The young folk were listening keenly to these tales of former times. “And now,” said Esdras, “here we are fifteen miles beyond 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 announces a great piece of news. Behind him was someone unknown to them, who bowed and smiled in a very mannerly way.
“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 establishing the nephew’s genealogy on both sides of 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 Surprenants and as many Bourglouis, and gave the list with their baptismal names, successive places of residence and a full record of their alliances.
“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 was rounded, with well-cut features, eyes gentle and unwavering, hands white; with his head a little on one side he smiled amiably, 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 sell the farm.”
“He has no 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.
“When I was a girl,” said mother Chapdelaine, “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 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 families 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 are 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 Massachusetts, there are not so many 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 English 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.’ ”
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: English, Irish, Polish, Russian; never admitting for a moment that the children of these, albeit born in the country, have an equal title to be called “Canadians.” Quite naturally, and without thought of offending, he appropriates the name won in the heroic days of his forefathers.
“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 doorway the last crimson of the sky, fading to Paler tints, rose above the vague masses of the forest—a column resting upon its base. The mosquitos began to arrive in their legions, and the humming of innumerable wings filled the low clearing with continuous sound.
“Telesphore,” directed the father, “make us a smudge. Take the old tin pail.” Telesphore 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
