All language subtitles for Maria.Chapdelaine.2021.FRENCH.1080p.WEB.H264-ViVENDi

North of Lac St-Jean - Pekuakami -
near the Péribonka River.

At the edge of pioneer settlement.

Can we cross?

Upstream the ice is melting,

but we'll be fine.

Gee-up! Go on!

Gee-up, Charles-Eugène.

Come on, Charles-Eugène.

Gee-up, Charles-Eugène!

We'll be last to cross
till next winter.

Gee-up!

Based on Louis Hémon's
"Maria Chapdelaine, A Tale of French Canada"

They'll be glad.
We missed you, Maria.

I missed you, too.

Chapter One
ITE MISSA EST

Bless this meal,
give bread to the hungry,

and bless our family.

In the name of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

We stopped for mass
at Péribonka.

Mass is beautiful.

Not going every Sunday
curbs our blessings.

It isn't our fault
we're so far.

I saw Paradis' son
on the way.

François.

Guiding some Belgians out to buy furs.
He talked to me.

Years since I saw him.

When his father died,
he sold the farm.

Now he's a fur trader.

He said he'd visit after the thaw.

He'll be in the area and come by.

Maria didn't tell us.

I've much to tell you.
A lot has happened.

Were there dances in St Prime?

Yes, often.

- Did you go to mass?
- Surely.

- With our cousins?
- Yeah.

- Were there children my age?
- Yes.

- How many?
- Many. I didn't count.

Who's François Paradis?

You were little,
you wouldn't remember.

But you do?

A bit, yes.

Did you know him?

He was our neighbour
in Mistassini.

You were my age,
right Maria?

That's right.

A caller.

Must be Eutrope Gagnon.

You always say,
"Must be Eutrope Gagnon."

Who else?
He's our only neighbour.

- It's no great prophecy, he visits often.
- Hush, Alma-Rose.

- Am I intruding?
- By no means.

The moon's out,
I wondered if you were back.

The weather's turned mild.

How was the road?

Fine, but meltwater
covers the ice in places.

And you, Maria?
How was it across the lake?

A month is long.

I bet your parents
are happy at your return.

I had a good trip,
but I'm glad to be home.

Our livestock feed is running short.

Spring had better come soon.

A horse, 3 pigs, a cow,
sheep and hens... They do eat!

Soon we'll put them out.

Without Esdras and Da'Bé's wages,
what would we do?

When the boys are back from logging,
we'll set to work clearing more land.

Me, the boys, and Tit'Bé.

And I'll hire a hand.
It'll go faster.

In two years we'll have pasture
for more head.

Three times he's said that...
Three, since our betrothal.

Three times he claimed land,

built a barn, a house, a stable.

Deep in the woods.

He piled up the brush,

cleared the land himself.

Then sold it all
to start all over farther north.

Distressed when neighbours arrived
and the land filled up.

Three times he moved farther away,

leaving behind the older parish.

Come play. We'll form teams.

You play with Father.

Me with Eutrope.

It's raining.

Spring's on its way,
Mrs Chapdelaine!

And a finer springtime there's never been.

Maria, it's your turn.

I hear the falls!
The ice is breaking!

Tomorrow, I can finally leave for Mistouk
to buy seed and feed.

With a little luck,
the roads will be passable.

You'll be alone two days.

Don't worry. We'll be fine.

Télésphore took Father's gin!

Télésphore!

Télésphore, you brat!

I'll get you!

I'm fed up!

He never gets blamed
'cause he's a boy!

He'll eat tomorrow,
and start all over.

He's never truly punished.

- Deserves to go hungry for a year!
- Stop.

A year? He'd starve to death.

See, you don't want to punish him.

It was the Devil of disobedience, Maria.

Don't say that.

I haven't eaten.
Will I starve to death?

Of course not.

You're Tit'Bé, right?

Go ahead, Mother. Say your prophecy.

- "It must be Eutrope Gagnon."
- Alma-Rose!

Well now, a ghost!

François Paradis.

We're camped above the falls.

I had to pitch the Belgians' tent.

It's late to head back.

The forest doesn't scare me, ma'am.

