Unknown Quantity A Book of Romance and Some Half-Told Tales

Henry Van Dyke

Description

There is a chain of little lakes - a necklace of lost jewels - lying in the forest that clothes the blue Laurentian Mountains in the Province of Quebec.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819908388
• Langue: English

Extrait

PREFACE
There is a chain of little lakes – a necklace oflost jewels – lying in the forest that clothes the blue LaurentianMountains in the Province of Quebec.
Each of these hidden lakes has its own character andtherefore its own charm. One is bright and friendly, with woodedhills around it, and silver beaches, and red berries of therowan-tree fringing the shores. Another is sombre and lonely, setin a circle of dark firs and larches, with sighing, trembling reedsalong the bank. Another is only a round bowl of crystal water, thecolour of an aquamarine, transparent and joyful as the sudden smileon the face of a child. Another is surrounded by fire-scarredmountains, and steep cliffs frown above it, and the shores arerough with fallen fragments of rock; it seems as if the setting ofthis jewel had been marred and broken in battle, but the gem itselfshines tranquilly amid the ruin, and the lichens paint the rocks,and the new woods spring bright green upon the mountains. There aremany more lakes, and all are different. The thread that binds themtogether is the little river flowing from one to another, now witha short, leaping passage, now with a longer, winding course.
You may follow it in your canoe, paddling throughthe still-waters, dropping down the rapids with your setting-pole,wading and dragging your boat in the shallows, and coming to eachlake as a surprise, something distinct and separate and personal.It seems strange that they should be sisters; they are so unlike.But the same stream, rising in unknown springs, and seeking anunknown sea, runs through them all, and lives in them all, andmakes them all belong together.
The thread which unites the stories in this book islike that. It is the sign of the unknown quantity, the sense ofmystery and strangeness, that runs through human life.
We think we know a great deal more about theprocesses and laws and conditions of life than men used to know.And probably that is true; though it is not quite certain, for itis hard to say precisely how much those inscrutable old Egyptiansand Hebrews and Chaldæans and Hindus knew and did not tell.
But granting that we have gone beyond them, we havenot gone very far, we have not come to perfect knowledge. There isstill something around us and within that baffles and surprises us.Events happen which are as mysterious after our glib explanationsas they were before. Changes for good or ill take place in theheart of man for which his intellect gives no reason. There is thedaily miracle of the human will, the power of free choice, forwhich no one can account, and which sometimes flashes out thestrangest things. There is the secret, incalculable influence ofone life on another. There is the web of circumstance woven to anunseen pattern. There is the vast, unexplored land of dreams inwhich we spend one-third of our lives without even remembering mostof what befalls us there.
I am not thinking now of the so-called "realm of theoccult," nor of those extraordinary occurrences which startle andperplex the world from time to time, nor of those complicated andsubtle problems of crime which are set to puzzle us. I am thinkingof much more human and familiar things, quite natural andinevitable as it seems, which make us feel that life is threadedthrough and through by the unknown quantity.
This is the thread that I have followed from one toanother of these stories. They are as different as my lakes in theNorth Country; some larger and some smaller; some brighter and somedarker; for that is the way life goes. But most of them endhappily, even after sorrow; for that is what I think lifemeans.
Four of the stories have grown out of slight hints,for which I return thanks. For the two Breton legends which appearin "The Wedding-Ring" and "Messengers at the Window," I am indebtedto my friend, M. Anatole Le Braz; for an incident which suggested"The Night Call," to my friend, Mrs. Edward Robinson; and for thegerm of "The Mansion," to my friend, Mr. W. D. Sammis. If thestories that have come from their hints are different from what myfriends thought they would be, that is only another illustration ofthe theme.
Between the longer stories there are three groups oftales that are told in a briefer and different manner. They arelike etchings in which more is suggested than is in the picture.For this reason they are called Half-Told Tales, in the hope thatthey may mean to the reader more than they say.
Without the unknown quantity life would be easier,perhaps, but certainly less interesting. It is not likely that weshall ever eliminate it. But we can live with it and work with itbravely, hopefully, happily, if we believe that after all it meansgood – infinite good, passing comprehension – to all who live inlove.
AVALON, June 1, 1912 .
THE WEDDING-RING
