia the young birches and aspens. 
 
 "There is a fine clump over here," said a 
 voice. Maria's heart beat faster as she arose 
 and went toward Frangois Paradis who was 
 kneehng behind the alders. Side by side they 
 picked industriously for a time, then plunged 
 farther into the woods, stepping over fallen 
 trees, looking about them for the deep blue 
 masses of the ripe berries. 
 
 "There are very few this year," said Fran- 
 cois. "It was the spring frosts that kUled 
 the blossoms." He brought to the berry- 
 seeking his woodsman's knowledge. " In the 
 hollows and among the alders the snow was 
 lying longer and kept them from freezing." 
 
 They sought again and made some happy 
 finds: broad clumps of bushes laden with 
 huge berries which they heaped into their 
 pails. In the space of an hour these were 
 fiUed; they rose and went to sit on a fallen 
 tree to rest themselves. 
 
 Mosquitos swarmed and circled in the 
 fervent afternoon heat. Every moment the 
 hand must be raised to scatter them; after 
 a panic-stricken flight they straightway re- 
 
 [99] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 turned, reckless and pitiless, bent only on 
 finding one tiny spot to plant a sting; with 
 their sharp note was blended that of the 
 insatiate black-fly, filhng the woods with un- 
 ceasing sound. Living trees there were not 
 many; a few young birches, some aspens, 
 alder bushes were stirring in the wind among 
 the rows of lifeless and blackened trunks. 
 
 Frangois Paradis looked about him as 
 though to take his bearings. "The others 
 cannot be far away," he said. 
 
 "No," rephed Maria in a low voice. But 
 neither he nor she called to summon them. 
 
 A squirrel ran down the bole of a dead 
 birch tree and watched the pair with his 
 sharp eyes for some moments before ventur- 
 ing to earth. The strident flight of heavy 
 grasshpppers rose above the intoxicated 
 clamour of the flies; a wandering air brought 
 the fall's dull thunder through the alders. 
 ^ Frangois Paradis stole a glance at Maria, 
 then turned his eyes away and tightly clasped 
 his hands. Ah, but she was good to look 
 upon! Thus to sit beside her, to catch 
 these shy gUmpses of the strong bosom, the 
 sweet face so modest and so patient, the 
 
 [100] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 utter simplicity of attitude and of her rare 
 gestures; a great hunger for her awoke in 
 him, and with it a new and marvellous ten- 
 derness, for he had Uved his life with other 
 men, in hard give-and-take, among the wild 
 forests and on the snowy plains. 
 
 Well he knew she was one of those women 
 who, giving themselves, give wholly, reckon- 
 ing not the cost; love of body and of soul, 
 strength of arm in the daily task, the un- 
 measiu-ed devotion of a spirit that does not 
 waver. So precious the gift appeared to him 
 that he dared not ask it. 
 
 "I am going down to Grand'Mere next 
 week," he said, almost in a whisper, "to 
 work on the lumber-dam. But I wiU never 
 take a glass, not one, Maria!" Hesitating a 
 moment he stammered out, eyes on the 
 groimd: "Perhaps . . . they have said some- 
 thing against me?"*^ 
 
 "No." 
 
 " It is true that I used to drink a bit, when 
 I got back from the shanties and the drive; 
 but that is all over now. You see when a 
 young fellow has been working in the woods 
 for six months, with every kind of hardship 
 
 [101] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and no amusement, and gets out to La Tuque 
 or Jonquieres with all the winter's wages in 
 his pocket, pretty often he loses his head; he 
 throws his money about and sometimes takes 
 too much . . . But that is all over." 
 
 "And it is also true that I used to swear. 
 When one hves aU the time with rough men 
 in the woods or on the rivers one gets the 
 habit. Once I swore a good deal, and the 
 cure, Mr. Tremblay, took me to task be- 
 cause I said before him that I wasn't afraid 
 of the devil. But there is an end of that too, 
 Maria. All the summer I am to be working 
 for two dollars and a half a day and you 
 may be sure that I shall save money. And 
 in the autumn there wiQ be no trouble find- 
 ing a job as foreman in a shanty, with big 
 wages. Next spring I shall have more than 
 five hundred doUars saved, clear, and I shall 
 come back. ..." 
 
 Again he hesitated, and the question he 
 was about to put took another form upon 
 his lips. "You will be here stiU . . . next 
 spring?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And after the simple question and simpler 
 
 [102] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 answer they fell silent and so long remained, 
 wordless and grave, for they had exchanged 
 their vows. 
 
 [103] 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 THE STUFF OF DREAMS 
 
 In July the hay was maturing, and. . 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 THE STUFF OF DREAMS 
 
 N July the hay was maturing, and 
 by the middle of August it was 
 only a question of awaiting a 
 few dry days to cut and store 
 it. But after many weeks of fine 
 weather the frequent shifts of 
 wind which are usual in Quebec once more 
 niled the skies. 
 
 i/^ Every morning the men scanned the 
 heavens and took counsel together. "The 
 wind is backing to the sou'east. Bad luck! 
 Beyond question it will rain ageun," said 
 Edwige Legare with a gloomy face. Or it was 
 old Ghapdelaine who followed the movement 
 of the white clouds that rose above the 
 tree-tops, sailed in glad procession across 
 the clearing, and disappeared behind the 
 dark spires on the other side. 
 
 "If the nor 'west holds tiU to-morrow we 
 shaU begin," he annoimces. But next day 
 the wind had backed afresh, and the cheerful 
 clouds of yesterday, now torn and shapeless, 
 
 [107] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 straggling in disorderly rout, seemed to be 
 fleeing like the wreckage of a broken army. 
 
 Madame Chapdelaine foretold inevitable 
 misfortune. "Mark my words, we shall not 
 have good hay-making weather. They say 
 that down by the end of the lake some people 
 of the same parish have gone to law with 
 one another. Of a certainty the good God 
 does not like that sort of thing!" 
 
 Yet the Power at length was pleased to 
 show indulgence, and the north-west wind 
 blew for three days on end, steady and strong, 
 promising a rainless week. The scythes were 
 long since sharpened and ready, and the 
 five men set to work on the morning of the 
 third day. L^gare, Esdras and the father 
 cut; Da'Be and Tit'Be followed close on 
 their heels, raking the hay together. To- 
 ward evening all five took their forks in 
 hand and made it into cocks, high and care- 
 fully built, lest a change of wind should bring 
 rain. But the sunshine lasted. For five days 
 they carried on, swinging the scythe steadily 
 from right to left with that broad free move- 
 ment that seems so easy to the practised 
 hand, and is in truth the hardest to learn 
 
 [108] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and the most fatiguing of all the labours 
 known to husbandry. 
 
 i^FUes and mosquitos rose in swarms from 
 the cut hay, stinging and tormenting the 
 workers; a blazing sun scorched their necks, 
 and smarting sweat ran into their eyes ; when 
 evening came, such was the ache of backs 
 continually bent, they could not straighten 
 themselves without making wry faces. Yet 
 they toiled from dawn to nightfall without 
 loss of a second, hurrying their meals, feeUng 
 nothing but gratitude and happiness that 
 the weather stood fair. ,, 
 
 Three or four times a day Maria or Teles- 
 phore brought them a bucket of water which 
 they stood in a shady spot to keep it cool; 
 and when throats became unbearably dry 
 with heat, exertion and the dust of the hay, 
 they went by turns to swallow great draughts 
 and deluge wrists or head. 
 
 In five days all the hay was cut, and, the 
 drought persisting, on the morning of the 
 sixth day they began to break and scatter 
 the cocks they intended lodging in the barn 
 before night. The scythes had done then- 
 work and the forks came into play. They 
 
 1109] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINi: 
 
 threw down the cocks, spread the hay in the 
 sun, and toward the end of the afternoon, 
 when dry, heaped it anew in piles of such a 
 size that a man could just lift one with a 
 single motion to the level of a well-filled 
 hay-cart. 
 
 Charles Eugene pulled gallantly between 
 the shafts; the cart was swallowed up in the 
 bam, stopped beside the mow, and once 
 again the forks were plunged into the hard- 
 packed hay, raised a thick mat of it with 
 strain of wrist and back, and unloaded it to 
 one side. By the end of the week the hay, 
 weU-dried and of excellent colour, was all 
 under cover; the men stretched themselves 
 and took long breaths, knowing the fight 
 was over and won. 
 
 "It may rain now if it likes," said Chapde- 
 laine. "It will be all the same to us." But 
 it appeared that the sunshine had not been 
 timed with exact relation to their peculiar 
 needs, for the wind held in the north-west 
 and fine days followed one upon the other 
 in unbroken succession. 
 
 The women of the Chapdelaine household 
 had no part in the work of the fields. The 
 \-no] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 father and his three tall sons, all strong and 
 skilled in farm labour, could have managed 
 everything by themselves; if they continued 
 to employ Legare and to pay him wages it 
 was because he had entered their service 
 eleven years before, when the children were 
 young, and they kept him now, partly 
 through habit, partly because they were loth 
 to lose the help of so tremendous a worker. 
 During the hay-making then, Maria and her 
 mother had only their usual tasks: house- 
 work, cooking, washing and mending, the 
 milking of three cows and the care of the 
 hens, and once a week the baking which 
 often lasted well into the night. 
 
 On the eve of a baking Telesphore was 
 sent to hunt up the bread-pans which 
 habitually found their way into all corners 
 of the house and shed — ^being in daily use to 
 measure oats for the horse or Indian corn 
 for the fowls, not to mention twenty other 
 casual piuposes they were continually serv- 
 ing. By the time all were routed out and 
 scrubbed the dough was rising, and the 
 women hastened to finish other work that 
 their evening watch might be shortened. 
 [Ill] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Telesphore made a blazing fire below the 
 oven with branches of gummy cypress that 
 smeUed of resin, then fed it with tamarack 
 logs, giving a steady and continuous heat. 
 When the oven was hot enough, Maria 
 slipped in the pans of dough; after which 
 nothing remained but to tend the fire and 
 change the position of the pans as the bak- 
 ing required. 
 
 Too small an oven had been built five 
 years before, and ever since then the family 
 did not escape a weekly discussion about the 
 new oven it was imperative to construct, 
 which unquestionably should have been put 
 in hand without delay; but on each trip to 
 the village, by one piece of bad luck and 
 another, someone forgot the necessary ce- 
 ment; and so it happened that the oven had 
 to be filled two or even three times to make 
 weekly provision for the nine mouths of the 
 household. 
 
 Maria invariably took charge of the first 
 baking; invariably too, when the oven was 
 ready for the second batch of bread and the 
 evening well advanced, her mother would 
 say considerately: — "You can go to bed, 
 
 [1121 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Maria, I will look after the second baking." 
 And Maria would reply never a word, 
 knowing fuU well that the mother would 
 presently stretch herself on the bed for a 
 Uttle nap and not awake tiU morning. She 
 then would revive the smudge that smoul- 
 dered every evening in the damaged tin paU, 
 install the second batch of bread, and seat 
 herself upon the door-step, her chin resting 
 in her hands, upheld through the long hours 
 of the night by her inexhaustible patience. 
 
 Twenty paces from the house the clay 
 oven with its sheltering roof of boards 
 loomed dark, but the door of the fireplace 
 fitted badly and one red gleam escaped 
 through the chink; the dusky border of the 
 forest stole a httle closer in the night. 
 Maria sat very still, delighting in the quiet 
 and the coolness, while a thousand vague 
 dreams circled about her hke a flock of 
 wheeling birds. 
 
 There was a time when this night-watch 
 passed in drowsiness, as she resignedly 
 awaited the moment when the finished task 
 would bring her sleep; but since the coming 
 of Frangois Paradis the long weekly vigil 
 [113] 
 
MARIA ^CHAPDELAINE 
 
 was very sweet to her, for she could think 
 of him and of herself with nothing to distract 
 her dear imaginings. Simple they were, 
 these thoughts of hers, and never did they 
 travel far afield. In the springtime he will 
 come back; this return of his, the joy of 
 seeing him again, the words he will say when 
 they find themselves once more alone, the 
 first touch of hands and hps. Not easy was 
 it for Maria to make a picture for herself 
 of how these things were to come about. 
 
 Yet she essayed. First she repeated his 
 full name two or three times, formally, as 
 others spoke it: Frangois Paradis, from St. 
 Michel de Mistassini . . . Francois Para- 
 dis .. . Then suddenly, with sweet in- 
 timacy, — Frangois ! 
 
 •^ The evocation fails not. He stands before 
 her taU and strong, bold of eye, his face 
 bronzed with sun and snow-glare. He is by 
 her side, rejoicing at the sight of her, re- 
 joicing that he has kept his faith, has hved 
 the whole year discreetly, without drioking 
 or swearing. There are no blueberries yet 
 to gather — it is only springtime — ^yet some 
 good reason they find for rambhng off to 
 
 1114] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the woods; he walks beside her without word 
 or joining of hands, through the massed 
 laurel flaming into blossom, and naught be- 
 yond does either need to flush the cheek, 
 to quicken the beating of the heart. 
 
 Now they are seated upon a fallen tree, 
 and thus he speaks: "Were you lonely with- 
 out me, Maria?" Most surely it is the first 
 question he will put to her; but she is able 
 to carry the dream no further for the sudden 
 pain stabbing her heart. Ah! dear God! 
 how long will she have been lonely for him 
 before that moment comes! A summer to 
 be Hved through, an autumn, and all the end- 
 less winter! She sighs, but the steadfast 
 patience of the race sustains her, and her 
 thoughts turn upon herself and what the 
 future may be holding. V^ 
 
 When she was at St. Prime, one of her 
 cousins who was about to be wedded spoke 
 often to her of marriage. A young man 
 from the village and another from Nor- 
 mandin had both courted her ; for long months 
 spending the Sunday evenings together at 
 the house. 
 
 "I was fond of them both," — thus she de- 
 
 [115] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 clared to Maria. "And I really think I liked 
 Zotique best; but he went off to the drive on 
 the St. Maurice, and he wasn't to be back 
 till summer; then Romeo asked me and I 
 said, 'Yes.' I like him very well, too." 
 
 Maria made no answer, but even then her 
 heart told her that all marriages are not hke 
 that; now she is very sure. The love of 
 Frangois Paradis for her, her love for him, is 
 a thing apart — a thing holy and inevitable — 
 for she was unable to imagine that between 
 them it should have befallen otherwise; so 
 must this love give warmth and unfading col- 
 our to every day of the dullest life. Always 
 had she dim consciousness of such a presence 
 — amoving the spirit like the solemn joy of 
 chanted masses, the intoxication of a sunny 
 windy day, the happiness that some unlooked- 
 for good fortune brings, the certain promise 
 of abundant harvest . . . 
 
 In the stillness of the night the roar of the 
 fall sounds loud and near; the north-west 
 wind sways the tops of spruce and fir with a 
 sweet cool sighing; again and again, farther 
 away and yet farther, an owl is hooting; the 
 chill that ushers in the dawn is still remote. 
 
 [116] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 And Maria, in perfect contentment, rests 
 upon the step, watching the ruddy beam from 
 her fire — ^flickering, disappearing, quickened 
 again to birth. 
 
 She seems to remember someone long since 
 whispering in her ear that the world and life 
 were cheerless and gray. The daily round, 
 brightened only by a few unsatisfying, fleet- 
 ing pleasures; the slow passage of unchanging 
 years; the encounter with some young man, 
 like other young men, whose patient and 
 hopeful courting ends by winning affection; a 
 marriage then, and afterwards a vista of days 
 under another roof, but scarce different from 
 those that went before. So does one hve, the 
 voice had told her. Naught very dreadful in 
 the prospect, and, even were it so, what pos- 
 sible but submission; yet aU level, dreary and 
 chill as an autumn field. 
 
 It is not true ! Alone there in the darkness 
 Maria shakes her head, a smile upon her Ups, 
 and knows how far from true it is. When she 
 thinks of Francois Paradis, his look, his bear- 
 ing, of what they are and will be to one 
 another, he and she, something within her 
 bosom has strange power to bum with the 
 
 [117] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 touch of fire, and yet to make her shiver. All 
 the strong youth of her, the long-suffering of 
 her sooth-fast heart find place in it; in the 
 upspringing of hope and of longing, this vision 
 of her approaching miracle of happiness. 
 
 Below the oven the red gleam quivers and 
 fails. 
 
 "The bread must be ready!" she murmurs 
 to herself. But she cannot bring herself at 
 once to rise, loth as she is to end the fair 
 dream that seems only beginning. 
 
 [ns] 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 A MEAGER REAPING 
 
 September arrived, and 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 A MEAGER REAPING 
 
 EPTEMBER arrived, and the dry- 
 ness so welcome for the hay-making 
 persisted till it became a disaster. 
 According to the Chapdelaines, 
 never had the country been visited 
 with such a drought as this, and 
 every day a fresh motive was suggested for 
 the divine displeasure. 
 
 Oats and wheat took on a sickly colour ere 
 attaining their growth; a mercUess sun with- 
 ered the grass and the clover aftermath, and 
 aU day long the famished cows stood lowing 
 with their heads over the fences. They had 
 to be watched continually, for even the 
 meager standing crop was a sore temptation, 
 and never a day went by but one of them 
 broke through the rails in the attempt to 
 appease her hunger among the grain. 
 
 Then, of a sudden one evening, as though 
 weary of a constancy so unusual, the wind 
 shifted and in the morning came the rain. It 
 fell off and on for a week, and when it ceeised 
 
 [121] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and the wind hauled again to the north-west, 
 autumn had come. 
 
 The autumn! And it seemed as though 
 spring were here but yesterday. The grain 
 was yet unripe, though yellowed by the 
 drought; nothing save the hay was in barn; 
 the other crops could draw nutriment from 
 the soil only while the too brief summer 
 warmed it, and already autiunn was here, the 
 forerunner of relentless winter, of the frosts, 
 and soon the snows . . . 
 
 Between the wet days there was still fine 
 bright weather, hot toward noon, when one 
 might fancy that all was as it had been: the 
 harvest stiU unreaped, the changeless setting 
 of spruces and firs, and ever the same sunsets 
 of gray and opal, opal and gold, and skies of 
 misty blue above the same dark woodland. 
 But in the mornings the grass was sometimes 
 white with rime, and swiftly followed the 
 earfiest dry frosts which killed and blackened 
 the tops of the potatoes. 
 
 Then, for the first time, a film of ice ap- 
 peared upon the drinking-trough; melted by 
 the afternoon sun it was there a few days 
 later, and yet a third time in the same week. 
 
 (122] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Frequent changes of wind brought an alterna- 
 tion of mUd rainy days and frosty mornings; 
 but every time the wind came afresh from the 
 north-west it was a Uttle colder, a httle more 
 remindful of the icy winter blasts. Every- 
 where is autumn a melancholy season, 
 charged with regrets for that which is 
 departing, with shrinking from what is to 
 come; but imder the Canadian skies it is 
 sadder and more moving than elsewhere, as 
 though one were bewaihng the death of a 
 mortal summoned untimely by the gods 
 before he has lived out his span. 
 
 Through the increasing cold, the early 
 frosts, the threats of snow, they held back 
 their hands and put off the reaping from day 
 to day, encouragiag the meager grain to steal 
 a little nourishment from the earth's fsuling 
 veins and the spiritless sun. At length, har- 
 vest they must, for October approached. 
 About the time when the leaves of birches and 
 aspens were turning, the oats and the wheat 
 were cut and carried to the bam imder a 
 cloudless sky, but without rejoicing. 
 
 The yield of grain was poor enough, yet the 
 hay-crop had been excellent, so that the year 
 
 [123] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 as a whole gave occasion neither for excess of 
 joy nor sorrow. However, it was long before 
 the Chapdelaines, in evening talk, ceased de- 
 ploring the unheard-of August droughts, the 
 luiprecedented September frosts, which be- 
 trayed their hopes. Against the miserly short- 
 ness of the summer and the harshness of a 
 climate that shows no mercy they did not 
 rebel, were even without a touch of bitterness; 
 but they did not give up contrasting the 
 season with that other year of wonders which 
 fond imagination made the standard of their 
 comparisons; and thus was ever on their Kps 
 the countryman's perpetual lament, so reason- 
 able to the ear, but which recurs unfailingly: 
 "Had it only been an ordinary year!" 
 
 [124] 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 ENTRENCHED AGAINST WINTER 
 
 One October morning 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ENTRENCHED AGAINST WINTER 
 
 NE October morning Maria's first 
 vision on arising was of countless 
 snow-flakes sifting lazily from the 
 skies. The ground was covered, 
 the trees white; verily it seemed 
 that autumn was over, when in 
 other lands it had scarce begun. 
 
 But Edwige Legare thus pronounced sen- 
 tence: "After the first snowfall there is yet a 
 month before winter sets in. The old folks 
 always so declared, and I beheve it myself." 
 He was right; for in two days a rain carried 
 off the snow and the dark soil again lay bare. 
 Still the warning was heeded, and they set 
 about preparations; the yearly defences 
 against the snow that may not be trifled with, 
 and the piercing cold. -^ 
 
 Esdras and Da'Be protected the foundation 
 of their dweUing with earth and sand, making 
 an embankment at the foot of the walls ; the 
 other men, armed with hammer and nails, 
 went round the outside of the house, nailing 
 [127] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 up, closing chinks, remedying as best they 
 could the year's wear and tear. Within, the 
 women forced rags into the crevices, pasted 
 upon the wainscotting at the north-west side 
 old newspapers brought from the village and 
 carefully preserved, tested with their hands 
 in every corner for draughts. 
 