Tit'Bé and Alma-Rose
have changed.

In Mistassini
they were this big.

Seven years hasn't changed you.
Not one bit.

But you must find Maria changed.

Yes, but...

I recognized her right away.

Samuel said you'd sold your land.

Since Dad died,
I've been a woodsman.

I hunt or trade with the Indians,
in Mistassini and Rivière aux Foins.

I spent two years in Labrador,
guiding for English surveyors.

Working as a guide or trading with Indians...
That's the life!

But toiling at
the same fields... never.

I'd feel like...

Like an animal
tethered to a stake.

Some men are that way.

The woods have you in their spell.

Yet nothing's sweeter than
a clear stretch of land near town.

Mother!

I wouldn't have been happy.

Thanks, it was delicious.

Are there towns up north?

Villages, but few farms.

Winters are harsher.

The sleds are drawn by dogs.

Good dogs...

But scrappy,
and only half-tamed.

Any trouble with the Indians?

Nishteshatsh.

We get along fine.

They're like brothers.

I've known them since childhood.
They'd visit.

Dad hunted in winter.

One day a tree he was chopping fell on him.

He was alone.

By chance Indians found him,

crushed and near frozen,
on their land.

They could have left him for dead.

But they put him on their sled,

took him to their tent.

And nursed him.

You know, he was gruff, a hard drinker,
but fair and mindful.

When he left, he told 'em to bring him
their pelts in spring.

"François Paradis of Mistassini.
Don't you forget."

When they came down
that spring,

he put them up, gave 'em new axes,
wool blankets

and tobacco for 3 months.

They came every spring.
Dad got his pick of the pelts,

paying less than
the English agents.

After he died it continued for me
because I have his name.

François Paradis.

If I had more capital,
I'd have gotten rich.

Well said. Our father's names
are our titles.

I agree, Mrs Chapdelaine.

We'll be back for St Anne's.

I'll come by
and see Mr Chapdelaine.

But now I have to return to my men.

Without me, they'd be lost.

Can I walk François a ways?

Yes, but don't go into the woods.

You're always welcome in our home.

Glad to see you again.

Go on, Tit'Bé. He's waiting.

So lovely to have a caller.

As a girl in St Gédéon,
callers came every Saturday and Sunday.

Adélard St-Onge
courted me a while.

Wilfred Tremblay, the merchant.

Such a courteous man.
He tried to talk like a Frenchman.

And your father.

Came every week for three years
until I decided.

Father sure was patient.

Three years!

Three years is long.

Chapter Two
WE WILL MAKE LAND

Father.

Mother!

We brought Edwige Légaré.

He's ready to work for you

as your summer hand.

Again.

Mr Chapdelaine.
Mrs Chapdelaine.

$5 a week, with room and board.

Show me where to clear.

We'll cut 'em trees,
Mr Chapdelaine.

Sis...

How are you doing?

Come on! Perdition!

Blasted tree!

Your days are numbered.

I'll show you!

Boss! Clearing land is gonna kill us!

I'm about to pass out!

It's good to see a man work, Edwige!

Cold water!

Give me cold water!

Thank you, Miss Maria!

It's noon!

Thank you, ma'am.

This is good.
Very good!

Thanks, Mom.

Seeing my men clear farmland
makes living so far out bearable.

It's the finest sight in the world.

So, so good!

Like Frenchmen say, délicieux!

My, that was good.

My belly's bursting.

Lord pardon my gluttony.

The stumps are obstinate.
I expected the roots to rot.

We won't clear it all this year.

I reckon we won't.

Already?

Heavens...

If the nice weather holds,
we'll have blueberries for St Anne's.

Five men can clear land fast.
But alone, without a horse, it's slow.

Hard labour.

But it's coming along.

Your brother will bring home at least $200
from logging.

If you stay here next winter,
you'll soon be done.

Young'uns don't know
what hardship is.

After 3 months in the woods,

they rush to buy yellow boots, bowlers
and cigarettes to see the girls.

The camps feed them,
like at a hotel.

Thirty years ago, when we laid
the railroad across Quebec, I was there.

Now that was hardship.

When you were called,
you packed and left.

