“People are not always happy in the cities,” said the father. “Everything is dear, and one is confined.”
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 taintless air of a new country, close beside the mighty forest. 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,” replied the Frenchman in a low voice. “No, not exactly …” And a shadow 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 lives 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 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 delicate 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. Those 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 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 unbiased mind.
“And your notion is not to stick in Honfleur 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 farmer 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 retorted, “one is free, his own master. And you seem to pity those who work in factories because 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 tell 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 comfortably 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 do 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-tempered, that won’t keep still 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 worked hard, and go to your house for dinner and a little 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 farmyard. 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