 These things accompHshed, the next task 
 was to lay in the winter's store of wood. Be- 
 yond the fields, at the border of the forest 
 plenty of dead trees yet were standing. Esdras 
 and Legare took ax in hand and felled for 
 three days; the trunks were pUed, awaiting 
 another fall of snow when they could be 
 loaded on the big wood-sleigh. 
 
 All through October, frosty and rainy days 
 came alternately, and meanwhile the woods 
 were putting on a dress of unearthly loveh- 
 ness. Five hundred paces from the Chapde- 
 laine house the bank of the Peribonka fell 
 steeply to the rapid water and the huge blocks 
 of stone above the fall, and across the river 
 the opposite bank rose in the fashion of a 
 rocky amphitheatre, mounting to loftier 
 heights — an amphitheatre trending in a vast 
 curve to the northward. Of the birches, 
 
 [128] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELArNE 
 
 aspens, alders and wild cherries scattered 
 upon the slope, October made splashes of 
 many-tinted red and gold. Throughout these 
 weeks the ruddy brown of mosses, the change- 
 less green of fir and cypress, were no more than 
 a background, a setting only for the ravishing 
 colours of those leaves born with the spring, 
 that perish with the autumn. The wonder of 
 their dying spread over the hills and unrolled 
 itself, an endless riband following the river, 
 ever as beautiful, as rich in shades brilliant 
 and soft, as enraptm-ing, when they passed 
 into the remoteness of far northern regions 
 and were imseen by human eye. 
 
 But ere long there sweeps from out the cold 
 north a mighty wind like a final sentence of 
 death, the cruel ending to a reprieve, and soon 
 the poor leaves, brown, red and golden, 
 shaken too unkindly, strow the ground; the 
 snow covers them, and the white expanse has 
 only for adornment the sombre green of trees 
 that alter not their garb — triumphing now, as 
 do those women inspired with bitter wisdom 
 who barter their right to beauty for Uffe 
 everlasting. 
 
 In November Esdras, Da'B6 and Edwige 
 
 [129] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Legare went off again to the shanties. The 
 father and Tit'Be harnessed Charles Eugene 
 to the wood-sleigh, and laboured at hauling in 
 the trees that had been cut, and piling them 
 near the house; that done, the two men took 
 the double-handed saw and sawed, sawed, 
 sawed from morning till night ; it was then the 
 turn of the axes, and the logs were spHt as 
 their size required. Nothing remained but to 
 cord the spHt wood in the shed beside the 
 house, where it was sheltered from the snow ; 
 the huge piles mingling the resinous cypress 
 which gives a quick hot flame, spruce and red 
 birch, burning steadily and longer, close- 
 grained white birch with its marble-like 
 surface, slower yet to be consumed and leav- 
 ing red embers in the morning after a long 
 winter's night. 
 
 The moment for laying in wood is also that 
 of the slaughtering. After entrenching against 
 cold comes the defence against hunger. The 
 quarters of pork went into the brine-tub ; from 
 a beam in the shed there hung the side of a 
 fat heifer — the other half sold to people in 
 Honfleur — ^which the cold would keep fresh 
 tUl spring; sacks of flour were piled in a corner 
 
 [130] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of the house, and Tit'Be, provided with a 
 spool of brass wire, set himself to making 
 nooses for hares. 
 
 After the bustle of summer they relapsed 
 into easy-going ways, for the summer is pain- 
 fully short and one must not lose a single hour 
 of those precious weeks when it is possible to 
 work on the land, whereas the winter drags 
 slowly and gives all too much time for the 
 tasks it brings. 
 
 4 The house became the centre of the uni- 
 verse; in truth the only spot where hfe could 
 be sustained, and more than ever the great 
 cast-iron stove was the soul of it. Every little 
 while some member of the family fetched a 
 couple of logs from under the staircase; cy- 
 press in the morning, spruce throughout the 
 day, in the evening birch, pushing them in 
 upon the live coals. Whenever the heat failed, 
 mother Chapdelaine might be heard saying 
 anxiously : — " Don't let the fire out, children." 
 Whereupon Maria, Tit'Be or Telesphore 
 would open the httle door, glance in and 
 hasten to the pile of wood. 
 
 In the mornings Tit'Be jumped out of bed 
 long before daylight to see if the great sticks 
 
 [131] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of birch had done their duty and burned all 
 night; should, imluckily, the fire be out he 
 lost no time in rekindling it with birch-bark 
 and cypress branches, placed heavier pieces 
 on the mounting flame, and ran back to 
 snuggle imder the brown woollen blankets and 
 patchwork quilt till the comforting warmth 
 once more filled the house. 
 
 Outside, the neighbouring forest, and even 
 the fields won from it, were an aUen unfriendly 
 world, upon which they looked wonderingly 
 through the little square windows. And some- 
 times this world was strangely beautiful in 
 its frozen immobihty, with a sky of flawless 
 blue and a brilliant sun that sparkled on the 
 snow; but the immaculateness of the blue and 
 the white ahke was pitiless and gave hint of 
 the murderous cold. 
 
 Days there were when the weather was 
 tempered and the snow fell straight from the 
 clouds, conceahng aU; the ground and the low 
 growth was covered Httle by httle, the dark 
 fine of the woods was hidden behind the 
 curtain of serried flakes. Then in the morning 
 the sky was clear again, but the fierce north- 
 west wind swayed the heavens. Powdery 
 
 [132] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 snow, whipped from the groxind, drove across 
 the burnt lands and the clearings in bhnding 
 squalls, and heaped itself behind whatever 
 broke the force of the gale. To the south-east 
 of the house it built an enormous cone, and 
 between house and stable raised a drift five 
 feet high through which the shovel had to 
 carve a path ; but to windward the ground was 
 bare, scoured by the persistent blast. 
 
 On such days as these the men scarcely left 
 the house except to care for the beasts, and 
 came back on the run, their faces rasped with 
 the cold and shining-wet with snow-crystals 
 melted by the heat of the house. Chapdelaine 
 would pluck the icicles from his moustache, 
 slowly draw off his sheepskin-Uned coat and 
 settle himself by the stove with a satisfied 
 sigh. "The pump is not frozen?" he asks. 
 "Is there plenty of wood in the house?" 
 
 Assured that the frail wooden fortress is 
 provided with water, wood and food, he gives 
 himself up to the indolences of winter quar- 
 ters, smoking pipes innumerable while the 
 women-folk are busy with the evening meal. 
 The cold snaps the nails in the plank walls 
 with reports Hke pistol-shots; the stove 
 [133] 
 
MARIA i CHAPDELAINE 
 
 crammed with birch roars lustily ; the howling 
 of the wind without is like the cries of a 
 besieging host. 
 
 " "It must be a bad day in the woods!" 
 thinks Maria to herself; and then perceives 
 that she has spoken aloud. 
 
 "In the woods they are better off than we 
 are here," answers her father. "Up there 
 where the trees stand close together one does 
 not feel the wind. You can be sure that 
 Esdras and Da'Be are all right." 
 
 "Yes.3" 
 
 But it was not of Esdras and Da'Be that she 
 had just been thinking. 
 
 [134] 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 ONE THOUSAND AVES 
 
 Since the coming of winter. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ONE THOUSAND AVES 
 
 INGE the coming of winter they 
 had often talked at the Chapde- 
 laines about the hoHdays, and 
 now these were drawing near. 
 •^ "I am wondering whether we 
 shall have any callers on New 
 Year's Day," said Madame Chapdelaine one 
 evening. She went over the list of all relatives 
 and friends able to make the venture. 
 "Azalma Larouche does not live so far away, 
 but she — she is not very energetic. The 
 people at St. Prime would not care to take the 
 ioumey. Possibly Wilfrid or Ferdinand might 
 drive from St. Gedeon if the ice on the lake 
 were in good condition." A sigh disclosed that 
 she still was dreaming of the coming and 
 going in the old parishes at the time of the 
 New Year, the family dinners, the unlooked- 
 for visits of kiadred arriving by sleigh from 
 the next village, buried under rugs and furs, 
 behind a horse whose coat was white with 
 frost. 
 
 [137] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Maria's thoughts were turning in Einother 
 direction. "If the roads are as bad as they 
 were last year," said she, "we shall not be 
 able to attend the midnight mass. And yet I 
 should so much have liked it this time, and 
 father promised . . . " 
 ^ Through the httle window they looked on 
 the gray sky, and found httle to cheer them. 
 To go to midnight mass is the natural and 
 strong desire of every French-Canadian 
 peasant, even of those hving farthest from the 
 settlements. What do they not face to accom- 
 phsh it! Arctic cold, the woods at night, 
 obhterated roads, great distances do but add 
 to the impressiveness and the mystery. This 
 anniversary of the birth of Jesus is more to 
 them than a mere fixtm-e in the calendar with 
 rites appropriate; it signifies the renewed 
 promise of salvation, an occasion of deep re- 
 joicing, and those gathered in the wooden 
 church are imbued with sincerest fervour, are 
 pervaded with a deep sense of the supernatu- 
 ral. This year, more than ever, Maria yearned 
 to attend the mass after many weeks of re- 
 moteness from houses and from churches ; the 
 favours she would fain demand seemed more 
 
 [138] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 likely to be granted were she able to prefer 
 them before the altar, aided in heavenward 
 flight by the wings of music. '^ 
 
 But toward the middle of December much 
 snow feU, dry and fine as dust, and three days 
 before Christmas the north-west wind arose 
 and made an end of the roads. On the morrow 
 of the storm Chapdelaine harnessed Charles 
 Eugene to the heavy sleigh and departed with 
 Tit'Be; they took shovels to clear the way or 
 lay out another route. The two men returned 
 by noon, worn out, white with snow, asserting 
 that there would be no breaking through for 
 several days. The disappointment must be 
 borne ; Maria sighed, but the idea came to her 
 that there might be other means of attaining 
 the divine goodwill. 
 
 " Is it true, mother," she asked as evening 
 was falling, "that if you repeat a thousand 
 Aves on the day before Christmas you are 
 always granted the thing you seek.^" 
 
 "Quite true," her mother reverently an- 
 swered. " One desiring a favour who says her 
 thousand Aves properly before midnight on 
 Christmas Eve, very seldom fails to receive 
 what she asks." 
 
 [139] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 On Christmas Eve the weather was cold but 
 wmdless. The two men went out betimes in 
 another efifort to beat down the road, with no 
 great hope of success; but long before they 
 left, and indeed long before dayhght, Maria 
 began to recite her Aves. Awakening very 
 early, she took her rosary from beneath the 
 pillow and swiftly repeated the prayer, pass- 
 ing from the last word to the first without 
 stopping, and counting, bead by bead. 
 
 The others were still asleep; but Chien left 
 his place at the stove when he saw that she 
 moved, and came to sit beside the bed, 
 gravely reposing his head upon the coverings. 
 Maria's glance wandered over the long white 
 muzzle resting upon the brown wool, the 
 Hquid eyes filled with the dumb creature's 
 pathetic trustfulness, the drooping glossy 
 ears; while she ceased not to murmur 
 the sacred words: — "Hail Mary, fuU of 
 grace . 
 
 Soon Tit'Be jumped from bed to put wood 
 upon the fire; an impulse of shyness caused 
 Maria to turn away and hide her rosary under 
 the coverlet as she continued to pray. The 
 stove roared; Chien went back to his usual 
 
 [140] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 spot, and for another half-hour nothing was 
 stirring in the house save the fingers of Maria 
 numbering the boxwood beads, and her lips as 
 they moved rapidly in the task she had laid 
 upon herself. 
 
 Then must she arise, for the day was dawn- 
 ing; make the porridge and the pancakes 
 while the men went to the stable to care for 
 the animals, wait upon them when they 
 retimaed, wash the dishes, sweep the house. 
 What time she attended to these things, 
 Maria was ever raising a Uttle higher toward 
 heaven the monument of her Aves; but the 
 rosary had to be laid aside and it was hard 
 to keep a true reckoning. As the morning 
 advanced however, no urgent duty calling, 
 she was able to sit by the window and 
 steadily pursue her undertaking. 
 
 Noon; and already three hundred Aves. 
 Her anxiety lessens, for now she feels almost 
 sure of finishing in time. It comes to her mind 
 that fasting would give a further title to heav- 
 enly consideration, and might, with reason, 
 turn hopes into certainties ; wherefore she ate 
 but little, foregoing aU those things she liked 
 the best. 
 
 [141] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Throughout the afternoon she must knit the 
 woollen garment designed for her father as a 
 New Year's gift, and though the faithful repe- 
 tition ceased not, the work of her fingers was 
 something of a distraction and a delay; then 
 came the long preparations for supper, and 
 finally Tit'Be brought his mittens to be 
 mended, so all this time the Aves made slow 
 and impeded progress, Uke some devout pro- 
 cession brought to halt by secularinterruption. 
 
 But when it was evening and the tasks of 
 the day were done, she could resume her seat 
 by the window where the feeble Ught of the 
 lamp did not invade the darkness, look forth 
 upon the fields hidden beneath their icy 
 cloak, take the rosary once more in her hands 
 and throw her heart into the prayer. She was 
 happy that so many Aves were left to be 
 recited, since labour and diflBculty could only 
 add merit to her endeavour; even did she 
 wish to humble herself further and give force 
 to her prayer by some posture that would 
 bring uneasiness and pain, by some chasten- 
 ing of the flesh. 
 
 Her father and Tit'Be smoked, their feet 
 against the stove; her mother sewed new ties 
 
 [1421 
 
MARIA »CHAPDELAINE 
 
 to old moose-hide moccasins. Outside, the 
 mioon had risen, flooding the chill whiteness 
 with colder hght, and the heavens were of a 
 marvellous purity and depth, sown with stars 
 that shone hke that wondrous star of old. 
 " Blessed art Thou amongst women . . ." 
 Through repeating the short prayer often- 
 times and quickly she grew confused and 
 sometimes stopped, her dazed mind lost 
 among the well-known words. It is only for a 
 moment; sighing she closes her eyes, and the 
 phrase which rises at once to her memory and 
 her Ups ceases to be mechanical, detaches 
 itself, again stands forth in all its hallowed 
 meaning. 
 
 " Blessed art Thou amongst women . . ." 
 At length a heaviness weighs upon her, and 
 the holy words are spoken with greater effort 
 and slowly; yet the beads pass through her 
 fingers in endless succession, and each one 
 launches the offering of an Ave to that sky 
 where Mary the compassionate is surely 
 seated on her throne, hearkening to the music 
 of prayers that ever rise, and brooding over 
 the memory of that blest night. 
 "The Lord is with Thee ..." 
 
 [143] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 The fence-rails were very black upon the 
 white expanse palely Ughted by the moon; 
 trunks of birch trees standing against the dark 
 background of forest were like the skeletons 
 of Uving creatures smitten with the cold and 
 stricken by death; but the glacial night was 
 awesome rather than affrighting. 
 
 "With the roads as they are we will not be 
 the only ones who have to stay at home this 
 evening," said Madame Chapdelaine. "But 
 is there anything more lovely than the mid- 
 night mass at Saint Coeur de Marie, with 
 Yvonne Boilly playing the harmonium, and 
 Pacifique Simard who sings the Latin so 
 beautifully!" She was very careful to say 
 nothing that might seem reproachful or 
 complaining on such a night as this, but in 
 spite of herself the words and tone had a sad 
 ring of loneliness and remoteness. Her hus- 
 band noticed it, and, himself under the 
 influence of the day, was quick to take the 
 blame. 
 
 " It is true enough, Laura, that you would 
 have had a happier life with some other man 
 than me, who hved on a comfortable farm, 
 near the settlements." 
 
 [144] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "No, Samuel; what the good God does is 
 always right. I grumble ... Of com"se I 
 grmnble. Is there anyone who hasn't some- 
 thing to grumble about .!^ But we have never 
 been unhappy, we two; we have managed to 
 live without faring over-badly; the boys are 
 fine boys, hard-working, who bring us nearly 
 all they earn; Maria too is a good girl . . . " 
 y Affected by these memories of the past, 
 they also were thinking of the candles already 
 lit, of the hymns soon to be raised in honour 
 of the Saviour's birth. Life had always been 
 a simple and a straightforward thing for 
 them; severe but inevitable toil, a good 
 understanding between man and wife, obedi- 
 ence alike to the laws of nature and of the 
 Church. Everything was drawn into the same 
 woof; the rites of their religion and the daily 
 routine of existence so woven together that 
 they could not distinguish the devout emotion 
 possessing them from the mute love of each 
 for each. '^ 
 
 Little Alma Rose heard praises in the air 
 and hastened to demand her portion. " I have 
 been a good girl too, haven't I, father?" 
 
 [145] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Certainly . . . Certainly. A black sin 
 indeed if one were naughty on the day when 
 the httle Jesus was born." 
 
 To the children, Jesus of Nazareth was ever 
 "the httle Jesus," the cvu-ly-headed babe of 
 the sacred picture; and in truth, for the 
 parents as well, such was the image oftenest 
 brought to mind by the Name. Not the sad 
 enigmatic Christ of the Protestant, but a 
 being more familiar and less august, a new- 
 born infant in his mother's arms, or at least a 
 tiny chUd who might be loved without great 
 effort of the mind or any thought of the 
 9oming sacrifice. 
 
 "Would you like me to rock you.»*" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He took the httle girl on his knees £uid 
 began to swing her back and forth. 
 
 "And are we going to sing too.i^" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very well; now sing with me:" 
 
 Dans son etsible, 
 Que Jesus est chEumantI 
 
 Qu'il est aimable 
 Dans son abaissement . . . 
 
 He began in quiet tones that he might not 
 
 drown the other slender voice; but soon emo- 
 
 [146] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 tion carried him away and he sang with all his 
 might, his gaze dreamy and remote. Teles- 
 phore drew near and looked at him with 
 worshipping eyes. To these children brought 
 up in a lonely house, with only their parents 
 for companions, Samuel Chapdelaine embod- 
 ied all there was in the world of wisdom and 
 might. As he was ever gentle and patient, 
 always ready to take the children on his knee 
 and sing them Kymns, or those endless old 
 songs he taught them one by one, they loved 
 him with a rare affection. 
 
 . . . Tous les palais des rois 
 
 N'ont rien de comparable 
 
 Aux beautes que je vois 
 Dans cette Stable. 
 
 "Once more.** Very well." 
 This time the mother and Tit'Be joined in.-^ 
 Maria could not resist staying her prayers for 
 a few moments that she might look and hear- 
 ken; but the words of the hymn renewed her 
 ardour, and she soon took up the task again 
 with a hveUer faith . . . "Hail Mary, full 
 of grace ..." 
 
 Trois gros navires sont arrives, 
 Charges d'avoine, cheirges de ble. 
 Nous irons sur I'eau nous y prom-promener. 
 Nous irons jouer dans I'fle . . . 
 [147] 
 
MARIA » CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "And now? Another song: which?" With- 
 out waiting for a reply he struck in . . . 
 
 "No? not that one . . . Claire Fontaine? 
 Ah! That's a beautiful one, that is! We shall 
 all sing it together." 
 
 He glanced at Maria, but seeing the beads 
 ever shpping through her fingers he would not 
 
 intrude. 
 
 A la claire fontaine 
 
 M'en aJlant promener, 
 
 J'ai trouve I'eau si belle 
 
 Que je m'y suis baigne . . . 
 II y a longtemps que je t'aime, 
 JamEus je ne t'oublierai. . . 
 
 Words and tune alike haunting; the un- 
 affected sadness of the refrain lingering in the 
 ear, a song that well may find its way to any 
 
 heart. 
 
 . . Sur la plus haute branche, 
 
 Le rossignol chantait. 
 
 Chante, rossignol, chante, 
 
 Toi qui a le coeur gai . . . 
 II y a longtemps que je t'aime 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai . . . 
 
 The rosary lay still in the long fingers. 
 Maria did not sing with the others; but she 
 w£is Hstening, and this lament of a love that 
 was unhappy fell very sweetly and movingly 
 on her spirit a httle weary with prayer. 
 
 [148] 
 
MARIA CHAP DELAINE 
 
 . . . Tu as le cceur a lire, 
 
 Moi je I'ai h. pleurer, 
 
 J'ai perdu ma maitresse 
 
 Ssins pouvoir la r'trouver. 
 
 Pour un bouquet de roses 
 
 Que je lui refused 
 II y a longtemps que je t'aime, 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai. 
 
 Maria looked through the window at the 
 white fields circled by mysterious forest; the 
 passion of religious feeling, the tide of young 
 love rising within her, the sound of the famil- 
 iar voices, fused in her heart to a single emo- 
 tion. Truly the world was filled with love 
 that evening, with love human and divine, 
 simple in nature and mighty in strength, one 
 and the other most natural and right ; so inter- 
 mingled that the beseeching of heavenly 
 favour upon dear ones was scarcely more than 
 the expression of an earthly affection, while 
 the artless love songs were chanted with 
 solemnity of voice and exaltation of spirit fit 
 for addresses to another world. 
 
 . . Je voudrais que la rose 
 
 Fut encore au rosier, 
 
 Et que le rosier meme 
 
 A la mer fut jete. 
 II y a longtemps, que je t'aime. 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai . . 
 (1491 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 " Hail Mary, fuU of grace ..." 
 