You couldn't quit.

I was 15,
but I chopped with the rest.

We had to clear 25 miles
ahead of the tracks.

In 14 months I saw not a single house.

Dawn to dusk
it was chop, chop, chop,

eaten by black flies,
midges, horseflies...

Satan's minions.

Only osier and wort for tobacco.

When we got back to Chicoutimi,

we were worse than savages.

Almost naked,
skin and clothes in shreds.

Like real tramps, Lord!

Men sobbed when they heard
they could go home.

They thought everyone'd be dead
after so long.

I tell you...

Today's youngsters don't know
what hardship is.

We've come a-calling.

We've come a-calling!

We've come a-calling.
Take out the gin! We've come a-calling.

I thought you might be lonely,

all alone out here in the woods.

I brought someone!

My nephew Lorenzo.

My brother Adélard's grandson.

The son of Elzéar, who died last autumn.

He works in the mills
in the state of Massachusetts.

He's back to settle things
after his father's death,

and to sell the land.

He didn't want to be a farmer?

Farming's not for me, not at all.

I earn good money there.

Any takers?

Three Frenchmen who moved
to Mistouk.

Are they serious?

Seems that way.

So you're Elzéar's boy?

Elzéar married a Gauthier from Kiskissing.

You must've known them.

I remember your brother's family.

Donat, the eldest, who moved
to Kenogami.

And Adhémard and Élie,
who married a Murray.

And Big Amédée,
and Armand, JB, Ludger...

Sigefroid and Alcide,
the youngest.

Alcide married a Gagnon
from Baie St Paul.

His sister, Albertine married
a Bouchard from Roberval.

What was his name?

Jules!

Jules Bouchard.

Pit and Johnny's brother.

And their sister Jeanne,
she died young.

And Rose-Olympe, who was always with Mother's
cousins, Marie-Anne and Juliette Drolet.

Their mom was postmistress,

their dad supplied the lumber
for the church.

And Elzéar!
Married a Kiskissing Gauthier.

Hélène Gauthier.

That's right.
That's precisely right.

And this here's their son.

An Adélard, like his granddad.

Many Canadians?

Where I was before,
in Maine,

we outnumbered the Americans
and Irish. Everyone spoke French.

But not where I am now.
A few families.

Is it a big place?

90,000.

90,000! Bigger than Quebec City.

By train, it's
an hour to Boston.

That's a real big place.

When I was a girl,
almost everyone left for the U.S.

They all talked about
how much the mills paid.

Every year, families
sold their land and left.

Indeed.

Greetings, all!

Another visitor?

You keep your promises,
François.

Let him sit, Da'Bé!

This is François Paradis
from Mistassini, a family friend.

I knew his father.

A great man.
Larger than life.

Was the trip good?

No, we had a run of bad luck.

One Belgian
almost died from fever.

By then it was late to trade.

Many Indians had already gone south.

To end all, a canoe capsized in the rapids.
We barely saved the pelts.

Plus one of the men nearly drowned.

But we're back.

Another job done.

Good to see houses again.

You see?

You say we live too far to see anybody.

Count them, 11 of us.

Yep.

A lotta men, and only one girl!

We lost the card.

The queen of hearts.

Old man Murray
hired a Frenchman.

An odd one, Murray.

One day, repairing the barn roof,

the Frenchman drops a stack of shingles
on Mrs Murray's turkey,

and kills it!

He's going, "What'll Mrs Murray say?”

Murray goes, "Don't worry.

I'll say it died of sun stroke."

So Mrs Murray comes out

and notices her turkey's dead.

The Frenchie must've been scared
of the lady, she was so ugly!

Uglier than me.
Face like the Devil.

She could make the wind turn around.

So she goes, "Look! The turkey's dead!"

The guy goes,
"Sun stroke, dear!"

The lady goes, "Can't be.

It's bleeding!"

Murray didn't know
what to say.

He comes down from the roof,

ambles over to his wife

and goes:

‟What can I do about it?”

His wife went back inside.

And the Frenchie
sailed back to France!

Your turn.

You're too good,
Mrs Chapdelaine.

Ready to lose?