Before Toinette Girard made up her mind to marryProsper Leclère, – you remember the man at Abbéville who had such abrave heart that he was not willing to fight with an old friend, –before Toinette perceived and understood how brave Prosper was, itseemed as if she were very much in doubt whether she did not lovesome one else more than she loved him, whether he and she reallywere made for each other, whether, in short, she cared for himenough to give herself entirely to him.
But after they had been married six weeks there wasno doubt left in her mind. He was the one man in the world for her.He satisfied her to the core – although by this time she knew mostof his faults. It was not so much that she loved him in spite ofthem, but she simply could not imagine him changed in any waywithout losing a part of him, and that idea was both intolerableand incredible to her. Just as he was, she clung to him and becameone with him.
I know it seems ridiculous to describe a love likethat, and it is certainly impossible to explain it. It is notcommon, nor regular, nor altogether justifiable by precept andauthority. Reason is against it; and the doctors of the church havealways spoken severely of the indulgence of any human affectionthat verges on idolatry. But the fact remains that there are a fewwomen in the world who are capable of such a passion.
Capable? No, that is not the word. They are createdfor it. They cannot help it. It is not a virtue, it is simply aquality. Their whole being depends upon their love. They hang uponit, as a wreath hangs from a nail in the wall. If it breaks theyare broken. If it holds they are happy. Other things interest themand amuse them, of course, but there is only one thing that reallycounts – to love and to be loved.
Toinette was a woman of that rare race. To theoutward view she was just a pretty French Canadian girl with anoval face, brown hair, and eyes like a very dark topaz. Her handswere small, but rather red and rough. Her voice was rich andvibrant, like the middle notes of a 'cello, but she spoke a dialectthat was as rustic as a cabbage. Her science was limited to enougharithmetic to enable her to keep accounts, her art to the gift ofsinging a very lovely contralto by ear, and her notions of historybordered on the miraculous. She was obstinate, superstitious, andat times quick-tempered. But she had a positive genius for loving.That raised her into the first rank, and enabled her to bestow asmuch happiness on Prosper as if she had been a queen.
It was a grief to them, of course, that they had nochildren. But this grief did not destroy, nor even diminish, theirfelicity in each other; it was like the soft shadow of a cloudpassing over a landscape – the sun was still shining and the worldwas fair. They were too happy to be discontented. And theirfortunes were thriving, too, so that they were kept pretty hard atwork – which, next to love, is the best antidote forunhappiness.
After the death of the old bonhomme Girard,the store fell to Prosper; and his good luck – or his cleverness,or his habit of always being ready for things, call it what youwill – stuck by him. Business flourished in the Bon Marché of Abbéville. Toinette helped it by her gay manners and her skillin selling. It did people good to buy of her: she made them feelthat she was particularly glad that they were getting just whatthey needed. A pipe of the special shape which Pierre affected, acalico dress-pattern of the shade most becoming to Angélique, abrand of baking-powder which would make the batter rise up likemountains – v'là, voisine, c'est b'en bon ! Everything thatshe sold had a charm with it. Consequently trade was humming, andthe little wooden house beside the store was b'entrimée .
The only drawback to the happiness of the Leclèreswas the fact that business required Prosper to go away for afortnight twice a year to replenish his stock of goods. He went toQuebec or to Montreal, for he had a great many kinds of things toget, and he wanted good things and good bargains, and he did nottrust the commercial travellers. "Who pays those men," he said, "torun around everywhere, with big watch-chains? You and me! But why?I can buy better myself – because I understand what Abbéville wants– and I can buy cheaper."
The times of his absence were heavy and slow toToinette. The hours were doped out of the day as reluctantly asblack molasses dribbles from a jug. A professional instinct kepther up to her work in the store. She jollied the customers, lookedafter the accounts, made good sales, and even coquetted enough withthe commercial travellers to send them away without ill-will forthe establishment which refused to buy from them. "A little badinage does no harm," she said, "it keeps people fromgetting angry because they can't do any more business."
But in the house she was dull and absent-minded. Shewent about as if she had lost something. She sat in herrocking-chair, with her hands in her lap, as if she were waitingfor something. The yellow light of the lamp shone upon her face andhurt her eyes. A tear fell upon her knitting. The old tante Bergeron, who came in to keep house for her while she was