Chapter XI La Folie
“Is it possible?” said Father Paradis to Jean Baptiste on a fine afternoon in June. “Can it be that your great house is finished and ready for the tourists so early in the season? It is incredible, marvellous, but there it stands, and one must believe one’s own eyes, I suppose. Truly, Jean, my son, you have accomplished a great work.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Jean, with a glow of pride. “It is finished at last, thank God, and I am well content. But will you not come in to see the place, Monsieur le curé?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the curé, “I must see it all, from cellar to attic, for you are as a son to me and I am interested in everything that you do. Let us begin with the cellar, the foundation of things.”
“This way, Monsieur le curé. It is not far underground, as you see, and the windows are large, for the sake of light and air. But it is always cool in summer and sufficiently warm in winter, and dry as well. Here is our dairy. There is the cream separator, of which we are very proud, and there is the churn, of an improved pattern. It is not much work, in these days, to take care of the milk of a dozen cows.”
“But where, Jean, are the potatoes, turnips, onions, and all that? In my day we used to keep them in the cellar; and the ham, the bacon, the sausages, the dried apples and the tobacco we used to hang to the beams of the kitchen, where they were well smoked and dried, you may be sure. Yes, and well covered with dust and flies. But now all that is changed, no doubt. This scientific housekeeping is truly wonderful.”
“Yes,” said Jean, with a smile, “we have now different arrangements. Vegetables are excellent, in their place, but they do not improve the flavour of the butter; so we keep them in another part of the cellar, well isolated, as you will see.”
Father Paradis was greatly interested in exploring every part of the cellar, but when he ascended to the first floor he was much impressed by the spacious living-room, large enough, it seemed, to hold all the people of the parish. He admired the long table, with its massive legs, the substantial chairs, the great box-stove, a three-decker, the handsome dresser, with its rows of blue and white crockery; but most of all the great copper kettle that stood upon the stove and occupied fully half of the lower oven.
“Mon Dieu, Jean!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get that kettle? Solid copper, as I live, and polished like a mirror. Truly, it is a treasure. They do not make such kettles now-a-days. An heirloom, no doubt.”
“I am glad that you like it,” said Jean, “for you are a judge of such things. The first Giroux brought it from Normandy in the days of Frontenac. Yes, it is an historic relic, I am told.”
“No doubt, Jean, no doubt. The Giroux were notables in their day. My great-grandmother was of that family, and I am proud of it. We are cousins, you see. But that kettle—what changes it has seen! How many generations have come and gone since first it hung above the hearth-stone of the family Giroux! Think, my son, how much it has contributed to the happiness of all these generations. What potatoes, what soup, what ragout, what compôte of strawberries, raspberries, currants, what cherry cordial, what good things of every description have been prepared in that kettle! Times and customs change, but the old copper kettle goes on for ever. Ah, Jean, if I had served my generation like that I should not have lived in vain. Permit me to bless the ancient heir-loom and to wish that it may serve the family Giroux for many generations to come. There, my friend, was not that a good sermon upon a kettle?”
“Truly, Monsieur Paradis, you are a poet, who sees in the common things of life a meaning hidden to the vulgar eye. I shall love the old kettle more than ever after what you have said. But let us go up to the second floor, Monsieur, and after that to the roof. From that point one gets a view that is well worth the climb.”
“What a view!” exclaimed Father Paradis, as he stood at last on the railed terrace that crowned the roof. “Your house, Jean, is very fine, one of the grandest that I have seen, but this panorama is magnificent, superb. How lovely the river, there below, winding through the valley like a thread of silver! How beautiful the cultivated fields, the rich meadows, the upland pastures, the peaceful homes beside the pleasant country road! How far-away everything looks, and how the lines and colours blend in the mellow evening light! How wonderful the forest surrounding all, and the mountains rising peak beyond peak to the very sky! The shadows cover the lower hills, but the high summits still glow in the last radiance of the setting sun. And those clouds that float far above in the blue ether, what robes of glory they wear, like angels doing homage before Him that sitteth upon the throne! Jean, Jean! It is the work of the good God. ‘All thy works shall praise thee, O God, and thy saints shall bless thee!’”
Jean made no reply, and for a long time the two friends stood there in silence, the old man with the frail body and the silver hair, and the tall, strong, dark-haired man in all the pride and confidence of youth, their eyes filled with the glory of the sunset and their hearts with the beauty of the world. Presently the brightness faded from the mountain-top, the gold and crimson from the sky, and a white mist, stealing up the valley, covered everything as with a shroud. Father Paradis shuddered, as at the approach of death.
“There, Jean,” he said with a sigh, “the day is done, dead, one might say. A blaze of light, a moment of brightness, and then the shadow. Ah, my son, ‘thus passeth away the glory of the world!’”
