Thirty Acres, page 19
He stood there panting like a horse that has just been pulling a heavy load and he was so suffused with rage that he thought his head was going to burst. He could just see Phydime, who at this moment was probably having a good laugh at his expense with all the neighbours and who would laugh at him on Sunday when they came out from Mass, this Sunday and all the other Sundays, forever and ever. And now he had to pay Phydime, “that god-damn bastard Phydime,” the money to pay his own lawyer. That was the limit!
He looked up and saw his family, Etienne and the others staring at him. They were all in their Sunday best, for they had just come back from Mass in the village. He flushed to the roots of his hair, slipped the papers into his pocket and went out without saying a word.
He reread the letter when he got outside. It wasn’t all over yet. Should he carry the case on to the very end and hope for an honest judge? Was it worth while risking additional costs, hundreds and maybe thousands of dollars?
Looking across the roof of the hen-house, he could see Phydime’s place beyond the creek which separated their farms. His horse was still harnessed to the buggy, which was standing behind the house; but Raymond had got out and was standing by the side of the road talking to some of the neighbours, who had pulled up in two carriages. It seemed to Euchariste that he was pointing over his shoulder at the Moisan house. He clenched his jaws and gnashed his teeth.
“I’m going to stick with it, by Jesus! I’m going to stick with it! You ain’t through with the law yet, you old bastard. Even if I have to sell the farm I’m going to stick with it right to the end!”
FIVE
Agriculture did not suffer from the war. In Europe the bodies of two generations of men had enriched the fields. In Quebec farmers sowed, harvested and marketed their produce to feed other farmers across the sea, who had been busy fighting. This course of events made the people who raised crops and livestock something more than mere cogs in the economic machine; as never before, the man who fed the nation was king.
Farm produce fetched fantastic prices, for everywhere people needed to satisfy a hunger that had lasted four years. Wheat was at two dollars a bushel. And hay touched thirty dollars a ton! Mankind had never demanded so much of the land, and the land had never been so generous or given so abundantly. And it still went on, long after the war was over, as if this cataclysm had given birth to a new order of things. It went on so long that at last farmers began to believe that their good fortune was permanent, not knowing that on the other side of the ocean, in shell-torn fields watered by the Marne and the Vistula, women, children, and soldiers had reformed the family group and were stooping again to their accustomed tasks.
It was hardly worth while storing the crops in the barns; lots of people sold them before they were harvested, though they might regret it later on as prices continued to rise.
Euchariste was almost the only one who hadn’t sold his crops yet. One after another his neighbours hesitated and then accepted the offers made by the buyers. Moisan’s barn was full to the rafters and, confident in his business acumen, he waited and waited. People looked at him enviously nowadays, especially Phydime, who had accepted the first price bid, it seemed so good.
Three times a day, in the morning, at noon and at night, Euchariste went out to the barn to take a look at all this wealth of his. Often, instead of coming from the stable straight into the farm-yard, he would find an excuse to go through the store-room to enjoy the sight of his riches and especially to congratulate himself on his cunning. He was careful to see that the children were not allowed to jump about in his precious hay; animals won’t eat hay that has been trampled. And the last thing he did at night, when the stock had been looked after, was to make another trip to the barn to gaze at the huge mass of fodder, and its acrid perfume went to his head a little. The light from his lantern only lit up the broad base of the column, whose tangled summit was lost up there among the rafters, where the birds had their nests.
Sometimes at night he would wake up out of the light sleep of the ageing – for he was getting on in years – and think he saw a glow or smelt something burning. The fear of fire, which is such a nightmare for people in the country, would bring him out of bed to the window, where he could see that the only flames visible were the shimmering blue streamers of the northern lights. At other times he would rush downstairs and find that someone had put some damp wood in the stove and that it was smoking.
His obstinacy in holding out for higher prices gave him a sense of triumph, particularly where Etienne was concerned. His son was timid and lacked assurance when it came to matters of this kind and was always imagining that prices were just about to drop. But each time they got a better offer Etienne was proved to be wrong. Moisan felt he had got his own back from this son of his with whom he had been having more and more frequent disagreements. Secretly and in an underhand way, he seemed to be out for nothing less than to supplant his father as boss of the farm.
Spring had come, according to the calendar, and it was quickly followed by the real spring. It burst upon them early, heralded by all the usual signs there is no mistaking. It was still too soon for the first crows, but someone saw a bear and everybody knows that bears come out on the twenty-fifth of March and don’t go in again if they see their shadow. It’s a sign of a warm short spring.
Euchariste dreamed one night that he was living in the village and that a fire had broken out. All the neighbours were there, including his old uncle Ephrem, the other Ephrem, his son, and a number of old people he didn’t recognize. They had formed a chain and were trying to put out the fire by pouring water out of buckets that were empty, though they seemed not to be aware of the fact. They must be told about it and he was running off to do so when Phydime got in his way and kept him from passing. They struggled with all their might and he cried out as Phydime crushed him under his weight in a suffocating cloud of smoke. Suddenly he found that he was sitting bolt upright in bed, choking and covered with sweat. His own frantic shouts woke him abruptly out of his dream.