 The song ended, Maria forthwith resumed 
 her prayers with zeal refreshed, and once 
 again the tale of the Aves mounted. 
 
 Little Alma Rose, asleep on her father's 
 knee,was undressed and put to bed; Telesphore 
 followed; Tit'Be arose in turn, stretched him- 
 self, and filled the stove with green birch logs; 
 the father made a last trip to the stable and 
 came back running, saying that the cold was 
 increasing. Soon all had retired, save Maria. 
 
 "You won't forget to put out the lamp?" 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 Forthwith she quenched the light, prefer- 
 ring it so, and seated herself again by the 
 window to repeat the last Aves. When she 
 had finished, a scruple assailed her, and a fear 
 lest she had erred in the reckoning, because it 
 had not always been possible to coimt the 
 beads of her rosary. Out of prudence she 
 recited yet another fifty and then was silent — 
 jaded, weary, but full of happy confidence, as 
 though the moment had brought her a prom- 
 ise inviolable. 
 
 The world outside was lit; wrapped in that 
 frore splendour which the night unrolls over 
 
 [150] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 lands of snow when the sky is clear and the 
 moon is shining. Witidn the house was dark- 
 ness, and it seemed that wood and field had 
 Ulmnined themselves to signal the coming of 
 the holy hour. 
 
 " The thousand Aves have been said," mur- 
 mured Maria to herself, "but I have not yet 
 asked for anything . . . not in words." 
 She had thought that perhaps it were not 
 needful; that the Divinity might understemd 
 without hearing wishes shaped by hps — Mary 
 above all . . . Who had been a woman 
 upon earth. But at the last her simple mind 
 was taken with a doubt, and she tried to find 
 speech for the favour she was seeking. 
 
 Francois Paradis . . . Most surely it 
 concerns Frangois Paradis. Hast Thou al- 
 ready guessed it, Mary, full of grace? How 
 might she frame this her desire without 
 impiety? That he should be spared hardship 
 in the woods . . . That he should be true to 
 his word and give up drinking and swearing 
 . . . That he return in the spring . . . 
 
 That he return in the spring . . . She 
 goes no further, for it seems to her that when 
 he is with her again, his promise kept, all the 
 
 [151] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 happiness in the world must be within their 
 reach, unaided . . ahnost unaided . . . 
 If it be not presumptuous so to think . . . 
 That he return in the spring . . . Dream- 
 ing of his return, of Frangois, the handsome 
 sunburnt face turned to hers, Maria forgets 
 all else, and looks long with unseeing eyes at 
 the snow-covered ground which the moonlight 
 has turned into a glittering fabric of ivory and 
 mother-of-pearl — at the black pattern of the 
 fences outlined upon it, and the menacing 
 ranks of the dark forest. 
 
 [152] 
 
CHAPTER X 
 STRAYING TRACKS 
 
 New Year's Day, and. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 STRAYING TRACKS 
 
 EW YEAR'S DAY, and not a 
 single caller ! Toward evening the 
 mother of the family, a trifle cast 
 down, hid her depression behind a 
 mask of extra cheeriness. "Even 
 if no one comes," said she, "that 
 is no reason for allowing ourselves to be 
 unhappy. We are going to make la tire." 
 
 The children exclaimed with deUght, and 
 followed the preparations with impatient 
 eyes. Molasses and brown sugar were set on 
 the stove to boil, and when this had proceeded 
 far enough Telesphore brought in a large dish 
 of lovely white snow. They all gathered about 
 the table as a few drops of the boiling syrup 
 were allowed to fall upon the snow where they 
 instantly became crackly bubbles, deUciously 
 cold. 
 
 Each was helped in turn, the big people 
 making a merry pretence of the children's 
 unfeigned greed; but soon, and very wisely, 
 the tasting was checked, that appetite might 
 
 [155] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 not be in peril for the real la tire, the confec- 
 tion of which had only begun. After further 
 cooking, and just at the proper moment, the 
 cooling toffee must be puUed for a long time. 
 The mother's strong hands pUed unceasingly 
 for five minutes, folding and drawing out the 
 sugary skein; the movement became slower 
 and slower, until, stretched for the last time 
 to the thickness of a finger, it was cut into 
 lengths with scissors — ^not too easily, for it 
 was already hard. The la tire was made. 
 
 The children were busy with their first por- 
 tions, when a knocking was heard on the door. 
 "Eutrope Gagnon," at once declared Chapde- 
 laine. "I was just saying to myself that it 
 would be an odd thing if he did not come and 
 spend the evening with us." 
 V Eutrope Gagnon it was in truth. Entering, 
 he bade them aU good evening, and laid his 
 wooUen cap upon the table. Maria looked at 
 him, a blush upon her cheek. Custom ordains 
 that on the first day of the year the young 
 men shall kiss the women-folk, and Maria 
 knew well enough that Eutrope, shy as he was, 
 would exercise his privilege; she stood motion- 
 less by the table, unprotesting, yet thinking of 
 
 [156] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 another kiss she would have dearly welcomed. 
 But the young man took the chair offered 
 him and sat down, his eyes upon the floor. ^^ 
 
 "You are the only visitor who has come our 
 way to-day," said Ghapdelaine, "and I sup- 
 pose you have seen no one either. I felt 
 pretty certain you would beherethisevening." 
 
 "Naturally ... I would not let New 
 Year's Day go by without paying you a visit. 
 But, besides that, I have news to tell." 
 
 "News?" 
 
 Under the questioning eyes of the house- 
 hold he did not raise his eyes. 
 
 "By your face I am afraid you have bad 
 news." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 With a start of fear the mother half rose. 
 "Not about the boysi>" 
 
 "No, Madame Ghapdelaine. Esdras and 
 Da'Be are well, if that be God'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 name under his 
 breath: — "Frangois Paradis." 
 
 His glance was lifted to Maria and as 
 quickly fell, but she did not so much as see 
 [167] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 his look of honest distress. Deep stillness 
 weighed upon the house— upon the whole 
 imiverse. Everything ahve and dead was 
 breathlessly awaiting news of such dreadful 
 moment — touching him that was for her the 
 one man in all the world . . 
 
 "This is what happened. You knew per- 
 haps that he was foreman in a shanty above 
 La Tuque, on the Vernuhon River. About the 
 middle of December he suddenly told the boss 
 that he was going ofT to spend Christmas and 
 New Year at Lake St. John — up here. The 
 boss objected, naturally enough; for if the 
 men take ten or fifteen days' leave right in 
 the middle of the winter you might as well 
 stop the work altogether. The boss did not 
 wish him to go and said so plainly; but you 
 know Frangois — a man not be thwarted 
 when a notion entered his head. He answered 
 that he was set on going to the lake for the 
 hoHdays, and that go he would. Then the 
 boss let him have his way, afraid to lose a man 
 useful beyond the conunon, and of such expe- 
 rience in the bush." 
 
 Eutrope Gagnon was speaking with unusual 
 ease, slowly, but without seeking words, as 
 
 [158] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 though his story had been shaped beforehand. 
 Amid her overwhelming grief the thought 
 flitted through Maria's heart: — -"Frangois 
 wished to come here ... to me," and a 
 fugitive joy touched it as a swallow in flight 
 ruffles the water with his wing. 
 
 " The shanty was not very far in the woods, 
 only two days' jom-ney from the Transconti- 
 nental which passes La Tuque. But as the luck 
 was, something had happened to the line and 
 the trains were not ruiming. I heard all this 
 through Johnny Niquette of St. Henri, who 
 arrived from La Tuque two days ago." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When Francois found that he could not 
 take the train he burst into a laugh, and in 
 that sort of a humour said that as it was a case 
 of walking he would walk all the way — ^reach- 
 ing the lake by following the rivers, first the 
 Croche and then the Ouatchouan which falls 
 in near Roberval." 
 
 " That is so," said Chapdelaine. " It can be 
 done. I have gone that way." 
 
 "Not at this time of year, Mr. Chapdelaine, 
 certainly not just at this time. Everyone 
 there told Frangois that it would be foolhardy 
 [159] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 to attempt such a trip in midwinter, about 
 Christmas, with the cold as great as it was, 
 some four feet of snow lying in the woods, and 
 alone. But he only laughed and told them 
 that he was used to the woods and that a little 
 diflBculty was not going to frighten him, be- 
 cause he was bound to get to the upper side of 
 the lake for the hohdays, and that where the 
 Indians were able to cross he could make the 
 crossing too. Only — ^you know it very well, 
 Mr. Chapdelaine — ^when the Indians take 
 that journey it is in company, and with their 
 dogs. Frangois set off alone, on snow-shoes, 
 pulling his blankets and provisions on a 
 toboggan." 
 
 No one had uttered a word to hasten or 
 check the speaker. They Ustened as to him 
 whose story's end stalks into view, before the 
 eyes but darkly veiled, like a figure drawing 
 near who hides his face. 
 
 "You will remember the weather a week 
 before Christmas — the heavy snow that fell, 
 and after it the nor'west gale. It happened 
 that Frangois was then in the great burnt 
 lands, where the fine snow drives and drifts so 
 terribly. In such a place the best of men have 
 
 [160] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 little chance when it is very cold and the storm 
 lasts. And, if you recall it, the nor'wester was 
 blowing for three days on end, stiff enough to 
 flay you." 
 
 "Yes, and then.3" 
 
 The narrative he had framed did not carry 
 him further, or perhaps he could not bring 
 himself to speak the final words, for it was 
 some time before the low-voiced answer 
 came: — " He went astray ..." 
 
 Those who have passed their lives within 
 the shadow of the Canadian forests know the 
 meaning but too well. The daring youths to 
 whom this evil fortune happens in the woods, 
 who go astray — are lost — but seldom return. 
 Sometimes a search-party finds their bodies 
 in the spring, after the melting of the snows. 
 In Quebec, and above all in the far regions of 
 the north, the very word, ecarte, has taken on 
 a new and sinister import, from the peril over- 
 hanging him who loses his way, for a short 
 day only, in that limitless forest. 
 
 "He went astray . . . The storm caught 
 him in the burnt coimtry and he halted for a 
 day. So much we know, for the Indians 
 found a shelter of fir branches he had made 
 
 [161] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 for himself, and they saw his tracks. He set 
 out again because his provisions were low and 
 he was in haste to reach the end of his journey, 
 as I suppose; but the weather did not mend, 
 snow was falling, the nor'west wind never 
 eased, and it is likely he caught no glimpse of 
 the sun to guide him, for the Indians said that 
 his tracks turned off from the river Croche 
 which he had been following and wandered 
 away, straight to the north." 
 
 There was no farther speech; neither from 
 the two men who had listened with assenting 
 motions of their heads while they followed 
 every turn of Eutrope's grim story; nor from 
 the mother whose hands were clasped upon 
 her knees, as in a belated supplication; nor 
 from Maria . . . 
 
 "When they heard this, men from Ouat- 
 chouan set forth after the weather was a little 
 better. But all his footsteps were covered, 
 and they returned saying that they had found 
 no trace; that was three days ago . . . He 
 is lost . . ." 
 
 The listeners stirred, and broke the stillness 
 with a sigh; the tale was told, nor was there 
 a word that anyone might speak. The fate of 
 
 [162] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Frangois Paradis was as mournfully sure as 
 though he were buried in the cemetery at St. 
 Michel de Mistassini to the sound of chants, 
 with the blessing of a priest, 
 ^ Silence feU upon the house and all within it. 
 Ghapdelaine was leaning forward, elbows on 
 his knees, his face working, mechanically 
 striking one fist upon the other. At length he 
 spoke: — "It shows we are but little children 
 in the hand of the good God. Frangois was 
 one of the best men of these parts in the 
 woods, and at finding his way; people who 
 came here used to take him as guide, Euid 
 always did he bring them back without mis- 
 hap. And now he himself is lost. We are but 
 little children. Some there be who think 
 themselves pretty strong — able to get on 
 without God's help in their houses and on 
 their lands . . . but in the bush . . ." 
 With solemn voice and slowly-amoving head he 
 repeated: "We are but Uttle children." 
 
 "A good man he was," said Eutrope 
 Gagnon, "in very truth a good man, strong 
 and brave, with iU-will to none." 
 
 " Indeed that is true. I am not saying that 
 the good God had cause to send him to his 
 
 [163] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 death — him more than another. He was a 
 fine fellow, hard-working, and I loved him 
 well. But it shows you . . . " 
 
 "No one ever had a thing against him." 
 Eutrope's generous insistence carried him on. 
 "A man hard to match for work, afraid of 
 nothing and obliging withal. Everyone who 
 knew him was fond of him — ^you will not find 
 his like." 
 
 Raisiag his eyes to Maria he repeated with 
 emphasis: — "He was a good mem, you will 
 not find his Uke." 
 
 "When we were at Mistassini," began 
 Madame Chapdelaine, "seven years ago, 
 he was only a lad, but very strong and 
 quick and as tall as he is now — I mean as he 
 was when he came here last summer. Always 
 good-natured too. No one could help liking 
 him." ^ 
 
 They all looked straight before them in 
 speaking, and yet what they said seemed to 
 be for Maria alone, as if the dear secret of her 
 heart were open to them. But she spoke not, 
 nor moved, her eyes fixed upon the frosted 
 panes of the little window, impenetrable as 
 the wall. 
 
 [164] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Eutrope Gagnon did not linger. The Chap- 
 delaines, left to themselves, were long without 
 speech. At last the father said in a halting 
 voice: — "Francois Paradis was almost alone 
 in the world; now, as we aU had an affection 
 for him, we perhaps might have a mass or two 
 sedd. What do you think, Laura.-*" 
 
 "Yes indeed. Three high masses with 
 music, and when the boys return from the 
 woods — ^in health, if such be the will of the 
 good God — ^three more for the repose of his 
 soul, poor lad! And every Sunday we shall 
 say a prayer for him." 
 
 "He was hke the rest of us," Chapdelaine 
 continued, "not without fault, of course, but 
 kindly and weU-living. God and the Holy 
 Virgin will have pity on him." 
 
 Again silence. Maria well knew it was for 
 her they said these things — aware of her grief 
 and seeking to assuage it; but she was not 
 £ible to speak, either to praise the dead or 
 utter her sorrow. A hand had fastened upon 
 her throat, stifling her, as the narrative un- 
 folded and the end loomed inevitable; and 
 now this hand found its way into her breast 
 and was crushing her heart. Presently she 
 
 1165] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 would know a yet more intolerable pain, but 
 now she only felt the deadly grasp of those 
 five fingers closed about her heart. 
 
 Other words were said, but they scarce 
 reached her ear; then came the familiar 
 evening stir of preparation for the night, the 
 father's departure on a last visit to the stable 
 and his swift return, face red with the cold, 
 slamming the door hastily in a swirl of frosty 
 vapour. 
 
 "Come, Maria." The mother called her 
 very gently, and laid a hand upon her 
 shoulder. She rose and went to kneel and 
 pray with the others. Voice answered to 
 voice for ten minutes, murmuring the sacred 
 words in low monotone. 
 
 The usual prayer at an end, the mother 
 whispered: — "Yet five Paters and five Aves 
 for the souls of those who have suffered mis- 
 fortune in the forest." And the voices again 
 rose, this time more subdued, breaking 
 sometimes to a sob. 
 
 When they were silent, and all had risen 
 after the last sign of the cross, Maria went 
 back to the window. The frost upon the panes 
 made of them so many fretted squares 
 
 [166] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 through which the eye could not penetrate, 
 shutting away the outside world; but Maria 
 saw them not, for the tears welled to her eyes 
 and blinded her. She stood there motionless, 
 with arms hanging piteously by her side, a 
 stricken figure of grief; then a sudden anguish 
 yet keener and more imbearable seized upon 
 her; blindly she opened the door and went out 
 upon the step. 
 
 The world that lay beyond the threshold, 
 sunk in moveless white repose, was of an im- 
 mense serenity; but when Maria passed from 
 the sheltering walls the cold smote her like 
 the hungry blade of a sword and the forest 
 leaped toward her in menace, its inscrutable 
 face conceahng a himdred dreadful secrets 
 which called aloud to her in lamentable 
 voices. With a little moan she drew back, and 
 closing the door sat shivering beside the stove. 
 Numbness was yielding, sorrow taking on an 
 edge, and the hand that clutched her heart set 
 itself to devising new agonies, each one 
 subtler and more cruel than the last. 
 
 How he must have suffered, far off there 
 amid the snows! So thought she, as still her 
 own face remembered the sting of the bitter 
 [167] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 air. Men threatened by this fate had told her 
 that death coming in such a guise smote with 
 gentle and painless hand — a hand that merely 
 lulled to sleep; but she could not make herself 
 beUeve it, and all the sufferings that Frangois 
 might have endured before giving up and 
 falUng to the white ground passed before her 
 eyes. 
 
 No need for her to see the spot; too well she 
 knew the winter terrors of the great forest, the 
 snow heaped to the firs' lower branches, alders 
 almost buried beneath it, birches and aspens 
 naked as skeletons and shuddering in the icy 
 wind, a sunless sky above the massed and 
 gloomy spires of green. She sees Frangois 
 making his way through the close-set trees, 
 limbs stiffened with the cold, his skin raw with 
 that pitiless nor'wester, gnawed by hunger, 
 stimibling with fatigue, his feet so weary that 
 with no longer strength to lift them his snow- 
 shoes often catch the snow and throw him to 
 his knees. 
 
 Doubtless when the storm abated he saw 
 his error, knew that he was walking toward 
 the barren northland, turned at once and took 
 the right course — ^he so experienced, the 
 
 1168] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 woods his home from boyhood. But his food 
 is nearly gone, the cold tortures him; with 
 lowered head and clenched teeth he fights the 
 implacable winter, calling to aid his every 
 reserve of strength and high courage. He 
 thinks of the road he must follow, the miles to 
 be overcome, measures his chances of Ufe; 
 and fitful memories arise of a house, so warm 
 and snug, where aU will greet him gladly ; of 
 Maria who, knowing what he has dared for 
 her sake, wiU at length raise to him her 
 truthful eyes shining with love. 
 
 Perhaps he fell for the last time when suc- 
 cour was near, a few yards only from house or 
 shanty. Often so it happens. Cold and his 
 ministers of death flung themselves upon him 
 as their prey; they have stilled the strong 
 limbs forever, covered his open handsome face 
 with snow, closed the fearless eyes without 
 gentleness or pity, changed his hving body 
 into a thing of ice . . . Maria has no more 
 tears that she may shed, but she shivers and 
 trembles as he must have trembled and shiv- 
 ered before he sank into merciful unconscious- 
 ness; horror and pity in her face, Maria draws 
 nearer the stove as though she might thus 
 
 [169] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 bring him warmth and shield his dear life 
 against the assassin, 
 
 "0 Christ Jesus, who didst stretch forth 
 Thine arm to those in need, why didst Thou 
 not disperse the snows with those pale hands 
 of Thine? Holy Virgin, why didst Thou not 
 sustain him by Thy power when, for the last 
 time, his feet were stumbling? In all the le- 
 gions of heaven why was there found no angel 
 to show him the way?" 
 
 But it is her grief that utters these re- 
 proaches, and the steadfast heart of Maria is 
 fearful of having sinned in yielding to it. 
 Another dread is soon to assail her. Perhaps 
 Frangois Paradis was not able quite faithfully 
 to keep the promises he made to her. In the 
 shanty, among rough and careless men, may 
 he not have had moments of weakness; 
 blasphemed or taken the names of the saints 
 in vain, 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 be said. How good they 
 
 were ! Having guessed her secret how kindly 
 
 had they been silent! But she herself might 
 
 [1701 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 help with prayers the poor soul in torment. 
 Her beads stiU lay upon the table; she takes 
 them in her hands, and forthwith the words of 
 the Ave mount to her lips: — "Hail Mary, fuU 
 of grace ..." 
 
 Did you doubt of her, mother of the Gali- 
 lean.** Since that only eight days before she 
 strove to reach your ear with her thousand 
 prayers, and you but clothed yourself in di- 
 vine impassivity while fate accompUshed its 
 purpose, think you that she questions your 
 goodness or your power .3 It would indeed 
 have been to misjudge her. As once she 
 sought your aid for a man, so now she asks 
 your pardon for a soul, in the same words, 
 with the same humility and boundless faith. 
 
 "Blessed art Thou amongst women, and 
 blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus." 
 
 But stiU she cowers by the great stove, and 
 though the fire's heat strikes through her, she 
 ceases not to shudder as she thinks of the 
 frozen world about her, of Frangois Paradis, 
 who cannot be insentient, who must be so 
 bitter cold in his bed of snow . . . 
 
 [171] 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 THE INTERPRETER OF GOD 
 
 One evening m February. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE INTERPRETER OF GOD 
 
 NE evening in February Samuel 
 Chapdelaine said to his daughter : 
 "The roads are passable; if you 
 wish it, Maria, we shall go to 
 La Pipe on Sunday for the mass." 
 "Very well, father;" but she 
 replied in a voice so dejected, almost indiffer- 
 ent, that her parents exchanged glances 
 behind her back. 
 