We'll see.

It must be hard to live
so far from others.

Have you travelled, Maria?

Have you been to Quebec City?
Or Montreal?

Or Chicoutimi?

No.

Try to visit Quebec City,
if you have a chance.

It's far, but it's beautiful.

Maria is not at her best tonight.

Not used to callers.

Such is life.

I've no hand.

Télésphore, the smudge!
We're being eaten.

Clubs, Ephrem.

Beautiful moon tonight.

If you look close,
you'll see the man sawing wood.

Do you see the man?

You know the moon's
made of sawdust.

At night in the camps,

when it's dark and windy,

you can see sawdust
swirling in the sky.

Have you ever seen
the windigo?

Yeah.

Once.

I think it was him.

Up by La Tuque.

He must've thought
I was hunting on his land.

I was lucky, he let me leave.

Others weren't so lucky.

Were you scared?

No. He doesn't scare me.

If he comes here,
I'll shoot him with Dad's rifle.

He stays in the woods.
He won't come here.

Then I'll shoot him in the woods.

Think so?

Sleeping here, François?

Of course he will.

Tomorrow is St Anne's!

We'll pick blueberries.
The men, too.

And no supper if your pail's not full.

Here. Some clean clothes
from the boys. They'll do.

Thank you, ma'am.

This is a nice patch.

There aren't many this year.
The spring frosts killed them.

In here, the snow lingered,
protecting them.

Why didn't you tell your folks
we saw each other in St Prime?

You can stop looking.
Plenty here.

My bucket's almost full,
and yours is empty.

Let me help you.

The others can't be far.

Did anyone speak ill of me?

No.

It's true, I liked a drink
when I came in from the camps.

And I used to curse a lot.

It comes from living with rough men.

Father Tremblay once scolded me
for saying the Devil didn't scare me.

I'll never be a churchgoer.

But those days are over.

I want to settle down.

I'm going to Grand-Mère
to work on the locks.

I'll work all summer, $2 a day.
I'll save up.

I'll earn good wages this winter
as a foreman in the camp.

By next spring I'll have $500
and I'll come back.

Will you be here
in the spring, Maria?

Yes.

Then I'll come back.

After the first frost,
we've a month before winter.

That's what old-timers say.

They're right. One month.

Summers here
are too short.

I'm thinking of Cousin Jeanne.

Oh?

When I was in St Prime,
we spoke a bit.

She was being courted by a local boy
and one from Normandin.

For months, they called on her.

She liked them both,

but she liked Zotique,
the Normandin boy, best.

But Zotique went off to the log drive.

He'd be gone till summer.

So Édouard, the village boy,
asked for her hand,

and she accepted.

She said,
"I like him, too."

Marriage isn't always like that.

I hope we'll be invited
to the wedding.

And we can all go.

The newspapers you wanted,
Mrs Chapdelaine.

They kept them for you.

There must be a whole year's news.

Read 'em fast before
they go into the walls.

No better insulation than stale news.
Keeps you warm.

Have a rest.
I'll mind the baking.

Here, your wages.

Always a pleasure, Mr Chapdelaine.

- Till next year, I hope.
- Thanks.

My boys, you be careful.

Sad news of you would kill me.

Look at me.

Look at me!

Chapter Three
THE HOLIDAYS

You're so quiet, Paradis.

Come join us!

What's all this?

I'm going home for Christmas.

I'll leave at daybreak.

The boss won't let you go.

Guys who leave
don't come back.

I'll talk to him.
I'll come back.

Come on, Paradis.

Setting out in winter is foolhardy.

It's two days' walk
to the tracks. I'll be fine.

In this cold?

Hardship doesn't scare me.
I'm used to it.

Don't worry!

I'll give everyone your greetings.

Tit'Bé, tell the kids to go inside.
A bad storm's brewing.

Did the pump freeze?

Don't let the stove die.

It's getting ugly.

A miserable cold night.

It'll be nasty
in the woods.

It's worse here, Laura.

The woods provide shelter.

Esdras and Da'Bé will be fine,
don't fret.

I wonder if we'll have callers
New Year's Day.