There was no smoke in the room and a red dawn was just breaking. He was wide awake now and jumped out of bed.
A flood of crimson light streamed in through the window and was reflected redly on the polished edges of the furniture. Just then the door shook and was almost broken in under a hail of blows.
The whole barn was blazing away in the darkness. It made a purring roar like that of a contented animal and this was punctuated by sharp reports that sounded like exploding firecrackers. From time to time sparks shot up into the black sky, where the stars were blotted out by the smoke, whirled about in the wind and fell sizzling into the damp snow and expired.
The blaze was already surrounded by a wide area where the snow had melted away. Here people were running about, sharply lit up by the fire, though at times they just stood, outlined against the flames, with their arms dangling and their heads bowed, as if hypnotized by this tragic midnight sun.
At the stable near by a devoted group of neighbours was trying to save the animals, whose shrieks could be heard high above the roar of the blaze. But they reared and kicked and refused to be rescued. From the stable-door, which was already breathing out little puffs of smoke, two figures burst: a man struggling with a frantic horse.
There was nothing to do now but watch the progress of the fire. Fortunately they were able to get most of the animals out and save the equipment in the cart-shed. They could do nothing but just look on and try to save the other buildings, such as the house and the hen-run, where the rooster stood and crowed, thinking it was sunrise. Luckily the wind was blowing straight from the east, bringing with it a light sprinkle of rain that helped the men trying to stamp out flying embers on the shingle roofs.
The neighbours were all there, staring in wide-eyed horror at the blaze. They stood silent and motionless with their backs to the cold drizzle brought by the east wind; their faces were scorched by the heat from the leaping flames, which were now beginning to die down. Behind them the reaper-binder, which had been dragged out of the shed by the first comers stood with its naked canvas arms outstretched imploringly to the sky.
When the roof fell in, another burst of fire-works shot up into the blackness, throwing into sharp relief the leafless trees, the remaining buildings, and even Phydime Raymond’s house. Phydime was there, but standing on his own property, on the other side of the creek, leaning against the boundary fence as he watched the consummation of his triumph. There was his neighbour’s crop going up in smoke, while his own, in the shape of good hard cash, was tucked away safely somewhere or other. He never left his money with the notary, preferring, in his foolish way, to do without interest rather than run what he believed to be a risk. When he did lend it, it was always at very high rates.
Moisan quickly spied his enemy. He guessed instinctively at his cruel delight and knew that this marked the climax of their rivalry and of his own defeat. And then he noticed that Phydime was the only one of the neighbours who was completely dressed, as though he alone had not been roused from sleep when the alarm was given.
It had not occurred to him that Raymond could see everything that was going on from his window while he took his time getting dressed. So far he had felt crushed by the disaster, but now it served to redouble his hatred. Phydime was quite capable of setting fire to the barn from jealousy! He had only to reflect how pleased he, Euchariste, would have been to see Raymond’s place burn down – crops, stock, buildings and implements – to realize in a flash who the author of the crime must have been.
So Phydime wasn’t satisfied with stealing his property and wronging him before the courts, while he, Moisan, had to pay the costs of the injury!
Euchariste directed his violent, impotent rage towards Phydime. He cursed the wind for not turning south-west and carrying the sparks in a rain of hatred over the Raymond house instead of dropping them on his own, where three times already they had had to put out the beginnings of a fire.
He turned on one of the Mercures who was standing beside him.
“Look at him over there, the bastard!”
“Who do you mean?”
“That son of a bitch Phydime. He done it.”
“Come, come, Mr. Moisan,” said Alphonse Mercure. “There’s no sense to that.”
The shock must have made him slightly crazy.
“Mustn’t say things like that, Mr. Moisan,” he said, when Euchariste became violently insistent. “It’s pretty serious. He might make a lot of trouble for you.”
Just then Etienne rushed up to his father. He was dressed any old way and wore a pair of trousers and a tattered sweater. His shoes were undone, his hair, eyebrows and moustache singed, and his face and arms covered with smudges where sparks had fallen. Even his voice was unrecognizable; it was so choked by the anguish of his despair.
“We hardly saved a thing, Pa! We hardly saved a thing!”
He had been repeating the same words over and over again for an hour as he went from one silent knot of spectators to another. He was so overwhelmed by the disaster that he could neither think nor speak nor act.
“We hardly saved a thing, Alphonse. It’s terrible; we hardly saved a thing!”
“How did it happen, Etienne?”
“Perhaps,” one of the family suggested, “perhaps it was when Pa went to the barn last night to have a look round. He had his pipe with him.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what it was. But we hardly saved a thing, hardly a thing.”
And then Etienne turned and faced his father and, though he said nothing more, his eyes blazed angrily in the light of the dying fire. That hard glowing spark was for Euchariste Moisan, whose negligence had consumed the wealth they had worked and scrimped and saved for throughout a whole year.