 Country folk do not die for love, nor spend 
 the rest of their days nursing a wound. They 
 aie too near to nature, and know too well the 
 stern laws that rule their Uves. Thus it is 
 perhaps, that they are sparing of high-soimd- 
 ing words; choosing to say "liking" rather 
 than "loving," "ennui" rather than "grief," 
 that so the joys and sorrows of the heart may 
 bear a fit proportion to those more anxious 
 concerns of life which have to do with their 
 daily toil, the yield of their lands, provision 
 for the future. ^' 
 
 [175] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Maria did not for a moment dream that life 
 for her was over, or that the world must 
 henceforward be a sad wUdemess, because 
 Francois Paradis would not return in the 
 spring nor ever again. But her heart was 
 aching, and while sorrow possessed it the 
 future held no promise for her. v 
 
 When Sunday arrived, father and daughter 
 early began to make ready for the two hours' 
 journey which would bring them to St. Henri 
 de Taillon, and the church. Before half-past 
 seven Charles Eugene was hemiessed, and 
 Maria, stiU wearing a heavy winter cloak, had 
 carefully deposited in her purse the hst of her 
 mother's commissions. A few minutes later 
 the sleigh-bells were tinkling, and the rest of 
 the family grouped themselves at the httle 
 square window to watch the departure. 
 
 For the first hour the horse coidd not go be- 
 yond a walk, sinking knee-deep in snow; for 
 only the Chapdelaines used this road, laid 
 out and cleared by themselves, and not 
 enough travelled to become smooth and hard. 
 But when they reached the beaten highway 
 Charles Eugene trotted along briskly. 
 [176] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 They passed through Honileur, a hamlet of 
 eight scattered houses, and then re-entered 
 the woods. After a time they came upon 
 clearings, then houses appeared dotted along 
 the road ; httle by Kttle the dusky ranks of the 
 forest retreated, and soon they were ia the 
 village with other sleighs before and following 
 them, aU going toward the church. 
 
 Since the beginning of the year Maria had 
 gone three times to hear mass at St. Henri de 
 TaiUon, which the people of the country per- 
 sist in calling La Pipe, as in the galleuit days 
 of the first settlers. For her, besides being an 
 exercise of piety, this was almost the only dis- 
 traction possible and her father sought to 
 furnish it whenever he could do so, believing 
 that the impressive rites of the church and a 
 meeting with acquaintances in the vfllage 
 would help to banish her grief. 
 
 On this occasion when the mass was ended, 
 instead of paying visits they went to the. 
 cure's house. It was already thronged with 
 members of the congregation from remote 
 farms, for the Canadian priest not only has 
 the consciences of his flock in charge, but is 
 their counsellor in aU affairs, and the com- 
 
 [177] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 poser of their disputes ; the sohtary individual 
 of different station to whom they can resort 
 for the solving of their difficulties. 
 
 The cure of St. Henri sent none away empty 
 who asked his advice ; some he dealt with in a 
 few swift words amidst a general conversation 
 where he bore his cheerful part; others at 
 greater length in the privacy of an adjoining 
 room. When the turn of the Chapdelaines 
 came he looked at his watch. 
 
 "We shall have dinner first. What say you, 
 my good friends.*^ You must have found an 
 appetite on the road. As for myself, singing 
 mass makes me hungry beyond anything you 
 could beheve." 
 
 He laughed heartily, more tickled than any- 
 one at his own joke, and led his guests into 
 the dining-room. Another priest was there 
 from a neighbouring parish, and two or three 
 farmers. The meal was one long discussion 
 about husbandry, with a few amusing stories 
 and bits of harmless gossip thrown in; now 
 and then one of the farmers, suddenly remem- 
 bering where he was, would labour some pious 
 remark which the priests acknowledged with 
 a nod or an absent-minded "Yes! Yes!" 
 
 [178] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 The dinner over at last, some of the guests 
 departed after hghting their pipes. The cure, 
 catching a glance from Ghapdeledne, seemed 
 to recall something; arising, he motioned to 
 Maria, and went before her into the next room 
 which served him both for visitors and as his 
 office. 
 
 A small harmonium stood against the wall; 
 on the other side was a table with agricultural 
 journals, a Civil Code and a few books bound 
 in black leather; on the walls hung a portredt 
 of Pius X., an engraving of the Holy Family, 
 the coloured broadside of a Quebec merchant 
 with sleighs and threshing-machines side by 
 side, and a number of official notices as to pre- 
 cautions against forest fixes and epidemics 
 amongst cattle. 
 
 Turning to Maria, the cure said kindly 
 enough: — "So it appears that you are distress- 
 ing yoTirself beyond what is reasonable and 
 right.3" 
 
 She looked at him humbly, not far from be- 
 Keving that the priest's supernatm-al power 
 had divined her trouble without need of 
 telling. He inclined his tall figure, and bent 
 toward her his thin peasant face; for beneath 
 
 [179] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the robe was still the tiller of the soil: the 
 gaunt and yellow visage, the cautious eyes, 
 the huge bony shoulders. Even his hands — 
 hands wont to dispense the favours of Heaven 
 — were those of the husbandman, with 
 swollen veins beneath the dark skin. But 
 Maria saw in him only the priest, the cure of 
 the parish, appointed of God to interpret life 
 to her and show her the path of duty. 
 
 "Be seated there," he said, pointing to a 
 chair. She sat down somewhat like a school- 
 girl who is to have a scolding, somewhat like 
 a woman in a sorcerer's den who awaits in 
 mingled hope and dread the working of his 
 unearthly spells. 
 
 An hour later the sleigh was speeding over 
 the hard snow. Chapdelaine drowsed, and 
 the reins were shpping from his open hands. 
 Rousing himself and hfting his head, he sang 
 again in full-voiced fervour the hymn he was 
 singing as they left the village: — 
 
 . . . Adorons-le dans le ciel. 
 Adorons-le sur I'autel . . . 
 
 Then he fell silent, his chin dropping 
 slowly toward his breast, and the only 
 
 -[180] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 sound upon the road was the tinkle of sleigh- 
 beUs. 
 
 Maria was thinking of the priest's words: 
 " If there was affection between you it is very 
 proper that you should know regret. But you 
 were not pledged to one another, because 
 neither you nor he had spoken to your par- 
 ents ; therefore it is not befitting or right that 
 you should sorrow thus, nor feel so deep a 
 grief for a young man who, after aU is said, 
 was nothing to you . . ." 
 
 And again: "That masses should be sung, 
 that you should pray for him, such things are 
 useful and good, you could do no better. 
 Three high masses with music, and three more 
 when the boys return from the woods, as your 
 father has asked me, most assuredly these will 
 help him, and also you may be certain they 
 will delight him more than your lamentations, 
 siace they will shorten by so much his time of 
 expiation. But to grieve like this, and to go 
 about casting gloom over the household is not 
 well, nor is it pleasing in the sight of God." 
 
 He did not appear in the guise of a com- 
 forter, nor of one who gives counsel in the 
 secret affairs of the heart, but rather as a man 
 
 [181] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of the law or a chemist who enunciates his 
 bald formulas, invariable and unfailing. 
 
 ' The duty of a girl Uke you — good-looking, 
 healthy, active withal and a clever house- 
 wife — is in the first place to help her old 
 parents, and in good time to marry and bring 
 up a Christian faiiuly of her own. You have 
 no call to the religious lifc^* No. Then you 
 must give up torturing yourself in this fash- 
 ion, because it is a sacrilegious thing and 
 unseemly, seeing that the young man was 
 nothing whatever to you. The good God 
 knows what is best for us ; we should neither 
 rebel nor complain . . ." 
 
 In all this, but one phrase left Maria a little 
 doubting, it was the priest's assurance that 
 Francois Paradis, in the place where now he 
 was, cared only for masses to repose his soul, 
 and never at all for the deep and tender regrets 
 lingering behind him. This she could not 
 constrain herself to believe. Unable to think 
 of him otherwise in death than in Hfe, she felt 
 it must bring him something of happiness and 
 consolation that her sorrow was keeping alive 
 their ineffectual love for a Httle space beyond 
 death. Yet, since the priest had said it . . , 
 
 [ 182 ] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 The road wound its way among the trees 
 rising sombrely from the snow. Here and 
 there a squirrel, alarmed by the swiftly pass- 
 ing sleigh and the tinkUng bells, sprang upon 
 a trunk and scrambled upward, clinging to the 
 bark. From the gray sky a biting cold was 
 falling and the wind stung the cheek, for this 
 was February, with two long months of 
 winter yet to come. 
 
 As Charles Eugene trotted along the beaten 
 road, bearing the travellers to their lonely 
 house, Maria, in obedience to the words of the 
 cure at St. Henri, strove to drive away gloom 
 and put mourning from her; as simple- 
 mindedly as she would have fought the tempta- 
 tion of a dance, of a doubtful amusement or 
 anything that was plainly wrong and hence 
 forbidden. 
 
 "^hey reached home as night was falling. 
 The coming of evening was only a slow fading 
 of the hght, for, since morning, the heavens 
 had been overcast, the sun obscured. A 
 sadness rested upon the paUid earth; the firs 
 and cypresses did not wear the aspect of living 
 trees and the naked birches seemed to doubt 
 of the springtime. Maria shivered as she left 
 
 [183] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the sleigh, and hardly noticed Chien, barking 
 and gamboUing a welcome, or the children 
 who called to her from the door-step. The 
 world seemed strangely empty, for this 
 evening at least. Love was snatched away, 
 and they forbade remembrance. She went 
 swiftly into the house without looking about 
 her, conscious of a new dread euid hatred for 
 the bleak land, the forest's eternal shade, the 
 snow and the cold, — for all those things she 
 had hved her life amongst, which now had 
 wounded her. '^ 
 
 1184] 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 LOVE BEARING GIFTS 
 
 March came, and. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 LOVE BEARING GIFTS 
 
 ARCH came, and one day Tit'Be 
 brought the news from Honfleur 
 that there would be a large gather- 
 ing in the evening at Ephrem 
 Surprenant's to which everyone 
 was invited. 
 But someone must stay to look after the 
 house, and as Madame Chapdelaine had set 
 her heart on this little diversion after being 
 cooped up for all these months, it was Tit'Be 
 himself who was left at home. Honfleur, the 
 nearest village to their house, was eight miles 
 away; but what were eight miles over the 
 snow and through the woods compared with 
 the dehght of hearing songs £ind stories, and 
 of talk with people from afar.** , 
 
 A numerous company was assembled under 
 the Surprenant roof: several of the villagers, 
 the three Frenchmen who had bought his 
 nephew Lorenzo's farm, and also, to the 
 Chapdelaines' great surprise, Lorenzo himself, 
 back once more from the States upon business 
 [187] 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 that related to the sale and the settling of his 
 father's affairs. He greeted Maria very 
 warmly, and seated himself beside her. 
 
 The men lit their pipes ; they chatted about 
 the weather, the condition of the roads, the 
 country news; but the conversation lagged, as 
 though all were looking for it to take some 
 unusual turn. Their glances sought Lorenzo 
 and the three Frenchmen, expecting strange 
 and marvellous tales of distant lands and un- 
 familiar manners from an assembly so far out 
 of the common. The Frenchmen, only a few 
 months in the country, apparently felt a hke 
 curiosity, for they listened, and spoke but 
 little. 
 
 Samuel Chapdelaine, who was meeting 
 them for the first time, deemed himself 
 called upon to put them through a catechism 
 in the ingenuous Canadian fashion. 
 
 "So you have come here to till the land. 
 How do you like Canada.^ " 
 
 "It is a beautiful country, new and so 
 vast ... In the summer-time there are 
 many flies, and the winters are trying; but I 
 suppose that one gets used to these things in 
 time." 
 
 [188] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 '' The father it was who made reply, his sons 
 only nodding their heads in assent with eyes 
 glued to the floori Their appearance alone 
 would have served to distinguish them from 
 the other dwellers in the village, but as they 
 spoke the gap widened, and the words that fell 
 from their lips had a foreign ring. There was 
 none of the slowness of the Canadian speech, 
 nor of that indefinable accent found in no 
 comer of France, which is only a peasant blend 
 of the different pronunciations of former emi- 
 grants. They used words and turns of phrase 
 one never hears in Quebec, even in the towns, 
 and which to these simple men seemed fas- 
 tidious and wonderfully refined. ' 
 
 "Before coming to these parts were you 
 farmers in your own country?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What trade then did you fonow.!^" 
 
 The Frenchman hesitated a moment before 
 replying; possibly thinking that what he was 
 about to say would be novel, and hard for 
 them to understand. " I was a tuner myself, 
 a piano-tuner; my two sons here were clerks, 
 Edmond in an office, Pierre in a shop." 
 
 [189] 
 
A[ARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Clerks — that was plain enough for anyone; 
 but their minds were a little hazy as Lo the 
 father's business. 
 
 However Ephrem Surprenant chimed in 
 with: — "Piano-tuner; that was it, just so!" 
 And his glance at Conrad Neron his neighbour 
 was a trifle superior and challenging, as 
 though intimating: — "You would not believe 
 me, and maybe you don't know what il 
 means, but now you see . . ." 
 
 "Piano-tuner," Samuel Chapdelaine echoed 
 in turn, slowly grasping the meaning of the 
 words. "And is that a good trade.'' Do you 
 earn handsome wages .3 Not too handsome, 
 eh! . . . At any rate you are well educated, 
 you and your sons; you can read and write 
 and cipher .^ And here am I, not able even 
 to read!" 
 
 "Nor I!" struck in Ephrem Surprenant, 
 and Conrad Neron and Egide Racicot added : 
 " Nor I ! " " Nor I ! " in chorus, whereupon the 
 whole of them broke out laughing. 
 
 A motion of the Frenchman's hand told 
 them indulgently that they could very well 
 dispense with these accomplishments; to 
 himself of little enough use at the moment. 
 [190] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 " You were not able to make a decent living 
 out of your trades over there. That is so, is 
 it not? And therefore you came here?" 
 
 The question was put simply, without 
 thought of offence, for he was amazed that 
 anyone should abandon callings that seemed 
 so easy and so pleasant for this arduous life 
 on the land. 
 
 Why indeed had they come? ... A few 
 months earUer they would have discovered a 
 thousand reasons and clothed them in words 
 straight from the heart: weariness of the foot- 
 way and the pavement, of the town's sullied 
 air; revolt against the prospect of Hfelong 
 slavery ; some chance stirring word of an irre- 
 sponsible speaker preaching the gospel of 
 vigour and enterprise, of a free and healthy 
 life upon a fruitful soil. But a few months ago 
 they could have found glowing sentences to 
 tell it all . . . Now their best was a sorry 
 effort to evade the question, as they groped 
 for any of the illusions that remained to 
 them. 
 
 "People are not always happy in the 
 cities," said the father. "Everything is dear, 
 and one is confined." 
 
 [191] 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 ■ In their narrow Parisian lodging it had 
 seemed so wonderful a thing to them, the 
 notion that in Canada they would spend their 
 days out of doors, breathing the tEuntless air 
 of a new country, close beside the mighty for- 
 est. The black-flies they had not foreseen, 
 nor comprehended the depth of the winter's 
 cold ; the countless ill turns of a land that has 
 no pity were undivined. 
 
 "Did you picture it to yourselves as you 
 have found it," Chapdelaine persisted, "the 
 country here, the life?" 
 
 "Not exactly," rephed the Frenchman in a 
 low voice. "No, not exactly . . ." And a 
 shadoAv crossed his face which brought from 
 Ephrem Surprenant: — "It is rough here, 
 rough and hard!"' 
 
 Their heads assented, and their eyes fell: 
 three narrow-shouldered men, their faces with 
 the pallor of the town still upon them after 
 six months on the land; three men whom a 
 fancy had torn from counter, office, piano- 
 stool — from the only Kves for which they were 
 bred. For it is not the peasant alone who 
 suffers by uprooting from his native soil. 
 They were seeing their mistake, and knew 
 
 ri92i 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 they were too unlike in grain to copy those 
 about them; lacking the strength, the rude 
 health, the toughened fibre, that training for 
 every task which fits the Canadian to be 
 farmer, woodsman or carpenter, according to 
 season and need. 
 
 The father was dreamily shaking his head, 
 lost in thought; one of the sons, elbows on 
 knees, gazed wonderingly at the palms of his 
 dehcate hands, calloused by the rough work of 
 the fields. All three seemed to be turning 
 over and over in their minds the melancholy 
 balance-sheet of a failure. wThose about them 
 were thinking: — "Lorenzo sold his place for 
 more than it was worth; they have but little 
 money left and are in hard case; men like 
 these are not built for living on the land." 
 
 Madame Chapdelaine, partly in pity and 
 partly for the honour of farming, let fall a few 
 encouraging words: — "It is something of a 
 struggle at the beginning — ^if you are not used 
 to it; but when your land is in better order 
 you will see that life becomes easier." 
 
 "It is a queer thing," said Conrad Neron, 
 "how every man finds it equally hard to rest 
 content. Here are three who left their homes 
 
 [193] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and came this long way to settle and farm, 
 and here am I always saying to myself that 
 nothing would be so pleasant as to sit quietly 
 in an office all the day, a pen behind my ear, 
 sheltered from cold wind and hot sun." 
 
 "Everyone to his own notion," declared 
 Lorenzo Surprenant, with unbiassed mind. 
 
 "And your notion is not to stick in Hon- 
 fleur sweating over the stumps," added 
 Racicot with a loud laugh. 
 
 "You are quite right there, and I make no 
 bones about it; that sort of thing would never 
 have suited me. These men here bought my 
 land — a good farm, and no one can gainsay it. 
 They wanted to buy a farm and I sold them 
 mine. But as for myself, I am well enough 
 where I am, and have no wish to return." 
 
 Madame Chapdelaine shook her head. 
 "There is no better life than the life of a far- 
 mer who has good health and owes no debts. 
 He is a free man, has no boss, owns his beasts, 
 works for his own profit . . . The finest life 
 there is!" 
 
 "I hear them all say that," Lorenzo re- 
 torted, " one is free, his onvn master. And you 
 seem to pity those who work in factories be- 
 
 [194] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 cause they have a boss, and must do as they 
 are told. Free — on the land — come now!" 
 He spoke defiantly, with more and more 
 animation. 
 
 "There is no man in the world less free 
 than a farmer . . . When you teU of those 
 who have succeeded, who are well provided 
 with everything needful on a farm, who have 
 had better luck than others, you say: — 'Ah, 
 what a fine life they lead! They are comfor- 
 tably off, own good cattle.' That is not how to 
 put it. The truth is that their cattle own 
 them. In all the world there is no 'boss' who 
 behaves as stupidly as the beasts you favour. 
 Pretty nearly every day they give you trouble 
 or dp you some mischief. Now it is a skittish 
 horse that runs away or lashes out with his 
 heels; then it is a cow, however good-tem- 
 pered, that won't keep stiU to be milked and 
 tramples on your toes when the flies annoy her. 
 And even if by good fortune they don't harm 
 you, they are forever finding a way to destroy 
 your comfort and to vex you . . ." 
 
 "I know how it is; I was brought up on a 
 farm. And you, most of you farmers, know 
 how it is too. All the morning you have 
 
 [195] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 worked hard, and go to your house for dinner 
 and a httle rest. Then, before you are well 
 seated at table, a child is yelling: — 'The 
 cows are over the fence ; ' or ' The sheep are in 
 the crop,' and everyone jumps up and runs, 
 thinking of the oats or the barley it has been 
 such a trouble to raise, that these miserable 
 fools are ruining. The men dash about 
 brandishing sticks till they are out of breath; 
 the women stand screaming in the farm-yard. 
 And when you have managed to drive the 
 cows or the sheep into their paddock and put 
 up the rails, you get back to the house nicely 
 'rested' to find the pea-soup cold and full of 
 flies, the pork under the table gnawed by 
 dogs and cats, and you eat what you can lay 
 your hands on, watching for the next trick the 
 wretched animals are getting ready to play on 
 you." 
 
 "You are their slaves; that's what you are. 
 You tend them, you clean them, you gather 
 up their dung as the poor do the rich man's 
 crumbs. It is you who must keep them alive 
 by hard work, because the earth is miserly and 
 the summer so short. That is the way of it, 
 and there is no help, as you cannot get on 
 
 [196] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 without them; but for cattle there would be 
 no livmg on the land. But even if you could 
 . . . even if you could . . . still would 
 you have other masters: the summer, begin- 
 ning too late and ending too soon ; the winter, 
 eating up seven long months of the year and 
 bringing in nothing; drought and rain which 
 always come just at the wrong moment ..." 
 
 "In the towns these things do not matter; 
 but here you have no defence against them 
 and they do you hurt; and I have not taken 
 into account the extreme cold, the badness of 
 the roads, the loneliness of being far away 
 from everything, with no amusements. Life 
 is one kind of hardship on top of another 
 from beginning to end. It is often said that 
 only those make a real success who are born 
 and brought up on the land, and of course 
 that is true; as for the people in the cities, 
 small danget that they would ever be foolish 
 enough to put up with such a way of hving."- 
 
 He spoke with heat and volubly — a man of 
 the town who talks every day with his equals, 
 reads the papers, hears pubhc speakers. The 
 Usteners, of a race easily moved by words, 
 were carried away by his plaints and criti- 
 
 [197] 
 
AlARIA CHAP DELAINE 
 
 cisms; the very real harshness of their lives 
 was presented in such a new and startling 
 hght as to surprise even themselves. 
 
 However Madame Chapdelaine again shook 
 her head. "Do not say such things as that; 
 there is no happier life in the world than the 
 life of a farmer who owns good land." 
 