Azalma doesn't live far, but...

she's lazy.

Nobody will come up
from St Prime.

Maybe Wilfrid or Ferdinand...

If the lake ice
is thick enough.

No midnight mass if the road
is like last year.

You promised.

We have to tend the animals.

Tit'Bé, come with me.

Stay close!

Tit'Bé?

Tit'Bé!

Stay right behind!

Close it, quick!

It's taking so long.

I'm scared.

It's alright. Come here.

Let's go, darn horse!

Gee-up!

Lazy nag!

Obstinate beast!

We won't get through
for days.

With the snow... we won't be
the only ones kept home.

True, midnight mass in St Coeur is a delight.

You're right, Laura.

You'd have been happier
with a different man.

One who'd settled
near the village.

No, Samuel.

I'm just griping. Who doesn't gripe?

But we haven't been unhappy.

The boys are good lads,
and brave.

They bring us
every penny they earn.

And Maria's a good girl.

We're lucky, Samuel.

Aren't I a good girl too, Father?

Certainly.

A black sin to be naughty
on Christmas.

Want me to rock you?

Come.

Come here.

Sing me a song.

No?

Then I'll sing.

Nightingale of the woods

Wild nightingale

Teach me your language
Teach me to speak

Show me the way to love

The way to love, I'll tell you

Go see the girls at night
And woo them

And promise to always love them

They told me, beautiful one,
That you have some apples

Lovely rennet apples...
Will you allow me

To pick the apples from your garden?

You are not the man who may pick my apples

Bring me the moon
And the sun in your hand

And you may have the apples from my garden

The gallant prince climbed
the tallest mountain

The moon is too high
And the sun too far away

An impossible task,
As the beauty well knew

I thought I'd come back
And pass by your door

Behind the closed doors
Oh darling, I can see

You love another,
Oh, darling

Now if I love another,
It's none of your concern

He is no handsomer, richer
Or more charming than you

If love torments you, prince,
Then you should go

Then if I must go

Give me back my handkerchief

It's upstairs in my room beside my bed

Day and night when I think of it,
I cry and I yearn

For if I must go, give me back my wages

Your wages are in the hedge,
Surrounded by the leaves

Go find them if you wish

I give my heart to God

Holy Mary...

François Paradis...

Make him keep his promises,

to stop swearing and drinking.

Preserve him from hardship.

That he may return.

Make him keep his promises
and return in spring.

Like he said.

You're the only caller we've had.
I doubt you saw anyone either.

I knew you'd come.

I wouldn't have rung in the new year
without coming by.

I haven't come to celebrate.

I have news to tell.

Bad news, by the looks of it.

Is it the boys?

No, Mrs Chapdelaine.

Esdras and Da'Bé are well,
God willing.

It's something else.

Not a family member, but a lad you know.

François Paradis.

You know he was foreman
at a camp up by La Tuque.

Two weeks ago he told his boss

he wanted to spend the holidays
here in Lac St-Jean.

Said he had family here...

The boss wasn't happy,
but you know François.

When he'd put his mind to something...

The boss agreed,
afraid to lose him.

François packed and left.

The camp was two days
from the railroad line,

but an accident
had blocked the tracks.

And?

When François realized,
he decided to walk the whole way,

down Croche River to
Ouiatchouane River by Roberval.

Everyone said he was crazy
to undertake the journey in winter.

But he just laughed.

Said if the Indians could make it,
so could he.

He set out on snowshoe,

with his supplies on a sled.

I did that trail.

Not in this weather, sir.

In the storm,
he was in the burnt lands,

where the snow drifts high.

Even a skilled man
doesn't stand a chance.

What happened, Eutrope?

He went astray, ma'am.

How do you know?

Indians found his shelter
and his tracks.

Way off the river trail,
heading straight up North.

Three days ago.

He is lost.

We're all children
in the Lord's hands.

François was one of the best woodsmen
and guides around.

Foreigners counted on him
to get them home.

And he lost his way.

It shows we're all but children.

He was a good lad.

Hardworking.
I liked him a lot.

Hard not to like him.

Poor boy!

Everyone was fond of him.

He has almost no family.