Like a flock of sheep bewildered by peals of thunder and the violence of a storm, the children huddled close round Euchariste. Etienne turned on his heel suddenly and went off towards the hen-house, where there still seemed to be work to do.
But Euchariste went on staring at Phydime.
The catastrophe seemed to have broken something in Euchariste Moisan. He spent the next day and many others prowling about the ruins as though he were looking for a buried treasure, though actually all that remained was a blackened mass with charred fragments of the walls and here and there a wisp of smoke from the hay that went on smouldering underneath.
Etienne was the first to get over it. After a few days he decided a new barn would have to be built, and a good one at that. He said nothing to his father about it and, in fact, took advantage of the old men’s stupor to get in touch with one of the Fusey boys, who was Provincial agronomist, and together they drew up plans for a new barn and a new stable. The loss of the old buildings was not very serious in itself, for Etienne had been thinking for quite a while of replacing them by more modern ones and would have done so if his father had not been so stupidly obstinate about holding the crop and running the terrible risk of fire. As long as the barns are full the very thought of a fire keeps a farmer from sleeping.
Although Etienne had insisted several times that they ought to accept the dealers’ offers, his father stuck to his guns and didn’t seem to realize that he was getting old and, above all, that he belonged to an earlier generation. It was Etienne who was to inherit the farm by right. Then why shouldn’t he be the one to make the decisions?
It was time for him to take over. The barn would not be covered with cedar shingles, in the old-fashioned way, but with sheet iron and a gable roof. The stable was to have a cement floor and foundations and a skip to carry the manure to the outside platform. And while they were about it they might as well build a real hen-house. They would set the buildings further apart to lessen the risk of fire. Fine. Except that …
Except that they would have to have money and the old man had all the cash.
It wasn’t until ten days after the fire that Euchariste first mentioned the subject of rebuilding. Etienne was greatly relieved, for he didn’t know how to bring up the problem of financing.
To Euchariste’s mind all that had to be done was to reconstruct the old buildings and, in a sense, wipe out all trace of the fire by putting everything back into its normal state and place, just as it had always been.
So he was flabbergasted when Etienne showed him the plans he had got from the agricultural engineer and even more aghast when he realized that his son had made up his mind before he had had a chance to say a word and without taking him and his opinions into account.
He realized then how much had been shattered by the disaster and how many new, unbelievable factors it had introduced – factors which it was high time for him to fight against and overcome. Fight! Fight when he felt so old and tired! But not too old or too tired yet to resume the struggle on and for the farm, for this conflict was his whole life from birth to death. But how could he fight against other people, against his own family?
He did try, however, strong in the conviction that everything still depended on him, since nothing could be done without his money. He tried to prop up his crumbling authority, until Etienne got tired of his stubbornness and tired of arguing with him and explaining things and told him quite plainly that his carelessness had been responsible for the disaster. So they were all turning against him now!
Etienne even called in the agronomist to help him and the latter, who was a farmer himself and understood farmers, managed to arouse Euchariste’s pride by taking him to see the buildings of the Experimental Farm at Parentville and the ones on the Lacroix place. But it was Etienne’s unyielding obstinacy and his own loss of spirit which finally turned the scales.
On this occasion, for obvious reasons, he hated going to the notary. For the first time in his life the object of his visit had nothing to do with piling up money.
The notary received him with his usual warmth, though his face fell a little when he learned that Euchariste wanted to draw out the rather large sum he needed. He explained to him how difficult it was to convert such profitable investments as the ones he had selected for his clients’ savings.
“I’ve got a better idea for you, Moisan,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Perhaps I ought to explain first of all that since last year the money you left with me has been earning not five or six per cent but seven. If I were you, this is what I’d do. I’d go and see the priest and, as you’re a church-warden, the parish would be glad to lend you the money at five per cent. That way you’ll make the difference. Five from seven leaves two; you’ll get two per cent a year. How does that strike you?”
Euchariste was amazed at this suggestion. Notary Boulet was no business man; to think that for years he had only paid him five per cent!
Still …
“Why, sure. But …”
“But what?”
“Well, I don’t much like the idea of borrowing. I never owed nobody a cent, nor put my name to a note. I guess maybe …”
“Suit yourself, Moisan. It’s up to you and it’s your money. I can give it you whenever you want it – the day after tomorrow if you like. I don’t give a damn. I won’t charge you anything for the advice and I’m not going to force you to make money if you don’t want to. A fellow’s either born smart or he ain’t. That’s your affair.”
This time he had touched a tender spot. Euchariste was soon persuaded.
The new buildings began to rise. From their concrete foundations the framework of new yellow lumber mounted up and up until the day when the roof-tree was decked with a bouquet of lilac-blossoms and spruce branches blessed by the priest.
SIX
Though the burning of the barn had been a great blow, the construction of the new buildings filled Euchariste with even greater dismay, largely because it was the expression of a will other than his own. It changed the very appearance of the old Moisan farm.