 "Not in these parts, Madame Chapdelaine. 
 You are too far north; the sunamer is too 
 short; the grain is hardly up before the frosts,^ 
 come. Each time that I return from the 
 States, and see the tiny wooden houses lost in 
 this wilderness — so far from one another that 
 they seem frightened at being alone — and the 
 woods hemming you in on every side . . . 
 By Heaven! I lose heart for you, I who hve 
 here no longer, and I ask myself how it comes 
 about that all you folk did not long ago seek 
 a kinder climate where you would find every- 
 thing that makes for comfort, where you could 
 go out for a walk in the winter-time without 
 being in fear of death . . ." 
 
 Without being in fear of death! Maria 
 shuddered as the thought swiftly awoke of 
 those dark secrets hidden beneath the ever- 
 lasting green and white of the forest. Lorenzo 
 
 [1981 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Surprenant was right in what he had been 
 saying; it was a pitiless ungentle land. The 
 menace lurking just outside the door — the 
 cold — the shrouding snows — the blank soli- 
 tude — forced a sudden entrance and crowded 
 about the stove, an evil swarm sneering 
 presages of ill or hovering in a yet more 
 dreadful silence: — "Do you remember, my 
 sister, the men, brave and weU-beloved, whom 
 we have slain and hidden in the woods? Their 
 souls have known how to escape us ; but their 
 bodies, their bodies, their bodies, none shall 
 ever snatch them from our hands . . ." 
 
 The voice of the wind at the corners of the 
 house was loud with hollow laughter, and to 
 Maria it seemed that all gathered within the 
 wooden walls huddled and spoke low, like men 
 whose lives are under a threat and who go in 
 dread. 
 
 A burden of sadness was upon the rest of 
 the evening, at least for her. Racicot told 
 stories of the chase: of trapped bears strug- 
 ghng and growling so fiercely at the sight of 
 the trapper that he loses courage and falls 
 a-trembhng; and then giving up suddenly 
 when the hunters come in force and the 
 
 [199] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 deadly guns are aimed — giving up, covering 
 their heads with their paws and wliimpering 
 with groans and outcries almost human, very 
 heart-rending and pitiful. 
 
 After these tales came others of ghosts 
 and apparitions ; of blood-curdhng visitations 
 or solemn warnings to men who had blas- 
 phemed or spoken ill of the priests. Then, as 
 no one could be persuaded to sing, they 
 played at cards and the conversation dropped 
 to more commonplace themes. The only 
 memory that Maria carried away of the 
 later talk, as the sleigh bore them homeward 
 through the midnight woods, was of Lorenzo 
 Surprenant extolling the United States and 
 the magnificence of its great cities, the easy 
 and pleasant hfe, the never-ending spectacle 
 of the fine straight streets flooded with light 
 at evening. 
 
 Before she departed Lorenzo said in quiet 
 tones, almost in her ear:— "To-morrow is 
 Sunday; I shall be over to see you in the 
 afternoon." 
 
 A few short hours of night, a morning of 
 sunlight on the snow, and again he is by her 
 side renewing his tale of wonders, his inter- 
 
 1200] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 rupted plea. For it was to her he had been 
 speaking the evening before; Maria knew it 
 well. The scorn he showed for a country 
 life, his praises of the town, these were but 
 a preface to the allurements he was about 
 to offer in all their varied forms, as one shows 
 the pictures in a book, turning page by page. 
 ^ "Maria," he began, "you have not the 
 faintest idea! As yet, the most wonderful 
 things you ever saw were the shops in Rober- 
 val, a high mass, an evening entertainment 
 at the convent with acting. City people 
 would laugh to think of it ! You simply can- 
 not imagine . . . Just to stroll through the 
 big streets in the evening — not on httle 
 plank-walks hke those of Roberval, but on 
 fine broad asphalt pavements as level as a 
 table — ^just that and no more, what with the 
 lights, the electric cars coming and going 
 continually, the shops and the crowds, you 
 would find enough there to amaze you for 
 weeks together. And then all the amuse- 
 ments one has: theatres, circusses, illustrated 
 papers, and places everywhere that you can 
 go into for a nickel — ^five cents — and pass 
 two hours laughing and crying. To think, 
 
 (201] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Maria, you do not even know what the 
 movmg pictures are!" 
 
 He slopped for a Uttle, reviewing in his 
 mind the marvels of the cinematograph, 
 asking himself whether he could hope to 
 describe convincingly the fare it provided : — 
 those thrilhng stories of young girls, deserted 
 or astray, which crowd the screen witli 
 twelve minutes of heart-rending misery and 
 three of amends and heavenly reward in 
 surroundings of incredible luxury ; — the fren- 
 zied galloping of cowboys in pursuit of Indian 
 ravishers; the tremendous fusillade; the 
 rescue at the last conceivable second by 
 soldiers arriving in a whirlwind, waving 
 triumphantly the star-spangled banner . . . 
 after pausing in doubt he shook his head, 
 conscious that he had no words to paint 
 such glories. 
 
 They walked on snow-shoes side by side 
 over the snow, through the burnt lands that 
 lie on the Peribonka's high bank above the 
 fall. Lorenzo had used no wile to secure 
 Maria's company, he simply invited her 
 before them all, and now he told of his love 
 in the same straightforward practical way. 
 
 [202] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "The first day I saw you, Maria, the very 
 first day . . . that is only the truth! For 
 a long time I had not been back in this 
 country, and I was thinking what a miserable 
 place it was to live in, that the men were a 
 lot of simpletons who had never seen any- 
 thing and the girls not nearly so quick and 
 clever as they are in the States . . . And 
 then, the moment I set eyes on you, there 
 was I saying to myself that I was the simple- 
 ton, for neither at Lowell nor Boston had 
 I ever met a girl hke yourself. When I 
 returned I used to be thinking a dozen times 
 a day that some wretched farmer would 
 make love to you and carry you off, and 
 every time my heart sank. It was on your 
 account that I came back, Maria, came up 
 here from near Boston, three days' journey! 
 The business I had, I could have done it all 
 by letter; it was you I wished to see, to tell 
 you what was in my heart to say and to hear 
 the answer you would give me." 
 
 Wherever the snow was clear for a few 
 yards, free of dead trees Euid stumps, and he 
 could lift his eyes without fear of stumbling, 
 they were fixed upon Maria; between the 
 
 [203] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 woollen cap and the long woollen jersey 
 ciu-ving to her vigorous form he saw the 
 outline of her face, downward turned, ex- 
 pressing only gentleness and patience. Every 
 glance gave fresh reason for his love but 
 brought him no hint of a response. 
 
 "This . . . this is no place for you, 
 Maria. The country is too rough, the work 
 too hard; barely earning one's bread is 
 kilhng toil. In a factory over there, clever 
 and strong as you are, soon you would be 
 in the way of making nearly as much as 
 I do; but no need of that if you were my 
 wife. I earn enough for both of us, and we 
 should have every comfort: good clothes to 
 wear, a pretty flat in a brick house with gas 
 and hot water, and all sorts of contrivances 
 you never heard of to save you labour and 
 worry every moment of the day. And don't 
 let the idea enter your head that all the 
 people are English. I know many Canadian 
 families who work as I do or even keep 
 shops. And there is a splendid church with 
 a Canadian priest as cure — Mr. Tremblay 
 from St. Hyacinthe. You would never be 
 lonesome ..." 
 
 [204] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Pausing again he surveyed the white 
 plain with its ragged crop of brown stumps, 
 the bleak plateau dropping a little farther in 
 a long slope to the levels of the frozen river; 
 meanwhile ransacking his mind for some 
 final persuasive word. <^ 
 
 '^"I hardly know what to say . . . You 
 have always Uved here and it is not possible 
 for you to guess what life is elsewhere, nor 
 would I be able to make you understand 
 were I to talk forever. But I love you, Maria, 
 I earn a good wage and I never touch a drop. 
 If you will marry me as I ask I will take you 
 off to a country that will open yovir eyes 
 with astonishment — a fine country, not a 
 bit like this, where we can Uve in a decent 
 way and be happy for the rest of our days." , 
 
 Maria stiU was silent, and yet the sentences 
 of Lorenzo Surprenant beat upon her heart 
 as succeeding waves roll against the shore. 
 It was not his avowals of love, honest and 
 sincere though they were, but the lures he 
 used which tempted her. Only of cheap 
 pleasures had he spoken, of trivial things 
 ministering to comfort or vanity, but of 
 these alone was she able to conjure up a 
 
 [2051 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 definite idea. All else — the distant glamour 
 of the city, of a life new and incomprehen- 
 sible to her, full in the centre of the bustling 
 world and no longer at its very confines — 
 enticed her but the more in its shimmering 
 remoteness with the mystery of a great light 
 that shines from afar. 
 
 Whatsoever there may be of wonder and ex- 
 hilaration in the sight and touch of the crowd ; 
 the rich harvests of mind and sense for which 
 the city dweller has bartered his rough heri- 
 tage of pride in the soil, Maria was dimly con- 
 scious of as part of this other life in a new 
 world, this glorious re-birth for which she 
 was already yearning. But above all else 
 the desire was strong upon her now to flee 
 away, to escape. 
 
 The wind from the east was driving before 
 it a host of melancholy snow-laden clouds. 
 Threateningly they swept over white ground 
 and sullen wood, and the earth seemed await- 
 ing another fold of its winding-sheet; cypress, 
 spruce and fir, close side by side and motion- 
 less, were passive in their attitude of uncom- 
 plaining endurance. The stumps above the 
 snow were like floating wreckage on a dreary 
 
 f20Gl 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 sea. In all the landscape there was naught 
 that spoke of a spring to come — of warmth 
 and growth; rather did it seem a shard of 
 some disinherited planet under the eternal 
 rule of deadly cold. 
 
 AU of her hfe had Maria known this cold, 
 this snow, the land's death-like sleep, these 
 austere and frowning woods; now was she 
 coming to view them with fear and hate. A 
 paradise surely must it be, this country to 
 the south where March is no longer winter 
 and in April the leaves are green! At mid- 
 winter one takes to the road without snow- 
 shoes, unclad in furs, beyond sight of the 
 cruel forest. And the cities . . . the pave- 
 ments . . . 
 
 Questions framed themselves upon her 
 Ups. She would know if lofty houses and 
 shops stood unbrokenly on both sides of the 
 streets, as she had been told; if the electric 
 cars ran all the year round ; if the living was 
 very dear . . . And the answers to her 
 questions would have satisfied but a little of 
 this eager curiosity, would scarcely have 
 disturbed the enchanting vagueness of her 
 illusion. 
 
 [207] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 She was silent, however, dreading to speak 
 any word that might seem Uke the fore- 
 shadowing of a promise. Though Lorenzo 
 gazed at her long as they walked together across 
 the snow, he was able to guess nothing of 
 what was passing in her heart. 
 
 "You will not have me, Maria. ^^ You have 
 no liking for me, or is it, perhaps, that you 
 cannot make up your mind."*" As still she 
 gave no reply he clung to this idea, fearing 
 that she might hastily refuse him. 
 
 "No need whatever that you should say 
 ' Yes ' at once. You have not known me very 
 long . . . But think of what I have said to 
 you. I wiU come back, Maria. It is a long 
 journey and costly, but I will come. And if 
 only you give thought to it, you wiU see there 
 is no young fellow here who could give you 
 such a future as I can; because if you marry 
 me we shall live like human beings, and not 
 have to kill ourselves tending cattle and 
 grubbing in the earth in this out-of-the-way 
 corner of the world." 
 
 They returned to the house. Lorenzo gos- 
 siped a httle about his journey to the States, 
 where the springtime would have arrived be- 
 
 [208] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 fore him, of the plentiful and well-paid work 
 to which his good clothes and prosperous air 
 bore witness. Then he bade them adieu, and 
 Maria, whose eyes had carefully been avoid- 
 ing his, seated herself by the window, and 
 watched the night and the snow feJUng to- 
 gether as she pondered in the deep unrest of 
 her spirit. 
 
 [209] 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 LOVE BEARING CHAINS 
 
 No one asked Maria any questions that evening . 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LOVE BEARING CHAINS 
 
 |0 one asked Maria any questions 
 that evening, or on the following 
 evenings; but some member of the 
 family must have told Eutrope 
 Gagnon of Lorenzo Surprenant's 
 visit and his evident intentions, 
 for the next Sunday after dinner came Eu- 
 trope in turn, and Maria heard another suitor 
 declare his love. 
 
 Frangois had come in the full tide of sum- 
 mer, from the land of mystery at the head- 
 waters of the rivers; the memory of his artless 
 words brought back the dazzling sunshine, 
 the ripened blueberries and the last blossoms 
 of the laurel fading in the undergrowth ; after 
 him appeared Lorenzo Surprenant offering 
 other gifts, — visions of beautiful distant cities, 
 of a hfe abounding in unknown wonders. 
 When Eutrope spoke, it was in a shamefaced 
 halting way, as though he foresaw defeat, 
 knowing full well that he bore Uttle in his 
 hands wherewith to tempt her. 
 
 [213] 
 
MARIA C H A P D E L A I N E 
 
 Boldly enough he asked Maria to walk 
 with him, but when they were dressed and 
 outside the door, they saw that snow was 
 falling. Maria stood dubiously on the step, 
 a hand on the latch as though she would 
 return; and Eu trope, unwiUing to lose his 
 chance, began forthwith to speak — hastening 
 as though doubtful that he would be able to 
 say all that was in his mind. 
 
 "You know very well, Maria, how I feel 
 toward you. I said nothing before as my 
 farm was not so forward that we could live 
 there comfortably, and moreover I guessed 
 that you Uked Frangois Paradis better than 
 me. But as Frangois is no longer here, and 
 this young fellow from the States is courting 
 you, I said to myself that I, too, might try my 
 fortune . . ." 
 
 The snow was coming now in serried flakes, 
 fluttering whitely for an instant against the 
 darkly-encircling forest, on the way to join 
 that other snow with which five months of 
 winter had burdened the earth. 
 
 " It is true enough that I am not rich ; but I 
 have two lots of my own, paid for out and out, 
 and you know the soil is good. I shall work on 
 
 [2U] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 it all spring, take the stumps out of the large 
 field below the ridge of rock, put up some 
 fences, and by May there will be a fine big 
 field ready for seeding. I shall sow a hundred 
 and thirty bushels, Maria, — a hundred and 
 thirty bushels of wheat, barley and oats, with- 
 out reckoning an acre of mixed grain for the 
 cattle. All the seed, the best seed-grain, I am 
 going to buy at Roberval, settling for it on the 
 spot . . . Ihavethemoney put aside; I shall 
 pay cash, without running into debt to a sovd, 
 and if only we have an average season there 
 will be a fine crop to harvest. Just think of it, 
 Maria, a hundred and thirty bushels of good 
 seed in first-rate land! And in the summer 
 before the hay-making, and then ageun before 
 the harvest, will be the best chance for build- 
 ing a nice tight warm little house, aU of tama- 
 rack. I have the wood ready, cut and piled 
 behind my bam; my brother will help me, 
 perhaps Esdras and Da'Be as well, when they 
 get home. Next winter I shall go to the 
 shanties, taking a horse with me, and in the 
 spring I shall bring back not less than two 
 hundred dollars in my pocket. Then, should 
 
 [215] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 you be \\ illing to wait so long for me, would be 
 the time . . ." 
 
 Maria was leaning against the door, a hand 
 still upon the latch, her eyes turned away. 
 Eutrope Gagnon had just this and no more to 
 offer her: after a year of waiting that she 
 should become his wife, and live as now she 
 was doing in another wooden house on an- 
 other half-cleared farm . . . Should do the 
 household work and the cooking, milk the 
 cows, clean the stable when her man was 
 away — ^labour in the fields perhaps, since she 
 was strong and there would be but two of 
 them . . . Should spend her evenings at the 
 spinning-wheel or in patching old clothes 
 . . . Now and then in suncuner resting for 
 half an hour, seated on the door-step, looking 
 across their scant fields girt by the measure- 
 less frowning woods; or in winter thawing 
 a little patch with her breath on the window- 
 pane, dulled with frost, to watch the snow fall- 
 ing on the wintry earth and the forest . . . 
 The forest . . . Always the inscrutable, 
 inimical forest, with a host of dark things hid- 
 ing there — closed round them with a savage 
 grip that must be loosened little by little, year 
 
 [5161 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 hy year; a few acres won each spring and 
 autumn as the years pass, throughout all the 
 long days of a dull harsh life . . . No, that 
 she could not face . . . 
 
 "I knbw well enough that we shall have to 
 work hard at first," Eutrope went on, "but 
 you have courage, Maria, and are well used to 
 labour, as I am. I have always worked hard ; 
 no one can say that I was ever lazy, and 
 if only you will marry me it will be my joy to 
 toU hke an ox all the day long to make a thriv- 
 ing place of it, so that we shall be in comfort 
 before old age comes upon us. I do not touch 
 drink, Maria, and truly I love you . . ." 
 
 His voice quivered, and he put out his hand 
 toward the latch to take hers, or perhaps to 
 hinder her from opening the door and leaving 
 him without his answer. 
 
 "My affection for you ... of that I am 
 not able to speak ..." 
 
 Never a word did she utter in reply. Once 
 more a young man was telling his love, was 
 placing in her hands all he had to give; and 
 once more she could but hearken in mute em- 
 barrassment, only saved from awkwardness 
 by her immobiUty and silence. Town-bred 
 
 [217] 
 
>[ARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 girls had though I her stupid, when she was 
 but honest and truthful; very close to nature 
 which takes no account of words. In other 
 days when life was simpler than now it is, 
 when young men paid their court — master- 
 fully and yet half bashfully — to some deep- 
 bosomed girl in the ripe fullness of woman- 
 hood who had not heard nature's imperious 
 command, she must have listened thus, in 
 silence; less attentive to their pleading than 
 to the inner voice, guarding herself by dis- 
 tance against too ardent a wooing, whilst she 
 awaited . . . '■ The three lovers of Maria 
 Chapdelaine were not drawn to her by any 
 charm of gracious speech, but by her sheer 
 comeliness, and the transparent honest heart 
 dwelling in her bosom ; when they spoke to her 
 of love she was true to herself, steadfast and 
 serene, saying no word where none was need- 
 ful to be said, and for this they loved her only 
 the more. 
 
 "This young fellow from the States was 
 ready with fine speeches, but you must not be 
 carried away by them ..." He caught a 
 hint of dissent and changed his tone. 
 
 [2181 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 " Of course you are quite free to choose, and 
 I have not a word to say against him. But 
 you would be happier here, Maria, amongst 
 people like yourself." 
 
 Through the falling snow Maria gazed at 
 the rude structure of planks, between stable 
 and barn, which her father and brother had 
 thrown together five years before; unsightly 
 and squahd enough it appeared, now that her 
 fancy had begun to conjure up the stately 
 buildings of the town. Close and ill-smelling, 
 the floor Uttered with manure and foul straw, 
 the pump in one corner that was so hard to 
 work and set the teeth on edge with its grid- 
 ing; the weather-beaten outside, buffeted by 
 wind and never-ending snow — sign and sym- 
 bol of what awaited her were she to marry one 
 like Eutrope Gagnon, and accept as her lot a 
 lifetime of rude toil in this sad and desolate 
 land . . . She shook her head. 
 
 "I cannot answer, Eutrope, either yes or 
 no; not just now. I have given no promise. 
 You must wait." 
 
 It was more than she had said to Lorenzo 
 Surprenant, and yet Lorenzo had gone away 
 with hope in his heart, while Eutrope felt that 
 
 [319] 
 
MARIA f:HAPDELAINE 
 
 he had made his throw and lost. Departing 
 alone, the snow soon hid him. She entered 
 the house. y 
 
 March dragged through its melancholy 
 days; cold winds drove the gray clouds back 
 and forth across the sky, and swept the snow 
 hither and thither; one must needs consult 
 the calendar of the Roberval grain merchant 
 to get an inkling that spring was drawing 
 near. 
 
 Succeeding days were to Maria Hke those 
 that had gone before, each one bringing its 
 famihar duties and the same routine; but the 
 evenings were different, and were filled with 
 pathetic strivings to think. Beyond doubt her 
 parents had guessed the truth ; but they were 
 unwiUing to force her reserve with their ad- 
 vice, nor did she seek it. She knew that it 
 rested with her alone to make a choice, to 
 settle the future course of her life, and she felt 
 like a child at school, standing on a platform 
 before watchful eyes, bidden to find by herself 
 the answer to some knotty question. 
 
 And this was her problem: when a girl is 
 grown to womanhood, when she is good-look- 
 
 [220] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 ing, healthy and strong, clever in all that per- 
 tams to the household and the farm, young 
 men come and ask her to marry, and she must 
 say "Yes" to this one and "No" to another. 
 
 If only Frangois Paradis had not vanished 
 forever in the great lonely woods, all were 
 then so plain. No need to ask herself Avhat 
 she ought to do ; she would have gone straight 
 to him, guided by a wise instinct that she 
 might not gainsay, sure of doing what was 
 right as a child that obeys a command. But 
 Frangois was gone; neither in the promised 
 springtime nor ever again to return, and the 
 cure of St. Henri forbade regrets that would 
 prolong the awaiting. 
 