“But, my father,” said the young man, “to-morrow will be a new day, and meanwhile we shall have the moon and the stars. It is the first quarter of the moon now, and you will see her, a thin crescent over the western hill, when the mist has passed. There, look! How beautiful! Encouraging, is it not, to see the light again, though it be only a reflection? The sun, at least, is not extinguished, my father.”
“No, Jean, that is true; yet I had almost forgotten it, I who should always hear the voice of God. Ah, my son, why did you not become a priest? How gladly would I have seen you stand in my place, between the living God and dying men! Jean, I think, as I have always thought, that you have a vocation and a message.”
“It may be so,” said Jean, after a pause. “But what is the vocation? What is the message? Not that which you think, my father, not at all. Look! I have seen my people, the habitants, toiling from morning to night, summer and winter, from year to year, like their fathers for many generations, and for what reward? Food and clothes and shelter, the bare necessaries of life, and all of the poorest kind. It is a living, perhaps, but it is not to live; and I say—it is my message, if you like—that for all their toil there should be more reward. The young men, my old playmates, say the same, and go away, to the States, to the North-West, and leave this land, this good land, to the old people and those without ambition, without enterprise. Monsieur Paradis, it is not well; it is not right. Some must go, no doubt, for the desire to wander is in the blood, but there should be place for those who would be glad to stay. Yes, here in St. Placide, in these beautiful mountains, by that lovely river. See, how it shines down there, in the light of the moon. It is a river to love, is it not, my father?”
“Jean,” said the old man, in a sorrowful voice, “you also are an orator, a poet. There was a time when I, too, could talk like that. The enthusiasm of youth, how fine it is! But with age comes wisdom, born of experience. Now I know that poverty, which you deplore, is a good, and not an evil; and that wealth, which you desire for all, is a snare, a delusion. The poor are close to God, but the rich are often far from Him. It is the last thing that I would desire for the people of St. Placide, that they should increase in riches, for they would forget God. Yes, Jean, the good God loves the poor, and they cling to Him as their only hope. Our divine Saviour Himself was one of the very poor, and it is well to be like Him.”
“Monsieur Paradis,” said Jean, earnestly, “will you permit me to confess to you, not as to a priest, but as to an old and dear friend? I confess, my father, with sorrow but without repentance, that I disagree with you profoundly, absolutely. The Lord Jesus was poor, as you have said, but He had friends among the rich, who gave Him food and shelter, and, at the last, provided Him a tomb. No, my father, poverty in itself is not a good but an evil, one of the worst, and the cause of many others. Poverty, disease, ignorance, vice, crime—they all go together very often, yes, generally. It is not among the very rich, perhaps, that one finds the best citizens, but certainly not among the very poor. It is not great riches that I demand for the habitants of St. Placide, but better food and shelter, more suitable clothes, education, books, newspapers, art, science, amusement. At last we are awaking from our mediæval slumber. Civilization we must have, through the Church, if possible, but if not we must look elsewhere for the guidance, the leadership that we need. There, Monsieur, I have said more than I should, perhaps, but it was from the heart.”
“Ah, Jean,” said the old priest, with a sigh, “you have gone far. I had no idea that you were thinking such things during all the years since I first noticed you at the parish school. Education, civilization, prosperity—what can they do for us? It is not by prosperity, so-called, that you can make the people willing to stay on the land, to endure the hardships of habitant life. It is poverty, aided by religion, that can accomplish this miracle. Jean, you are too far advanced for St. Placide. Education, which you glorify, has unfitted you for our simple life, and that which you plan, with all the enthusiasm and ignorance of youth, can only end in failure and disaster. The revolutionist can do nothing here. Jean, my son, I had high hopes for you, but now I fear that you have not only strayed from the ways of the fathers, but that you have become alienated from the Holy Church, that you have forsaken God. It is some weeks since you have assisted at the Mass, and you have not come to confession for a long time. My son, there is to be a retreat of three days, beginning to-morrow, in honour of the Precious Blood. Will you not come with us, to meditate, to pray? You are busy, I know, but three days are not long compared with eternity, and the affairs of this life are trivial, after all. Say that you will come, Jean, my son.”
“I cannot, Monsieur, for I have engagements that I must not break. Later I will come, for I am still a true son of the Church, and I have faith in God. But I have also faith in man, and believe——”
“Have faith in God, Jean. The heart of man is not to be trusted. Look to God, my son.”
“I will,” said Jean, with humility, “and for that reason I ask the blessing of God, and yours, my father, upon me and my poor house. Your blessing, Father Paradis. You cannot deny me.”
