Jean Baptiste: A Story of French Canada

by James Edward Le Rossignol

"Misery loves company," they say. How true and yet how false! The miserable seek society as they take to drink, that they may forget their sorrow; but those who are sore hurt, with a pain that cannot be forgotten, a grief that will not be put aside, creep away to die, or to be alone, until the cruel wound is healed. They seek the solitary places, where they may have the silent sympathy of the stars, the unuttered consolation of the desert, the healing virtue of the wilderness; where they may renew their strength at the fountain of life, or return the worn-out body to Mother Earth, and the tired spirit to Father God.

So Jean Baptiste, failure, good-for-nothing, who had come to the end of all his efforts, had seen the ruin of all his hopes; humiliated, discouraged, deserted by lover and friend, despised and rejected, with the brand of Cain upon his forehead; fled from the dwellings of men to the solitude of the forest, to be alone with his wounded spirit, to fight alone the grim battle with the dark angels of grief, regret, remorse, and despair.

Within a stone's-throw of his mother's door was the edge of the great Laurentian forest, stretching northward without a break to the settlements of the Saguenay and Lake St. John, and thence north and north-west to the barren wastes of Labrador and the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay. In that vast region are lonely places where trappers and Indians seldom pass and lumbermen have blazed no trail. There moose and caribou roam undisturbed; there giant pines grow on virgin hillsides; there lie lakes on which no canoe has ever floated; and there bloom flowers that are never seen by mortal eye. It is a retreat where one may be alone; a sanctuary where no enemy may come; a wilderness where one may be lost; but where one may find paths of peace, rest by still waters, restoration for the soul, and a meeting-place with God.

As Jean Baptiste, hunter and trapper now, with a pack on his back and a rifle in his hand, plunged into the forest, and the trees received him with open arms, the people and things that he had known seemed to go into the background of consciousness like the unreal images of a dream. It was as though he had died, and was awaking in a place where there were no people, but only trees and underbrush, ferns and moss, wild grasses and flowers, soft black soil underfoot, and a canopy of leaves overhead, with openings here and there, through which he could see the blue sky and white, fleecy clouds. The air was fragrant with moist, earthy odours, and the scent of flowers and leaves. Not a sound was heard, save now and then the call of a bird, the chatter of a squirrel, or the crackle of a breaking twig. So sudden and complete was the change that Jean thought of himself as another person, seeking refuge in a new world, but ever pursued by the avenger, his former self, whom he was vainly trying to leave behind.

On he went through the cool woods; winding about among the trees, clambering over rocks and fallen timber, and all the while going up the mountain-side, until a precipice rose before him, a wall of granite where there was no foothold, but only crannies here and there, with a tuft of grass or a sprig of fern growing in a handful of soil. Jean did not see that it was an impassable barrier; but set himself to it with blind force; went up a little way; and then fell, torn and bleeding, to the ground. Presently he took a new path, skirted the rock until he found a place where trees and shrubs could grow; and here he climbed, though with great difficulty, to the very top. It was a good omen, this victory after defeat; and it was with no little satisfaction that he stood upon the rocky crown of the mountain looking down on the valley below.

How small everything looked from an elevation of a thousand feet! The dwellings and barns were like dolls' houses; the cattle like mice; the chickens and ducks like flies; and all went about without a sound, like puppets in a pantomine. Driving along the road at a snail's pace, and raising a little cloud of dust, were a tiny horse and cart with a mannikin in the seat holding invisible reins in one hand and an invisible whip in the other. It was Bonhomme Gagnon, going to market with his butter and cheese, his potatoes and turnips. What a foolish little midget, with his pompous air, his absurd swagger and his boastful talk! And the other neighbours were much the same--tiny insects buzzing about in the sunlight of a summer's day, soon to be drowned in the rain or nipped by the early frost. Was it for the good opinion of creatures such as these that one should plan and work? Glory, fame--what were they? To hear one's name pronounced by the lips of men; to see them stare and gape as one passed by; and after that silence, and the pall of night. It was not worth while. Nothing was worth while but to escape from the world, to bury oneself in the forest, to ascend some high place whence one could look down and see the pettiness of everything--and then to go away and forget.

It should be easy to forget. One had only to ascend another thousand feet, and all those objects would disappear from sight, or one could turn away, plunge into the forest, and they would be gone. Thus one could at will obliterate the past, annihilate the world. True, but that would only bring them back again; for to the inward vision they would be as large as ever, prominent, imposing, dominant. When the former life was out of sight it was by no means out of mind. When the eyes were closed, the absent ones, friends and enemies, would return and take their accustomed places. To banish them would be to commit a species of suicide, a mutilation of the soul, like cutting off a hand or plucking out an eye. No, he who would have the fulness of life must forget nothing; and he who would be brave must not only face the future with courage, but look with steadfast eye upon the past. Thus Jean Baptiste, as he stood on the mountain-top, in view of his old home, allowed his former self to overtake him, and together they went on their way.

Jean made his way over the crest of the mountain, and down the northern slope, into a densely wooded valley, pushing through the thick fringe of alders that bordered the stream, floundering in a maze of swamps and beaver ponds, stepping lightly over carpets of thick, yielding moss in the shade of cedars and tamaracks, climbing up again among the beeches and maples of the middle slopes, the pines and spruces of the higher ridges, until he stood on the summit of a second range that overtopped all the southern hills. Looking back he saw beneath him a sea of hills and valleys, with the edge of a clearing showing here and there; while far away and beyond were the flats of Beauport, the great river, and the spires and roofs of Quebec shining in the morning sun. The gleaming light seemed to beckon, to call him back to a life and work that should lead in the end to the city, the centre of civilisation, the lure and reward of all worthy effort; but the spirit of the woods was strong within him, and he turned his back upon the achievements of industry and commerce, and all the idols of the market-place, and set his face once more toward the wilderness.

For many hours Jean marched along through the woods, steadily going northward toward the height of land that divides the waters flowing into the St. Lawrence from those that go into Lake St. John and the Saguenay; until at sunset he stood upon a low ridge and saw at his feet, in a hollow between the hills, the lake toward which he had been moving all the day. He smiled in satisfaction at the feat which he had accomplished; for he had taken a course across five ranges of mountains, and kept his direction with such precision that he came out of the forest within a hundred yards of the cabin that was to be his home.

A few eager steps brought him to the place, and there it was, in a clump of pines: a little hut of logs well caulked with moss, with a good roof of hollowed logs, and an excellent chimney of rough stones, a most unusual luxury in a trapper's cabin. It was the lodge of Michel Gamache, where he and Jean had spent many happy days; but where other hunters seldom came, for it was far in the forest, and the way to it was rough and little known.