 Ah, dear God! How happy had been the 
 early days of this awaiting ! As week followed 
 week something quickened in her heart and 
 shot upward, like a rich and beauteous sheaf 
 whose opening ears bend low under their 
 weight. Happiness beyond any dream came 
 dancing to her . . . No, it was stronger and 
 keener yet, this joy of hers. It had been a 
 great Ught shining in the twihght of a lonely 
 land, a beacon toward which one journeys, 
 
 [221] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 forgetful of the tears that were about to flow, 
 saying with glad defiance: "I knew it well — 
 knew that somewhere on the earth was such a 
 thing as this . . ." It was over. Yes, the 
 gleam was gone. Henceforth must she forget 
 that once it had shone upon her path, and 
 grope through the dark with faltering steps. 
 Chapdelaine and Tit'Be were smoking in 
 silence by the stove ; the mother knitted stock- 
 ings; Chien, stretched out with his head be- 
 tween his paws, bhnked sleepily in enjoyment 
 of the good M'annth. Telesphore had dozed off 
 with the catechism open on his knees, and 
 the httle Ahna Rose, not yet in bed, was 
 hovering in doubt between the wish to draw 
 attention to her brother's indolence, and a 
 sense of shame at thus betraying him. 
 1/ Maria looked down again, took her work in 
 hand, and her simple mind pursued a Httle 
 further its puzzhng train of thought. When a 
 girl does not feel, or feels no longer, that deep 
 mysterious impulse toward a man singled out 
 from aU the rest of the world, what is left to 
 guide her.^* For what things should she seek in 
 her marriage .^* For a satisfying life, surely; to 
 make a happy home for herself . . . 
 
 ['222] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Her parents would like her to marry Eu- 
 trope Gagnon — that she felt — because she 
 would live near them, and again because this 
 life upon the land was the only one they knew, 
 and they naturally thought it better than any 
 other. Eutrope was a fine feUow, hard-work- 
 ing and of kindly disposition, and he loved 
 her; but Lorenzo Surprenant also loved her; 
 he, likewise, was steady and a good worker; 
 he was a Canadian at heart, not less than 
 those amongst whom she lived; he went to 
 church . . . And he offered as his splendid 
 gift a world dazzhng to the eye, all the won- 
 ders of the city. He would rescue her from 
 this oppression of frozen earth and gloomy 
 forest. 
 
 She could not as yet resolve to say to her- 
 self: "I will marry Lorenzo Surprenant," but 
 her heart had made its choice. The cruel 
 north-west wind that heaped the snow above 
 Fran§ois Paradis at the foot of some desolate 
 cypress bore also to her on its wings the frown 
 and the harshness of the coiuitry wherein she 
 dwelt, and filled her with hate of the northern 
 winter, the cold, the whitened ground and the 
 loneliness, of that boundless forest unheedful 
 
 [223] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of the destinies of men where every melan- 
 choly tree is fit to stand in a home of the dead. 
 Love — all-compelling love — for a brief space 
 had dwelt within her heart . . . Mighty 
 flame, scorching and bright, quenched now, 
 and never to revive. It left her spirit empty 
 and yearning; she was fain to seek forgetful- 
 ness and cure in that life afar, among the 
 myriad paler lights of the city. • 
 
 [22il 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 INTO THE DEEP SILENCE 
 
 There came an evening in April when. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 INTO THE DEEP SILENCE 
 
 HERE came an evening in April 
 when Madame Chapdelaine would 
 not take her place at the supper 
 table with the others. 
 
 "There are pains through my 
 body and I have no appetite," she 
 said, " I must have strained myself to-day hft- 
 ing a bag of floiir when I was making bread. 
 Now something catches me in the back, and 
 I am not himgry." 
 
 No one answered her. Those hving shel- 
 tered lives take quick alarm when the mech- 
 anism of one of their number goes wrong, 
 but people who wrestle with the earth for a 
 hving feel Uttle surprise if their labours are 
 too much for them now and then, and the 
 body gives way in some fibre. ^ 
 
 While father and children supped, Ma- 
 dame Chapdeledne sat very still in her chair 
 beside the stove. She drew her breath hard, 
 and her broad face was working. 
 
 [227] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAIINE 
 
 "I am going to bed," she said presently. 
 "A good night's sleep, and to-morrow morning 
 I shall be all right again; have no doubt of 
 that. You win see to the baking, Maria." 
 
 And indeed in the morning she was up at 
 her usual hour, but when she had made the 
 batter for the pancakes pain overcame her, 
 and she had to He down again. She stood for 
 a minute beside the bed, with both hands 
 pressed against her back, and made certain 
 that the daily tasks would be attended to. 
 
 "You will give the men their food, Maria, 
 and your father wiU lend you a hand at milk- 
 ing the cows if you wish it. I am not good for 
 anything this morning." 
 
 "It will be all right, mother; it will be 
 all right. Take it quietly; we shall have no 
 trouble." 
 
 For two days she kept her bed, with a 
 watchful eye over everything, directing all 
 the household affairs. 
 
 "Don't be in the least anxious," her hus- 
 band inged again and again. "There is 
 hardly anything to be done in the house be- 
 yond the cooking, and Maria is quite fit to 
 look after that — everything else too, by 
 
 [228] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 thunder! She is not a little child any longer, 
 and is as capable as yourself. Lie there 
 quietly, without stirring; and be easy in your 
 mind, instead of tossing about all the time 
 under the blankets and making yourself 
 worse." 
 
 On the third day she gave up thinking 
 about the cares of the house and began to be- 
 moan herself. 
 
 " Oh my God ! " she wailed. " I have pains 
 all over my body, and my head is burning. I 
 think that I am going to die." 
 
 Her husband tried to cheer her with his 
 clumsy pleasantries. "You are going to die 
 when the good God wills it, and according to 
 my way of thinking that wiU not be for a 
 while yet. What would He be doing with 
 you .3 Heaven is all cluttered with old women, 
 and down here we have only the one, and she 
 is able to make herself a bit useful, every 
 now and then . . ." But he was beginning 
 to feel anxious, and took coimsel with his 
 daughter. 
 
 "I could put the horse in and go as far as 
 La Pipe," he suggested. " It may be that they 
 have some medicine for this sickness at the 
 
 [229] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 store; or I might talk things over with tlie 
 cure, and he would teU me what to do." 
 
 Before they had made up their minds night 
 had fallen, and Tit'Be, who had been at 
 Eutrope Gagnon's helping him to saw his 
 firewood, came back bringing Eutrope along 
 with him. 
 
 "Eutrope has a remedy," said he. They all 
 gathered round Eutrope, who took a Kttle tin 
 box from his pocket and opened it deUber- 
 ately. 
 
 " This is what I have," he announced rather 
 dubiously. "They are httle piUs. When my 
 brother was bad with bis kidneys three years 
 ago he saw an advertisement in a paper about 
 these piUs, and it said they were the proper 
 thing, so he sent the money for a box, and he 
 declares it is a good medicine. Of course his 
 trouble did not leave him at once, but he says 
 that this did him good. It comes from the 
 States ..." 
 
 Without word said they looked at the Uttle 
 gray pills rolling about on the bottom of the 
 box ... A remedy compounded by some 
 man in a distant land famed for his wis- 
 dom . . . And they felt the awe of the sav- 
 
 [230] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 age for his broth of herbs simmered on a 
 iiight of the full moon beneath the medicine- 
 man's incantations. 
 
 Maria asked doubtfxilly : " Is it certain that 
 her trouble has only to do with the kidneys? " 
 
 "I thought it was just that, from what 
 Tit'Be told me." 
 
 A motion of Chapdelaine's hand eked out 
 liis words : — "She strained herself lifting a bag 
 of flour, as she says; and now she has pains 
 everywhere. How can we teU ..." 
 
 "The newspaper that spoke of this med- 
 icine," Eutrope Gagnon went on, "put it 
 that whenever a person falls sick and is in 
 pain it is always the kidneys; and for trouble 
 in the kidneys these piUs here are first-rate. 
 That is what the paper said, and my brother 
 as well." 
 
 "Even if they are not for this very sick- 
 ness," said Tit'Be deferentially, "they are a 
 remedy all the same." 
 
 "She suifers, that is one thing certain; we 
 cannot let her go on like this." 
 
 They drew near the bed where the sick 
 woman was moEining and breathing heavily, 
 attempting from time to time to make slight 
 
 [231] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 movements which were followed by sharper 
 outcries. 
 
 "Eutrope has brought you a cure, Laura." 
 
 "I have no faith in your cures," she 
 groaned out. But yet she was ready to look 
 at the httle gray piUs ever running round in 
 the tin box as if they were alive. 
 
 " My brother took some of these three years 
 ago when he had the kidney trouble so badly 
 that he was hardly able to work at all, and he 
 says that they ciu-ed him. It is a fine remedy, 
 Madame Chapdelaine, there is not a question 
 of it!" His former doubts had vanished in 
 speech and he felt wholly confident. " This is 
 going to cure you, Madame Chapdelaine, as 
 svirely as the good God is above us. It is a 
 medicine of the very first class; my brother 
 had it sent expressly from the States. You 
 may be sure that you would never find a 
 medicine Hke this in the store at La Pipe." 
 
 "It cannot make her worse?" Maria asked, 
 some doubt fingering. " It is not a poison, or 
 anything of that sort.^*" 
 
 With one voice, in an indignant tone, the 
 three men protested : "Do harm .^> Tiny pills 
 no bigger than that!" 
 
 [232] 
 
MAniA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "My brother took nearly a box of them, 
 and according to his account it was only good 
 they did him." 
 
 When Eutrope departed he left the box of 
 piUs; the sick woman had not yet agreed to 
 try them, but her objections grew weaker at 
 their urging. In the middle of the night she 
 took a couple, and two more in the morning, 
 and as the hom-s passed they all waited in con- 
 fidence for the virtue of the medicine to de- 
 clare itself. But toward midday they had to 
 bow to the facts: she was no easier and did 
 not cease her moaning. By evening the box 
 was empty, and at the falling of night her 
 groans were fiUing the household with 
 anguished distress, all the keener as they 
 had no medicine now in which to place their 
 trust. 
 
 Maria was up several times in the night, 
 aroused by her mother's more piercing cries; 
 she always found her lying motionless on her 
 side, and this position seemed to increase the 
 suffering and the stiffness, so that her groans 
 were pitiful to hear. 
 
 "What ails you, mother? Are you not 
 feeling any better?" 
 
 [2.?3] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Ah God, how I suffer! How I do suffer! 
 I cannot stir myself, not the least bit, and 
 even so the pain is as bad as ever. Give me 
 some cold water, Maria; I have the most 
 terrible thirst." 
 
 Several times Maria gave her mother 
 water, but at last she became afraid. "May- 
 be it is not good for you to drink, so much. 
 Try to bear the thirst for a little." 
 
 "But I cannot bear it, I tell you — the 
 thirst and the pain all through my body, 
 and my head that burns like fire . . . My 
 God! It is certain that I am to die." 
 
 A httle before dayHght they both fell 
 asleep ; but soon Maria was awakened by her 
 father who laid his hand upon her shoulder 
 and whispered: — "I am going to harness the 
 horse to go to Mistook for the doctor, and on 
 the way through La Pipe I shall also speak to 
 the cure. It is heart-breaking to hear her 
 moan like this." 
 
 Her eyes open in the ghostly dawn, Maria 
 gave ear to the sounds of his departure : the 
 banging of the stable door against the waU; 
 the horse's hoofs thudding on the wood of the 
 alley ; muffled commands to Charles Eugene : 
 
 [234] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Hold up, there! Back . . . Back up! 
 Whoa!" Then the tinkle of the sleigh-beUs. 
 In the silence that followed, the sick woman 
 groaned two or three times in her sleep; Maria 
 watched the wan hght steahng into the house 
 and thought of her father's journey, trying 
 to reckon up the distances he must travel. 
 
 From their house to Honfleur, eight miles; 
 from Honfleur to La Pipe, six. There her 
 father would speak with the cure, and then 
 pursue his way to Mistook. She corrected 
 herself, and for the ancient Indian name that 
 the people of the country use, gave it the 
 oflBcial one bestowed in baptism by the 
 church— St. Coeur de Marie. From La Pipe 
 to St. Coeur de Marie, eight miles . . . 
 Eight and six and then eight. Growing con- 
 fused, she said to herself: — "Anyway it is far, 
 and the roads will be heavy." 
 
 Again she felt affrighted at their loneliness, 
 which once hardly gave her a thought. All 
 was well enough when people were in health 
 and merry, and one had no need of help ; but 
 with trouble or sickness the woods around 
 seemed to shut them cruelly away from aU 
 succour — the woods where horses sink to the 
 
 [235] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 chest in snow, where storms smother one in 
 mid-April. 
 
 The mother strove to tm-n in her sleep, 
 waked with a cry of anguish, and the con- 
 tinual moaning began anew. Maria rose and 
 sat by the bed, thinking of the long day just 
 beginning in which she would have neither 
 help nor counsel. 
 
 All the dragging hours were burdened with 
 lamentable sound ; the groaning from the bed 
 where the sick woman lay never ceased, and 
 haunted the narrow wooden dweUing. Now 
 and then some household noise broke in upon 
 it: the clashing of plates, the clang of the 
 opened stove door, the sound of feet on the 
 planking, Tit'Be stealing into the house, 
 clumsy and anxious, to ask for news. 
 
 " Is she no better.'* " 
 
 Maria answered by a movement of the 
 head. They both stood gazing for a time at 
 the motionless figure under the wooUen blan- 
 kets, giving ear to the sounds of distress; then 
 Tit'B6 departed to his small outdoor duties. 
 When Maria had put the house in order she 
 took up her patient watching, and the sick 
 
 [236] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 woman's agonizing wails seemed to reproach 
 her. 
 
 From hour to hour she kept reckoning the 
 times and the distances. " My father should 
 not be far from St. Coeur de Marie ... If 
 the doctor is there they will rest the horse for 
 a couple of hours and come back together. 
 But the roads must be very bad; at this time, 
 in the spring, they are sometimes hardly 
 passable." 
 
 And then a httle later: — "They should 
 have left; perhaps in going through La Pipe 
 they will stop to speak to the cure; perhaps 
 again he may have started as soon as he 
 heard, without waiting for them. In that case 
 he might be here at any moment." 
 
 But the fall of night brought no one, and it 
 was only about seven o'clock that the sound 
 of sleigh-bells was heard, and her father and 
 the doctor arrived. The latter came into the 
 house alone, put his bag on the table and be- 
 gan to pull ofif his overcoat, grumbling all the 
 while. 
 
 "With the roads in this condition," said 
 he, "it is no small affair to get about and visit 
 the sick. And as for you folk, you seem to 
 [237] 
 
AIARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 have hidden yourselves as fai' in the woods as 
 you could. Great Heavens! You might very 
 well all die without a soul coming to help 
 
 you." 
 
 After warming himself for a little while at 
 the stove he approached the bedside. "Well, 
 good mother, so we have taken the notion to 
 be sick, just like people who have money to 
 spend on such things!" 
 
 But after a brief examination he ceased to 
 jest, saying: — "She really is sick, I do be- 
 lieve." 
 
 It was with no affectation that he spoke in 
 the fashion of the peasantry ; his grandfather 
 and his father were tillers of the soil, and he 
 had gone straight from the farm to study 
 medicine in Quebec, amongst other young 
 fellows for the most part like himself — grand- 
 sons, if not sons of farmers — who had all 
 clung to the plain country manners and the 
 deUberate speech of their fathers. He was 
 tall and heavily built, with a grizzled mous- 
 tache, and his large face wore the slightly 
 aggrieved expression of one whose native 
 cheerfulness is being continually dashed 
 through listening to the tale of others' iUs 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 for which he is bound to show a decent sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Chapdelaine came in when he had unhar- 
 nessed and fed the horse. He and his children 
 sat at a httle distance while the doctor was 
 going through his programme. 
 
 Every one of them was thinking: — "Pres- 
 ently we shall know what is the matter, and 
 the doctor wiU give her the right medicines." 
 But when the examination was ended, instead 
 of turning to the bottles in liis bag, he seemed 
 uncertain and began to ask interminable 
 questions. How had it happened, and where, 
 particularly, did she feel pain . . . Had she 
 ever before suffered from the same trouble 
 . . . The answers did not seem to enlighten 
 him very much; then he turned to the sick 
 woman herself, only to receive confused 
 statements and complaints. 
 
 "If it is just a wrench that she has given 
 herself," at length he announced, "she will 
 get well without any meddUng; there is 
 nothing for her to do but to stay quietly in 
 bed. But if there is some injury within, to the 
 kidneys or another organ, it may be a grave 
 affair." He was conscious that his state of 
 [239] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 doubt was disappointing to the Chapdelaines, 
 and was anxious to restore his medical repu- 
 tation. 
 
 "Internal lesions are serious things, and 
 often one cannot detect them. The wisest 
 man in the world could tell you no more than 
 I. We shall have to wait . . . But perhaps 
 it is not that we have to deal with." After 
 some further investigation he shook his 
 head. "Of course I can give something that 
 will keep her from suffering like this." 
 
 The leather bag now disclosed its wonder- 
 working phials; fifteen drops of a yellowish 
 drug were diluted with two fingers of water, 
 and the sick woman, lifted up in bed, man- 
 aged to swallow this with sharp cries of pain. 
 Then there was apparently nothing more to 
 be done; the men lit their pipes, and the 
 doctor, with his feet against the stove, held 
 forth as to his professional labours and the 
 cures he had wrought. 
 
 "Illnesses like these," said he, "where one 
 cannot discover precisely what is the matter, 
 are more baffling to a doctor than the gravest 
 disorders — Mke pneumonia now, or even 
 typhoid fever which carry off three-quarters 
 
 [240] 
 
MABIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 of the people hereabouts who do not die of old 
 age. Well, typhoid and pneumonia, I cure 
 these every month in the year. You know 
 Viateur Tremblay, the postmaster at St. 
 Henri . . ." 
 
 He seemed a little hurt that Madame Chap- 
 delaine should be the victim of an obscure 
 malady, hard to diagnose, and had not been 
 taken down with one of the two complaints 
 he was accustomed to treat with such suc- 
 cess, and he gave an account by chapter and 
 verse of the manner in which he had cured the 
 postmaster of St. Henri. From that they 
 passed on to the coimtry news— news carried 
 by word of mouth from house to house around 
 Lake St. John, and greeted a thousandfold 
 more eagerly than tidings of wars and fam- 
 ines, since the gossipers always manage to 
 connect it with friend or relative in a country 
 where all ties of kinship, near or far, are borne 
 scrupulously in mind. 
 
 Madame Chapdelaine ceased moaning and 
 seemed to be asleep. The doctor, considering 
 that he had done all that was expected of 
 him, for the evening at least, knocked the 
 ashes out of his pipe and rose to go. 
 
 [241] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 " I shall sleep at Honileur," said he, " I sup- 
 pose your horse is fit to take me so far? There 
 is no need for you to come, I know the road. 
 I shall stay with Ephrem Surprenant, and 
 come back in the morning." 
 
 Chapdelaine was a little slow to make reply, 
 recalling the stiff day's work his old beast 
 had already accomplished, but at the end he 
 went out to harness Charles Eugene once 
 more. In a few minutes the doctor was on the 
 road, leaving the family to themselves as 
 usual. 
 
 A great stillness reigned in the house. The 
 comfortable thought was with them all: — 
 "Anyway the medicine he has given her is a 
 good one; she groans no longer." But scarce 
 an hour had gone by before the sick woman 
 ceased to feel the effect of the too feeble drug, 
 became conscious again, tried to turn herself 
 in bed and screamed out with pain. They 
 were all up at once and crowding about her in 
 their concern; she opened her eyes, and after 
 groaning in an agonized way began to weep 
 unrestrainedly. 
 
 "0 Samuel, I am dying, there can be no 
 doubt of it." 
 
 [2421 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "No! No! You must not think that." 
 
 "Yes, I know that I am dying. I feel it. 
 The doctor is only an old fool, and he cannot 
 teU what to do. He is not even able to say 
 what the trouble is, and the medicine he gave 
 me is useless; it has done me no good. I tell 
 you I am dying." 
 
 The failing words were hindered with her 
 groaning, £ind tears coursed down the heavy 
 cheeks. Husband and children looked at her, 
 struck to the very earth with grief. The foot- 
 step of death was sounding in the house. They 
 knew themselves cut off from aU the world, 
 helpless, remote, without even a horse to 
 bring them succour. The cruel treachery of it 
 all held them speechless and transfixed, with 
 streaming eyes. - 
 
 In their midst appeared Eutrope Gagnon. 
 
 "And I who was thinking to find her almost 
 weU. This doctor, now ..." 
 
 Chapdelaine broke out, quite beside him- 
 self: — "This doctor is not a bit of use, and I 
 shall teU him so plainly, myself. He came 
 here, he gave her a drop of some miserable 
 stuff worth nothing at all in the bottom of a 
 cup, and he is off to sleep in the village as if 
 
 [243] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 his pay was earned! Not a thing has he done 
 but tire out my horse, but he shall not have a 
 copper from me, not a single copper ..." 
 
 Eutrope's face was very grave, and he 
 shook his head as he declared: — "Neither 
 have I any faith in doctors. Now if we had 
 only thought of fetching a bone-setter — such 
 a man as Tit'Sebe of St. FeUcien . . ." 
 Every face was turned to him and the tears 
 ceased flowing. 
 
 "Tit'Sebe!" exclaimed Maria. "And you 
 think he could help in a case Like this.**" Both 
 Eutrope and Chapdelaine hastened to avow 
 their trust in him. 
 