“Jean,” said the old man, “I fear for you; yet I know that you desire to do good, and I wish that you may have peace in your soul. ‘Except the Lord build the house they labour in vain that build it.’ May God bless you, my son, and may the work of your hands be established and be for the glory of God. Amen!”
Thus Father Paradis blessed the new house, although with misgivings, but many of the neighbours bore Jean no good will and freely expressed their disapproval of the hazardous and presumptuous undertaking. They came to the house-warming, as a matter of course, ate and drank of the abundant refreshments provided by Jean and his good mother, enjoyed the dance on the great kitchen floor, and then went home to criticize and prophesy evil. Even the best friends of the family allowed themselves to gossip on the subject, and did not disdain to stop at the crossroads to hear the latest news from Mère Tabeau, and her spicy comments thereon.
“Certainly, I was there,” said she to one of the passers-by. “I was invited with the rest, of course. They do not love me, those Giroux, but they would not offer me an open insult. They would not dare. And I went, of course, to show my appreciation of the courtesy. I understand the art of politeness, as you know.
“What did I see? Why, Monsieur Gagnon, you were there yourself. I saw what you saw, my friend. For example, I saw a certain neighbour of mine drink fifteen cups of spruce beer and consume an equal number of croquignoles, one to each cup of beer, the right proportion, exactly. No, my good neighbour, I did not say it was you, but if the cap fits——
“What did I think of it all? Well, I have my thoughts, naturally. Shall I tell you, or are you in a hurry to go to market? No, for you have started an hour earlier than usual. Well, if you have patience to listen to an old woman, I will tell you. As to the affair of last evening, it was pleasant for the neighbours to be thus entertained. The money of Bonhomme Laroche was well spent. The Giroux will pay later, in the course of time; yes, sooner than you think, perhaps.
“The house? Oh, it is wonderful, by far the finest in the parish. Indeed, there is not the like in all Beauport. Only in the great city of Quebec can one see hotels like that. Twelve rooms! Mon Dieu! Where are all the people who will occupy them? How long will they stay? How much will they pay? These are important questions, as you can see. Figure to yourself. If there were twenty tourists in the house for two months, that is, for the whole summer, and if the foolish people paid as much as four dollars a week, a great sum for these parts, that would be only a little more than six hundred dollars. There is no great fortune in that. A considerable sum in the gross, but the net revenue will be very small. When you have taken interest on the loan, the cost of food, the wages of Pauline La Chance, the hired girl, and all the other expenses, what will be left to pay for the work of Madame Giroux and Jean himself, not to mention a thousand little items, of no account in themselves but great in the aggregate. Oh, I know arithmetic, I assure you, as well as many other things. It is useful, at times, to be able to count. Figures, at least, do not lie.
“What will happen? That is not hard to tell. Even you, Monsieur Gagnon, could look into the future on those terms. When the expenses exceed the income, what takes place? One pays out all one’s ready money, one borrows, sells a cow, a horse, a piece of land. But there comes an end to all that, and then the notice at the Church door, the sale, the farewell, the departure, the talk for a while, and after that all is forgotten. They are gone. Whither? Who knows? Who cares? Only old gossips like me remember. Only good friends like me know or care.
“The house has no name as yet. Well, I will give it one. I will call it La Folie Giroux. As you have heard, fools build houses, but wise men live in them. It is Bonhomme Laroche who is the wise man in this case. But it may be that Jean Baptiste will become wise. Who can tell? Bonhomme Laroche has a daughter, you know.
“But I must stop, neighbour Gagnon, or you will think that I must be paid for my talk. But I am only a poor old woman who likes to see the neighbours as they pass. It is my only pastime. And the good neighbours are very kind to me. Only yesterday Bonhomme Bédard gave me a fine bag of flour, enough to last for three months. He is not a rich man, by any means, but very generous. If only I had a few potatoes, now. Oh, no, Monsieur Gagnon, it is too charitable of you. A whole sack! It is too much. If you had given me a dozen of those fine trout it would have been enough. Those too? Monsieur Gagnon, God will prosper you. Au revoir, my dear friend. Good luck to you.”
When Jean Baptiste heard that Mère Tabeau had given his new house a name, he laughed and said that she was very kind to save him the trouble, that all men were fools and all the works of man monuments of folly. So he painted the name in large black letters above the door—LA FOLIE. Most of the neighbours took it as a joke, but some shook their heads in dismay and crossed themselves repeatedly as they passed by. It was unlucky, they said, to give a bad name to a house or a child. One should invoke the protection of Heaven, rather, of the Holy Virgin or of one of the saints. As to the old witch, Mère Tabeau, one should have nothing to do with her, for she was in league with Satan.