 " There is no doubt whatever that Tit'Sebe 
 cein make people well. He was never through 
 the schools, but he knows how to cxire. You 
 heard of Naxaire Gaudreau who fell from the 
 top of a bam and broke his back. The doctors 
 came to see him, and the best they could do 
 was to give the Latin name for his hiul and 
 say that he was going to die. Then they went 
 and fetched Tit'Sebe, and Tit'Sebe cured 
 him." Every one of them knew the healer's 
 repute and hope sprang up again in their 
 hearts. 
 
 [244] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "Tit'Sebe is a first-rate man, and a man 
 who knows how to make sick people well. 
 Moreover he is not greedy for money. You 
 go and you fetch him, you pay him for his 
 time, and he cures you. It was he Avho put 
 little Romeo BoUly on his legs again after 
 being run over by a wagon loaded with 
 planks." 
 
 The sick woman had relapsed into stupor, 
 and was moaning feebly with her eyes 
 closed. 
 
 "I will go and get him if you Uke," sug- 
 gested Eutrope. 
 
 "But what will you do for a horse?" asked 
 Maria. "The doctor has Charles Eugene at 
 Honfleur." 
 
 Chapdelaine clenched his fist in wrath and 
 swore through his teeth: — "The old rascal!" 
 
 Eutrope thought a moment before speak- 
 ing. " It makes no difference. I wiU go just 
 the same. If I walk to Honfleur, I shall easily 
 fitnd someone there who wiU lend me a horse 
 and sleigh — Racicot, or perhaps old Neron." 
 
 "It is thirty-five miles from here to St. 
 Felicien and the roads are heavy." 
 
 "I will go just the same." 
 
 [245] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 He departed forthwith, t hink ing as he went 
 at a jog-trot over the snow of the grateful 
 look that Maria had given him . The family 
 made ready for the night, computing mean- 
 while these new distances . . . Seventy 
 miles there and back . . . Roads deep in 
 snow. The lamp was left burning, and till 
 morning the voice from the bed was never 
 hushed. Sometimes it was sharp with pain; 
 sometimes it weakly strove for breath. Two 
 hours after dayUght the doctor and the cure 
 of St. Henri appeared together. 
 
 " It was impossible for me to come sooner," 
 the cure explained, " but I am here at last, and 
 I picked up the doctor in the village." They 
 sat at the bedside and talked in low tones. 
 The doctor made a fresh examination, but it 
 was the cure who told the result of it. " There 
 is Uttle one can say. She does not seem any 
 worse, but this is not an ordinary sickness. 
 It is best that I should confess her and give 
 her absolution; then we shall both go away 
 and be back again the day after to-morrow." 
 
 He returned to the bed, and the others 
 went over and sat by the window. For some 
 minutes the two voices were heard in question 
 
 (2461 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and response; the one feeble and broken by 
 suffering; the other confident, grave, scarcely 
 lowered for the solemn interrogation. After 
 some inaudible words a hand was raised in a 
 gesture which instantly bowed the heads of 
 all those in the house. The priest rose. 
 
 Before departing the doctor gave Maria a 
 little bottle with his instructions. "Only if 
 she should suffer greatly, so that she cries out, 
 and never more than fifteen drops at a time. 
 And do not let her have any cold water to 
 drink." 
 
 She saw them to the door, the bottle in her 
 hand. Before getting into the sleigh the cure 
 took Maria aside and spoke a few words to 
 her. " Doctors do what they can," said he in 
 a simple unaffected way, "but only God 
 Himself has knowledge of disease. Pray with 
 all your heart, and I shall say a mass for her 
 to-morrow — a high mass with music, you 
 understand." 
 
 AU day long Maria strove to stay the hid- 
 den advances of the disorder with her prayers, 
 and every time that she returned to the bed- 
 side it was with a half hope that a miracle had 
 been wrought, that the sick woman would 
 
 [2471 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 cease from her groaning, sleep for a few hours 
 and awake restored to health. It was not so 
 to be; the moaning ceased not, but toward 
 evening it died away to sighing, continual 
 and profound — nature's protest against a bur- 
 den too heavy to be borne, or the slow inroad 
 of death-dealing poison. 
 '^ About midnight came Eutrope Gagnon, 
 bringing Tit'S^be the bone-setter. He was a 
 little, thin, sad-faced man with very kind 
 eyes. As always when called to a sick-bed, he 
 wore his clothes of ceremony, of dark weU- 
 wom cloth, which he bore with the awkward- 
 ness of the peasant in Sunday attire. But the 
 strong brown hands beyond the thread-bare 
 sleeves moved in a way to inspire confidence. 
 They passed over the Hmbs and body of 
 Madame Chapdelaine with the most dehcate 
 care, nor did they draw from her a single cry 
 of pain; thereafter he sat for a long time mo- 
 tionless beside the couch, looking at her as 
 though awaiting guidance from a source be- 
 yond himself. But when at last he broke the 
 silence it was to say : " Have you sent for the 
 ewe? . . . He has been here. And wUl he 
 return? To-morrow; that is well." 
 
 [248] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 After another pause he made his frank 
 avowal: — "There is nothing I can do for her. 
 Something has gone wrong within, about 
 which I know nothing; were there broken 
 bones I could have tiealed them. I should 
 only have had to feel them with my hands, 
 and then the good God would have told me 
 what to do and I should have cured her. But 
 in this sickness of hers I have no skill. I might 
 indeed put a blister on her back, and perhaps 
 that would draw away the blood and relieve 
 her for a time. Or I could give her a draught 
 made from beaver kidneys; it is useful when 
 the kidneys are affected, as is well known. 
 But I think that neither the bUster nor the 
 draught would work a cure." 
 
 His speech was so honest and straightfor- 
 ward that he made them one and all feel 
 what manner of thing was a disorder of the 
 human frame — ^the strangeness and the terror 
 of what is passing behind the closed door, 
 which those without can only fight clumsily 
 as they grope in dark uncertainty. 
 
 "She will die if that be God's pleasure." 
 
 Maria broke into quiet tears; her father, not 
 yet understanding, sat with his mouth heJf- 
 
 [249] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 open, and neither moved nor spoke. The 
 bone-setter, this sentence given, bowed his 
 head and held his pitiful eyes for long upon 
 the sick woman. The browned hands that 
 now availed him not lay upon his knees ; lean- 
 ing forward a Httle, his back bent, the gentle 
 sad spirit seemed in silent communion with its 
 maker: — "Thou hast bestowed upon me the 
 gift of healing bones that are broken, and I 
 have healed them; but Thou hast denied me 
 power over such iUs as these; so must I let 
 this poor woman die." 
 
 For the first time now the deep marks of 
 iUness upon the mother's face appeared to 
 husband and children as more than the pass- 
 ing traces of suffering, as imprints from the 
 hand of death. The hard-drawn breath rat- 
 tling in her throat no longer betokened con- 
 scious pain, but was the last bhnd remon- 
 strance of thebody rent bynearing dissolution. 
 
 "You do not think she wiU die before th*^ 
 cure comes back?" Maria asked. 
 
 Tit'Sebe's head and hand showea that he 
 was helpless to answer. "I cannot tell . . . 
 If your horse is able you would do well to seek 
 him with the dayUght." 
 
 [250] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Their eyes searched the window, as yet 
 only a square of darkness, and then returned 
 to her who lay upon the bed . . . But five 
 days ago a hearty, high-spirited woman, in 
 full health of mind and body ... It could 
 not be that she was to die so soon as that. 
 . . . But knowing now the sad inevitable- 
 ness, every glance found a subtle change, 
 some fresh token that this bed-ridden woman 
 groaning in her blindness was no more the 
 wife and mother they had known so long. 
 
 Half an hour went by; after casting his eyes 
 toward the window Chapdelaine arose hvir- 
 riedly, saying: — " I am going to put the horse 
 m. 
 
 Tit'Sfebe nodded. "That is well; you had 
 better harness; it is near day." 
 
 "Yes. I am going to put the horse in," 
 Chapdelaine repeated. But at the moment of 
 his departure it swept over him suddenly that 
 in going to bring the Blessed Sacrament he 
 would be upon a solemn and a final errand, 
 significant of death. The thought held him 
 still irresolute. "I am going to put the horse 
 in." Shifting from foot to foot, he gave a last 
 look at his wife and at length went out. 
 
 [251] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Not long after the coming of day the wind 
 rose, and soon was sounding hoarsely about 
 the house. " It is from the nor' west; there will 
 be a blow," said Tit'S^be. 
 
 Maria looked toward the window and 
 sighed. "Only two days ago snow fell, and 
 now it win be raised Eind drift. The roads were 
 heavy enough before; father and the curS are 
 going to have trouble getting through." 
 
 But the bone-setter shook his head. "They 
 may have a Uttle difficulty on the road, but 
 they wiU get here aU the same. A priest who 
 brings the Blessed Sacrament has more than 
 the strength of a man." His mUd eyes shone 
 with the faith that knows no bounds. 
 
 "Yes, power beyond the strength of a man 
 has a priest bearing the Blessed Sacrament. It 
 was three years ago that they summoned me 
 to care for a sick man on the lower Mistassini ; 
 at once I saw that I could do nothing for him, 
 and I bade them go fetch a priest. It was 
 night-time and there was not a man in the 
 house, the father himself being sick and his 
 boys quite young. And so at the last it was I 
 that went. On the way back we had to cross 
 the river; the ice had just gone out — ^it was in 
 
 [252] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 the spring — and as yet not a boat had been 
 put into the water. We found a great heavy 
 tub that had been lying in the sand all winter, 
 and when we tried to run her down to the 
 water she was bm-ied so deep in the sand and 
 was so heavy that the four of us could not so 
 much as make her budge. Simon Martel was 
 there, big Lalancette of St. Methode, a third 
 I cannot call to mind, and myself; and we 
 four, hauling and shoving to break our hearts 
 as we thought of this poor fellow on the other 
 side of the river who was in the way of dying 
 like a heathen, could not stir that boat a 
 single inch. Well, the cure came forward; he 
 laid his hand on the gunwale — ^just laid his 
 heuid on the gunwale, Uke that — 'Give one 
 more shove,' said he; and the boat seemed 
 to start of herself and sUpped down to the 
 water as though she were alive. The sick man 
 received the sacrEunent all right, and died 
 like a Christian just as day was breaking. 
 Yes, a priest has strength beyond the strength 
 of men." 
 
 Maria was still sighing, but her heart dis- 
 covered a melancholy peace in the certainty 
 and nearness of death. This miknown dis- 
 
 [253] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 order, the dread of what might be coming, 
 these were dark and terrifying phantoms 
 against which one strove blindly, xincompre- 
 hendingly. But when one was face to face 
 with death itself all to be done was plain — 
 ordained these many centm-ies by laws be- 
 yond dispute. By day or night, from far or 
 near, the cure comes bearing the Holy Sacra- 
 ment — across angry rivers in the spring, over 
 the treacherous ice, along roads choked with 
 snow, fighting the bitter north-west wind; 
 aided by miracles, he never fails ; he fulfils his 
 sacred office, and thenceforward there is room 
 for neither doubt nor fear. Death is but a 
 glorious preferment, a door that opens to the 
 joys unspeakable of the elect. 
 
 The wind had risen and was shaking the 
 partitions as window-panes rattle in a sudden 
 gust. The nor'wester came howhng over the 
 dark tree-tops, fell upon the clearing about 
 the Uttle wooden buildings — house, stable, 
 barn — in squalls and wicked whirlwinds 
 that sought to hft the roof and smote the 
 walls like a battering-ram, before sweeping 
 onward to the forest in a baffled fury. 
 
 [2541 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 The house trembled from base to chimney- 
 top, and swayed on its foundation in such 
 a fashion that the inmates, fechng the on- 
 slaught, hearing the roar and shriek of the foe, 
 were almost as sensible of the terrors of the 
 storm as though they were exposed to it; 
 lacking the consciousness of safe retreat that 
 belongs to those who are sheltered by strong 
 walls of stone. 
 
 Tit'Sebe cast his eyes about. "A good 
 house you have here; tightly made and warm. 
 Your father and the boys built it, did they 
 not.i* Moreover, you must have a good bit of 
 land cleared by this time ..." 
 
 So loud was the wind that they did not 
 hear the sound of sleigh-bells, and suddenly 
 the door flew open against the wall and the 
 cure of St. Henri entered, bearing the Host 
 in his raised hands. Maria and Tit'S6be fell 
 upon their knees; Tit'Be ran to shut the 
 door, then also knelt. The priest put off the 
 heavy fur coat and the cap white with snow 
 drawn down to his eyes, and instantly ap- 
 proached the sick-bed as heaven's envoy 
 bringing pardon and peace. 
 
 [255] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Ah! the assurance, the comfort of the di- 
 vine promise which dispels the awful mists of 
 death ! ^^'hile the priest performed the sacred 
 rites, and his low words mingled with the 
 sighs of the dying woman, Samuel Chapde- 
 laine and his children were praying with 
 bended heads ; in some sort consoled, released 
 from anxiousness and doubt, confident that a 
 sure pact was then concluding with the Al- 
 mighty for the blue skies of Paradise span- 
 gled with stars of gold as a rightful heritage. 
 
 Afterwards the cure warmed himself by the 
 stove; then they prayed together for a time, 
 kneeling by the bed. 
 
 Toward four o'clock the wind leaped to 
 the south-east, and the storm ended swiftly 
 as a broken wave sinks backward from the 
 shore; in the strange deep silence after the 
 tumult the mother sighed, sighed once again, 
 and died. 
 
 ;256] 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 THAT WE PERISH NOT 
 
 Ephrem Surprenant pushed open the door — 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THAT WE PERISH NOT 
 
 PHREM SURPRENANT pushed 
 open the door and stood upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 "I have come . . ." He found 
 no other words, and waited there 
 motionless for a few seconds, 
 tongue-tied, while his eyes travelled from 
 Ghapdelaine to Maria, from Maria to the 
 children who sat very still and quiet by the 
 table; then he plucked off his cap hastily, as if 
 in amends for his forgetfulness, shut the door 
 behiad him and moved across to the bed 
 where the dead woman lay. 
 
 They had altered its place, turning the 
 head tp the wall and the foot toward the 
 centre 'lif the house, so that it might be ap- 
 proached on both sides. Close to the wall two 
 lighted candles stood on chairs; one of them 
 set in a large candlestick of white metal which 
 the visitors to the Chapdelaiae home had 
 never seen before, while for holding the other 
 Maria had found nothing better than a 
 
 [239] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 glass bowl used in the summer time for blue- 
 berries and wild raspberries, on days of 
 ceremony. 
 
 The candlestick shone, the bowl sparkled in 
 the flames which lighted but feebly the face of 
 the dead. The days of suffering through 
 which she had passed, or death's final chill 
 had given the features a strange pallor and 
 dehcacy, the refinement of a woman bred in 
 the city. Father and children were at first 
 amazed, and then perceived in this the tre- 
 mendous consequence of her translation be- 
 yond and far above them. 
 
 Ephrem Surprenant bent his eyes upon the 
 face for a httle, and then kneeled. The pray- 
 ers he began to mimnur were inaudible, but 
 when Maria and Tit'Be came and knelt be- 
 side him he drew from a pocket his string of 
 large beads and began to tell them in a low 
 voice. The chaplet ended, he sat himself in 
 silence by the table, shaking his head sadly 
 from time to time as is seemly in the house of 
 mourning, and because his own grief was deep 
 and sincere. 
 
 At last he discovered speech. " It is a heavy 
 loss. You were fortimate in your wife, Sam- 
 
 [260] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 uel; no one may question that. Truly you 
 were fortunate in your wife." 
 
 This said, he could go no further; he sought 
 in vain for some words of sympathy, and at 
 the end stimabled into other talk. "The 
 weather is quite mild this evening; we soon 
 shall have rain. Everyone is saying that it is 
 to be an early spring." 
 
 To the countryman, all things touching the 
 soil which gives him bread, and the alternate 
 seasons which lull the earth to sleep and 
 awaken it to life, are of such moment that one 
 may speak of them even in the presence of 
 death with no disrespect. Their eyes turned 
 quite naturally to the square of the Uttle 
 window, but the night was black and they 
 could discern nothing. 
 
 Ephrem Surprenant began anew to praise 
 her who was departed. "In all the parish 
 there was not a braver-spirited woman than 
 she, nor a cleverer housewife. How friendly 
 too, and what a kind welcome she always gave 
 a visitor! In the old parishes — ^yesl and even 
 in the towns on the railway, not many would 
 be found to match her. It is only the truth 
 to say that you were rarely suited in yoiir 
 [261] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINB 
 
 wife ..." Soon afterwards he rose, and, leav- 
 ing the house, his face was dark with sorrow. 
 
 A long silence followed, in which Samuel 
 Chapdelaine's head nodded slowly towards 
 his breast and it seemed as though he were 
 falling asleep. Maria spoke quickly to him, in 
 fear of his offending: — "Father! Do not 
 sleep!" 
 
 "No! No!" He sat up straight on his 
 chair and squared his shoulders but since his 
 eyes were closing in spite of him, he stood up 
 hastily, saying: — "Let us recite another 
 chaplet." 
 
 KneeUng together beside the bed, they told 
 the chaplet bead by bead. Rising from their 
 knees they heard the rain patter against the 
 window and on the shingles. It was the first 
 spring rain and proclaimed their freedom: the 
 winter ended, the soil soon to reappear, rivers 
 once more running their joyous coiu:se, the 
 earth again transformed like some lovely girl 
 released at last from an evil spell by touch of 
 magic wand. But they did not allow them- 
 selves to be glad in this house of death, nor 
 indeed did they feel the happiness of it in the 
 midst of their hearts' deep affliction. 
 
 [262] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Opening the window they moved back to it 
 and hearkened to the tapping of the great 
 drops upon the roof. Maria saw that her 
 father's head had fallen, and that he was very 
 stiU; she thought his evening drowsiness was 
 mastering him again, but when about to 
 waken him with a word, he it was who sighed 
 and began to speak. 
 
 "Ephrem Surprenant said no more than 
 the truth. Your mother was a good woman, 
 Maria; you will not find her Uke." 
 
 Maria's head answered him "Yes," but her 
 lips were pressed close. 
 
 " Full of courage and good counsel, that she 
 has been throughout her life; but it was 
 chiefly in the early days after we were mar- 
 ried, and then again when Esdras and your- 
 self were little, that she showed herself the 
 woman she w£is. The wife of a small farmer 
 looks for no easy hfe, but women who take 
 to their work as well and as cheerfully as she 
 did in those days, Maria, are hard to 
 find." 
 
 Maria faltered: — "I know, father; I know 
 it well;" and she dried her eyes for her heaii 
 was melting into tears. 
 
 [263] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "When we took up our first land at Nor- 
 mandin we had two cows and very little pas- 
 ture for them, as nearly all our lot was in 
 standing timber and hard to win for the 
 plough. As for me, I picked up my ax and I 
 said to her :^' Laura, I am going to clear land 
 for you.' And from morning till night it was 
 chop, chop, chop, without ever coming back 
 to the house except for dinner; and all that 
 time she did the work of the house and the 
 cooking, she looked after the cattle, mended 
 the fences, cleaned the cow-shed, never rested 
 from her toiling; euid then half-a-dozen times 
 a day she would come outside the door and 
 stand for a minute looking at me, over there 
 by the fringe of the woods, where I was put- 
 ting my back into feUing the birches and the 
 spruce to make a patch of soil for her. 
 
 "Then in the month of July our well must 
 needs dry up; the cows had not a drop of 
 water to slake their thirst and they almost 
 stopped giving milk. So when I was hard at it 
 in the woods the mother went off to the river 
 with a pail in either hand, and chmbed the 
 steep bluff eight or ten times together with 
 these brimming, and her feet that slipped 
 
 [264] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 back in the running sand, till she had filled 
 a barrel; and when the barrel was full she 
 got it on a wheelbarrow, and wheeled it off 
 herself to empty it into the big tub in the 
 cow-pastiu-e more than three hundred yards 
 from the house, just below the rocks. It was 
 not a woman's work, and I told her often 
 enough to leave it to me, but she always spoke 
 up briskly: — 'Don't you think about that — 
 don't think about anything — clear a farm for 
 me.' And she would laugh to cheer me up, 
 but I saw well enough this was too much for 
 her, and that she was all dark under the eyes 
 with the labour of it. 
 
 "Well, I caught up my ax and was off to 
 the woods; and I laid into the birches so 
 lustily that chips flew as thick as your wrist, 
 all the time saying to myself that the wife I 
 had was like no other, and that if the good 
 God only kept me in health I would make her 
 the best farm in the countryside." 
 
 The r£un was ever sounding on the roof; 
 now and then a gust drove against the win- 
 dow great drops which ran down the panes 
 like slow-falling tears. Yet a few hours of 
 rain and the soil would be bare, streams wovdd 
 
 [265] 
 
MARIA .CHAPDELAINE 
 
 dance down every slope; a few more days and 
 they would hear the thundering of the falls. 
 
 " When we took up other land above Mis- 
 tassini," Samuel Chapdelaine continued, "it 
 was the same thing over again; heavy work 
 and hardship for both of us alike ; but she was 
 always full of courage and in good heart . . . 
 We were in the midst of the forest, but as 
 there were some open spaces of rich grass 
 among the rocks we took to raising sheep. 
 One evening ..." He was silent for a little, 
 and when he began speaking again his eyes 
 were fixed intently upon Maria, as though he 
 wished to make very clear to her what he was 
 about to say. 
 
 "It was in September; the time when all 
 the great creatures of the woods become dan- 
 gerous. A man from Mistassini who was com- 
 ing down the river in a canoe landed near oiu' 
 place and spoke to us thiswise : — ' Look after 
 yoiu" sheep; the bears came and killed a heifer 
 last week quite close to the houses.' So your 
 mother and I went off that evening to the 
 pasture to drive the sheep into the pen for the 
 night so that the bears would not devour 
 them. 
 
 [266] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 " I took one side and she the other, as the 
 sheep used to scatter among the alders. It 
 was growing dark, and suddenly I heard 
 Laura cry out: 'Oh, the scoundrels!' Some 
 animals were moving in the bushes, and it was 
 plain to see they were not sheep, because in 
 the woods toward evening sheep are white 
 patches. So, ax in hand, I started off running 
 as hard as I could. Later on, when we were on 
 the way back to the house, your mother told 
 me all about it. She had come across a sheep 
 lying dead, and two bears that were just go- 
 ing to eat it. Now it takes a pretty good man, 
 one not easily frightened and with a gun in his 
 hand, to face a bear in September; as for a 
 woman empty-handed, the best thing she can 
 do is to run for it and not a soul will blame 
 her. But your mother snatched a stick from 
 the groimd and made stredght for the bears, 
 screaming at them: — 'Om* beautiful fat 
 sheep! Be off with you, you ugly thieves, or 
 I will do for you!' I got there at my best 
 speed, leaping, over the stumps; but by that 
 time the bears had cleared off into the woods 
 without showing fight, scared as coxild be, be- 
 cause she had put the fear of death into them." 
 
 [267] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Maria listened breathlessly; asking herself 
 if it was really her mother who had done this 
 thing — the mother whom she had always 
 known so gentle and tender-hearted ; who had 
 never given Telesphore a little rap on the head 
 without afterwards taking him on her knees 
 to comfort him, adding her own tears to his, 
 and declaring that to slap a child was some- 
 thing to break one's heart. 
 
 The brief spring shower was already spent; 
 through the clouds the moon was showing 
 her face — eager to discover what was left of 
 the winter's snow after this earUest rain. As 
 yet the ground was everywhere white; the 
 night's deep sUence told them that many days 
 must pass before they would hear again 
 the dull roaring of the cataract; but the tem- 
 pered breeze whispered of consolation and 
 promise. 
 
 Samuel Chapdelaine lapsed into sUence for 
 a whUe, his head bowed, his hands resting 
 upon his knees, dreaming of the past with its 
 toilsome years that were yet so full of brave 
 hopes. When he took up his tale it was in a 
 voice that halted, melancholy with seK- 
 reproach. 
 
 [268] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 "At Normandin, at Mistassini and the 
 other places we have lived I always worked 
 hard; no one can say nay to that. Many an 
 acre of forest have I cleared and I have built 
 houses and bams, always saying to myself 
 that one day we should have a comfortable 
 farm where yoiu- mother would hve as do the 
 women in the old parishes, with fine smooth 
 fields all about the house as far as the eye 
 could see, a kitchen garden, handsome well- 
 fed cattle in the farm-yard . . . And, after it 
 all, here is she dead in this half-savage spot, 
 leagues from other houses and churches, and 
 so near the bush that some nights one can hear 
 the foxes bark. And it is my fault that she 
 has died so . . . My fault . . . My fault." 
 Remorse seized him; he shook his head at the 
 pity of it, his eyes upon the floor. 
 
 "Many times it happened, after we had 
 spent five or six years in one place and all had 
 gone well, that we were beginning to get to- 
 gether a nice property — good pasturage, 
 broad fields ready for sowing, a house lined 
 inside with pictures from the papers . . . 
 Then people came and settled about us; we 
 had but to wait a Uttle, working on quietly, 
 
 [269] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 and soon we should have been in the midst of 
 a well-to-do settlement where Laura could 
 have passed the rest of her days in happiness 
 . . . And then all of a sudden I lost heart; I 
 grew sick and tired of my work and of the 
 countryside; I began to hate the very faces 
 of those who had taken up land near-by and 
 used to come to see us, thinking that we 
 should be pleased to have a visitor after being 
 so long out of the way of them. I heard peo- 
 ple saying that farther off toward the head 
 of the Lake there was good land in the forest; 
 that some folk from St. Gedeon spoke of set- 
 tling over on that side; and forthwith I began 
 to hunger and thirst for this spot they were 
 talking about, that I had never seen in my life 
 and where not a soul hved, as for the place of 
 my birth . . . 
 
 "Well, in those days, when the work was 
 done, instead of smoking beside the stove I 
 would go out to the door-step and sit there 
 without moving, like a man homesick and 
 lonely ; and everything I saw in front of me — 
 the place I had made with these two hands 
 after so much of labour and sweat — the fields, 
 the fences, over to the rocky knoll that shut 
 
 [270] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 US in — I detested them all till I seemed ready 
 to go out of my mind at the very sight of 
 them. 
 
 1/ " And then your mother would come quietly 
 up behind me. She also would look out across 
 our place, and I knew that she was pleased 
 with it to the bottom of her heart because it 
 was begianing to look like the old parish 
 where she had grown up, and where she would 
 so gladly have spent her days. But instead of 
 telling me that I was no better than a silly 
 old fool for wishiag to leave — as most women 
 would have done — and finding hard things to 
 say about my folly, she only sighed a little as 
 she thought of the drudgery that was to be- 
 gin all over again somewhere back in the 
 woods, and kindly and softly she would say to 
 me: — 'Well, Samuel! Are we soon to be on 
 the move once more.**' When she said that I 
 could not answer, for I was speechless with 
 very shame at thinking of the wretched life 
 I had given her; but I knew well enough that 
 it would end in our moving again and pushing 
 on to the north, deeper into the woods, and 
 that she would be with me and take her share 
 in this hard business of beginning anew — 
 
 [271] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 as cheerful and capable and good-humoured 
 as ever, without one single word of reproach 
 or spitefulness." p^ 
 
 He was silent after that, and seemed to 
 ponder long his sorrow and the things which 
 might have been. Maria, sighing, passed a 
 hand across her face as though she would 
 brush away a disquieting vision; but in very 
 truth there was nothing she wished to forget. 
 What she heard had moved her profoundly, 
 and she felt in a dim and troubled way that 
 this story of a hard hfe so bravely lived had 
 for her a deep and timely significance and held 
 some lesson if only she might understand it. 
 
 "How httle do we know people!" was the 
 thought that filled her mind. Since her 
 mother had crossed the threshold of death she 
 seemed to wear a new aspect, not of this 
 world; and now all the homely and famiUar 
 traits endearing her to them were being over- 
 shadowed by other virtues well-nigh heroic in 
 their quality. 
 
 To pass her days in these lonely places 
 when she woxild have dearly loved the society 
 of other human beings and the unbroken 
 peace of village life; to strive from dawn till 
 
 [2721 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 nightfall, spending all her strength in a 
 thousand heavy tasks, and yet from dawn tiU 
 nightfall never losing patience nor her happy 
 tranquillity; continually to see about her 
 only the wilderness, the great pitiless forest, 
 and to hold in the midst of it all an ordered 
 way of hfe, the gentleness and the joyousness 
 which are the fruits of many a century shel- 
 tered from such rudeness — ^was it not surely 
 a hard thing and a worthy? And the recom- 
 pense? After death, a httle word of 
 praise. 
 
 Was it worth the cost? The question 
 scarcely framed itself with such clearness in 
 her mind, but so her thoughts were tending. 
 Thus to hve, as hardly, as courageously, and 
 to be so sorely missed when she departed, few 
 women were fit for this. As for herself . . . 
 
 The sky, flooded with moonlight, was of a 
 wonderful lambency and depth; across the 
 whole arch of heaven a band of cloud, fash- 
 ioned strangely into carven shapes, defiled 
 in solemn march. The white groxmd no longer 
 spoke of chill and desolateness, for the air was 
 soft; and by some magic of the approaching 
 spring the snow appeared to be only a mask 
 
 [273] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 covering the earth's face, in nowise terrifying 
 — a mask one knew must soon be hfted. 
 
 Maria seated by the little window fixed her 
 unconscious eyes upon the sky and the fields 
 stretching away whitely to the environing 
 woods, and of a sudden it was borne to her 
 that the question she was asking herself had 
 just received its answer. To dwell in this land 
 as her mother had dwelt, and, dying thus, to 
 leave behind her a sorrowing husband and a 
 record of the virtues of her race, she knew in 
 her heart she was fit for that. In reckoning 
 with herself there was no trace of vanity; 
 rather did the response seem from without. 
 Yes, she was able; and she was filled with 
 wonderment as though at the shining of 
 some imlooked-for hght. 
 
 Thus she too could five; but ... it was 
 not as yet in her heart so to do . . . In a 
 little while, this season of mourning at an end, 
 Lorenzo Surprenant would come back from 
 the States for the third time and would bear 
 her away to the unknown delights of the city 
 — away from the great forest she hated — 
 away from that cruel land where men who go 
 astray perish helplessly, where women endure 
 
 [274] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINK 
 
 endless torment the while ineffectual aid is 
 sought for them over the long roads buried 
 in snow. Why should she stay here to toil 
 and suffer when she might escape to the lands 
 of the south and a happier life? 
 
 The soft breeze teUing of spring came 
 against the window, bringing a confusion of 
 gentle sounds; the swish and sigh of branches 
 swaying and touching one another, the dis- 
 tant hooting of an owl. Then the great silence 
 reigned once more. Samuel Ghapdelaine was 
 sleeping; but in this repose beside the dead 
 was nothing imseemly or wanting in respect; 
 chin fallen on his breast, hands lying open 
 on his knees, he seemed to be plunged into 
 the very depths of sorrow or striving to relin- 
 quish life that he might foUow the departed a 
 little way into the shades. 
 
 Again Maria asked herself: — "Why stay 
 here, to toil and suffer thus? Why? ..." 
 And when she foimd no answer, it befell at 
 length that out of the silence and the night 
 voices arose. 
 
 No miraculous voices were these; each of us 
 hears them when he goes apart and withdraws 
 himself far enough to escape from the petty 
 
 [275] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 turmoil of his daily life. But they speak more 
 loudly and with plainer accents to the simple- 
 hearted, to those who dwell among the great 
 northern woods and in the empty places of the 
 earth. \Miile yet Maria was dreaming of the 
 city's distant wonders the first voice brought 
 murmuringly to her memory a hundred for- 
 gotten charms of the land she wished to flee. 
 
 The marvel of the reappearing earth in the 
 springtime after the long months of winter 
 . . . The dreaded snow stealing away in 
 prankish rivulets down every slope; the tree- 
 roots first resurgent, then the mosses drenched 
 with wet, soon the ground freed from its bur- 
 den whereon one treads with dehghted glances 
 and sighs of happiness like the sick man who 
 feels glad life returning to his veins . . . 
 Later yet, the birches, alders, aspens swelling 
 into bud; the laurel clothing itself in rosy 
 bloom . . . The rough battle with the soil 
 a seeming hohday to men no longer con- 
 demned to idleness; to draw the hard breath 
 of toil from morn till eve a gracious fa- 
 vour . . . 
 
 — The cattle, at last set free from their 
 shed, gallop to the pasture and glut them- 
 
 [276] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 selves with the fresh grass. All the new-bom 
 creatures — the calves, the fowls, the lambs, 
 gambol m the sim and add daily to their 
 stature like the hay and the barley. The 
 poorest farmer sometimes halts in yard or 
 field, hands in pockets, and tastes the great 
 happiness of knowing that the sun's heat, 
 the warm rain, the earth's vmstinted alchemy 
 — every mighty force of nature — is work- 
 ing as a himible slave for him ... for 
 him. 
 
 — ^And then, the stunmertide; the glory of 
 sunny noons, the heated quivering air that 
 bliu's the horizon and the outHne of the forest, 
 the flies swarming and circling in the sun's 
 rays, and but three hundred paces from the 
 house the rapids and the fall — ^white foam 
 against dark water — the mere sight of it 
 filling one with a delicious coolness. In its due 
 time the harvest; the grain that gives life 
 heaped into the barns; then autumn and soon 
 the returning winter . . . But here was the 
 marvel of it, that the winter seemed no longer 
 abhorrent or terrifying; it brought in its tredn 
 the sweet intimacies of a house shut fast, and 
 beyond the door, with the sameness and the 
 [277] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 soundlessness of deep-drifted snow, peace, a 
 great peace . . . 
 
 In the cities were the strange and wonder- 
 ful things whereof Lorenzo Surprenant had 
 told, with others that she pictured to herself 
 confusedly: wide streets suffused with light, 
 gorgeous shops, an easy life of Uttle toil with a 
 round of small pleasures and distractions. 
 Perhaps, though, one would come to tire of 
 this restlessness, and, yearning some evening 
 only for repose and quiet, where would one 
 discover the tranquiUity of field and wood, the 
 soft touch of that cooler air that draws from 
 the north-west after set of sun, the wide- 
 spreading peacefulness that settles on the 
 earth sinking to untroui)led sleep. 
 
 "And yet they must be beautiful ! " thought 
 she, still dreaming of those vast American 
 cities ... As though in answer, a second 
 voice was raised. 
 
 — Over there was it not a stranger land 
 where people of £in ahen race spoke of unf a- 
 mihar things in another tongue, sang other 
 songs .i* Here . . . 
 
 — The very names of this her country, those 
 she listened to every day, those heard but 
 
 [278] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 once, came crowding to memory; a thousand 
 names piously bestowed by peasants from 
 France on laikes, on rivers, on the settlements 
 of the new country they were discovering and 
 peopliag as they went — lac a I'Eau-Glaire — 
 la Famine — Saint-Coeur-de-Marie — Trois- 
 Pistoles — Sainte Rose-du-Degel — Pointe-aux- 
 Outardes — Saint-Andr^-de-l'Epouvante . . . 
 An imcle of Eutrope Gagnon's lived at Saint- 
 Andre-de-l'Epouvante; Racicot of Honfleur 
 spoke often of his son who was a stoker on a 
 Gulf coaster, and every time new names were 
 added to the old ; names of fishing villages and 
 little harbours on the St. Lawrence, scattered 
 here and there along those shores between 
 which the ships of the old days had boldly 
 sailed toward an unknown land — Pointe- 
 MiUe-Vaches — les Escoumins — Notre-Dame- 
 du-Portage— lesGrandes-Bergeronnes— Gaspe. 
 — ^How sweet to hear these names where 
 one was talking of distant acquaintance and 
 kinsfolk, or telling of far journeys! How dear 
 and neighbourly was the sound of them, with 
 a heart-warming friendly ring that made one 
 feel as he spoke them: — "Throughout all this 
 land we are at home ... at home . . ." 
 [279] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 — Westward, beyond the borders of the 
 Province; southward, across the line were 
 everywhere none but Enghsh names. In time 
 one might learn to speak them, even might 
 they at last come famiharly to the ear; but 
 where should one find again the happy music 
 of the French names? 
 
 — Words of a foreign speech from every hp, 
 on every street, in every shop . . . Little 
 girls taking hands to dance a round and sing- 
 ing a song one could not understand . . . 
 Here . . . 
 
 Maria turned toward her father who stUl 
 slept with his chin sunk on his breast, looking 
 like a man stricken down by grief whose med- 
 itation is of death ; and the look brought her 
 swift memory of the hymns and country songs 
 he was wont to teach his children in the even- 
 ings. 
 
 A la claire fontaine 
 
 M'en allant promener . . . 
 
 In those cities of the States, even if one 
 taught the children how to sing them would 
 they not straightway forget! 
 
 The clouds a little while ago drifting singly 
 across a moonlit sky were now spread over the 
 
 [280] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINB 
 
 heavens in a vast filmy curtsdn, and the dim 
 light passing through it was caught by the 
 earth's pale coverlet of melting snow ; between 
 the two wan expanses the ranks of the forest 
 darkly stretched their long battle-front. 
 
 Maria shuddered; the emotion which had 
 glowed in her heart was dying; once again she 
 said to herself: "And yet it is a harsh land, this 
 land of ours . . . Why should I linger here?" 
 
 Then it was that a third voice, mightier 
 than the others, lifted itseK up in the silence : 
 the voice of Quebec — ^now the song of a 
 woman, now the exhortation of a priest. It 
 came to her with the sound of a church bell, 
 with the majesty of an organ's tones, like a 
 plaintive love-song, like the long high call of 
 woodsmen in the forest. For verily there was 
 in it all that makes the soul of the Province: 
 the loved solemnities of the ancestral faith; 
 the lUt of that old speech guarded with jealous 
 care; the grandeur and the barbaric strength 
 of this new land where an ancient race has 
 again found its youth. 
 
 Thus spake the voice: — "Three hundred 
 years ago we came, and we have remained . . . 
 They who led us hither might return among 
 
 [281] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 US without knowing shame or sorrow, for if it 
 be true that we have httle learned, most 
 surely nothing is forgot. 
 
 "We bore oversea oiu- prayers and our 
 songs; they are ever the same. We carried in 
 our bosoms the hearts of the men of our 
 fatherland, brave and merry, easily moved to 
 pity as to laughter, of all human hearts the 
 most human; nor have they changed. We 
 traced the boundaries of a new continent, 
 from Gasp6 to Montreal, from St. Jean d'lber- 
 viUe to Ungava, saying as we did it: — Within 
 these limits all we brought with us, our fedth, 
 our tongue, our virtues, our very weaknesses 
 are henceforth hallowed things which no hand 
 may touch, which shall endure to the end. 
 
 "Strangers have surrounded us whom it is 
 om- pleasure to call foreigners; they have 
 taken into their hands most of the rule, they 
 have gathered to themselves much of the 
 wealth; but in this land of Quebec nothing 
 has changed. Nor shall anything change, for 
 we are the pledge of it. Concerning ourselves 
 and our destiny but one duty have we clearly 
 xmderstood: that we should hold fast — should 
 endure. And we have held fast, so that, it may 
 
 [282] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 be, many centiiries hence the world will look 
 upon us and say : — These people are of a race 
 that knows not how to perish . . . We cire 
 a testimony. 
 
 "For this is it that we must abide in that 
 Province where our fathers dwelt, Uving as 
 they have lived, so to obey the unwritten 
 comimand that once shaped itself in their 
 hearts, that passed to ours, which we in turn 
 must hand on to descendants innumerable: — 
 In this land of Quebec naught shall die and 
 naught shall suffer change ..." 
 
 The veil of gray cloud which hid the whole 
 heavens had become heavier and more lour- 
 ing, and suddenly the rain began afresh, 
 bringing yet a httle nearer that joyous hour 
 when the earth would lie bare and the rivers 
 be freed. Samuel Chapdelaine slept pro- 
 foundly, his head sunk upon his breast, an 
 old man yielding at last to the long fatigues 
 of his hfetime of toil. Above the candlestick 
 of metal and the glass bowl the candle flames 
 wavered under gentle breaths from the win- 
 dow, and shadows fhtting across the face of 
 the dead woman made her lips seem to be 
 moving in prayer or softly telling secrets. 
 
 [283] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 Maria Chapdelaine awaked from her dream 
 to the thought: — "So I shall stay — shall stay 
 here after all!" For the voices had spoken 
 commandingly and she knew she could not 
 choose but obey. It was only then that the 
 recollection of other duties came, after she 
 had submitted, and a sigh had passed her 
 hps. Alma Rose was stiU a child; her mother 
 dead, there must be a woman in the house. 
 But in truth it was the voices which had told 
 her the way. 
 
 The rain was pattering on the roof, and 
 nature, rejoicing that winter was past, sent 
 soft little wandering airs through the case- 
 ment as though she were sighing in content. 
 Throughout the hours of the night Maria 
 moved not; with hands folded in her lap, 
 patient of spirit and without bitterness, yet 
 dreaming a little wistfully of the far-off won- 
 ders her eyes would never behold and of the 
 land wherein she was bidden to live with its 
 store of sorrowful memories; of the hving 
 flame which her heart had known awhile and 
 lost forever, and the deep snowy woods 
 whence too daring youths shall no more 
 return. 
 
 [284] 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 PLEDGED TO THE RACE 
 
 Esdras and Da" Be came down from. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 PLEDGED TO THE RACE 
 
 SDRAS and Da'B6 came down 
 from the shanties in May, and 
 their grieving brought freshly to 
 the household the pain of bereave- 
 ment. But the naked earth was 
 lying ready for the seed, and 
 mourning must not delay the season's 
 labours. 
 
 Eutrope Gagnon was there one evening to 
 pay them a visit, and a glance he stole at 
 Maria's face perhaps told him of a change in 
 her, for when they were alone he put the 
 question: — "Maria, do you still think of 
 going away.**" 
 
 Her eyes were lowered, as with a motion of 
 her head she signified " No. " 
 
 "Then ... I know well that this is no 
 time to speak of such things, but if only you 
 could say there would be a chance for me 
 one day, then could I bear the waiting 
 better." 
 And Maria answered him: — "Yes . . . 
 
 [287] 
 
MARIA CHAPDELAINE 
 
 If you wish I will marry you as you asked me 
 to . . . In the spring — the spring after 
 this spring now — when the men come back 
 from the woods for the sowing." 
 
 [288]