We could pay
for a mass.

When the boys return
in spring. Right, Laura?

Yes.

Will you stay, Eutrope?

It's not a day
to celebrate the New Year.

I'll head back.

I'll come with you.

I'll feed the animals.

Maria!

Maria!

Chapter Four
THE SUITORS

...ten sheep, two two-year-old bulls,
four bull calves, a sow, six hens,

one grain mill
with $66 in mortgage...

One buggy, one cart,
one carriage, three sleighs,

two log chains, one steel plow,
one harrow,

one double stove, a kitchen stove,
two axes, two scythes with handles,

four sickles, one washer,
one canvas canoe,

two bunks, six chairs, two wash tubs,
one tin, one zinc.

All the grain, threshed and not,
all remaining straw and hay.

The seller reserves the right
to feed his animals

through the end of March.

He leaves 3 bushels of wheat and 60 of oats
for sowing next spring.

Gentlemen, sign here.

Father's waiting for you.

Here's my list.

Be careful.

Come in here.

I hear you're tormenting yourself.

Be seated.

Your father told me.

It's normal to grieve
if there was friendship, but...

you weren't engaged.
You hadn't informed your parents.

So, to grieve and pine for a boy
who meant nothing to you...

It isn't right.

It isn't seemly.

All you can do is offer up prayers
and masses for him.

Three now and three others when the boys are back,
as your father wishes.

He will prefer that
to laments.

It will speed his Purgatory.

The way he died,
who knows if he said Contrition?

But grieving for no reason
and casting gloom over the household...

God disapproves.

He knows what's best.

You mustn't rebel or complain.

So stop tormenting yourself.
It is profane

and unseemly,
since no promises were made.

This boy was nothing to you.

You've no wish to take vows?

Your father said a boy from the States
visited you. Is that true?

Yes.

Will you listen to him?

You cannot imagine...

Just strolling down the streets...

Asphalt sidewalks,
not thin planks like in Roberval.

Just walking out at night,
with the city lights,

and trams going by,
the shops, the crowds...

It would amaze you for weeks.

And all the attractions...

Theatres, circuses,

illustrated papers,
the moving pictures...

Everywhere, there's places you pay a nickel
and laugh or cry for hours.

The place sounds nice, Lorenzo.

Charles-Eugène...

What a name for a horse!

My great-great-grandfather
quarrelled with a neighbour.

A family dispute.

The neighbour's name was
Charles-Eugène.

In revenge, he named his horse that.

He must've hated the man,
always bedeviling his horse.

It delighted him to pass by his house,
cursing and whipping it.

Since then their horses
have all been Charles-Eugène.

It's tradition.

Or a curse. Poor man!

He's long dead, he doesn't mind.

You know,

I could've done
my business by mail.

The notary handled the sale.

I came back for you.

I am here from Boston...

to say my piece,
and hear your answer.

I'm glad your parents
let me speak to you.

I'm glad, too.

This is no place for you, Maria.

Down there,
if you were my wife,

you needn't work.

I earn enough for two
in the mill.

We'd have a nice life.

One day I'll buy a brick house,

with gas, hot water... every convenience.

I guess that's it.

You've always lived here,
you can't picture other places.

I lack the words to describe it.

If you agree to marry me, as I'm asking...

I'll take you to beautiful places,
not like here.

Yes, but...

I need time to decide, Lorenzo.

You don't have to say yes now.
You barely know me.

Your answer can wait.

We're invited to a dance Saturday
at Ephrem Surprenant's in Honfleur.

Everyone will be there.

You children will come.

It'll be pleasant, a distraction.

Tit'Bé will mind the house.

Can I come too?

Yes, Télésphore, you'll come.

Look at his heels.

Look at those feet go!
It's marvellous.

Beautiful to see.

How do you like Canada?

Beautiful country.

Lots of flies in summer,

and harsh winters, but...

I imagine one gets used to it.

Back in your country,
were you a farmer?

I was a piano tuner.

My sons were clerks.

Edmond in an office
and Pierre in a shop.

A piano tuner! See?
You didn't believe me!

He doesn't know what that is!

Is it a good trade?
Does it pay well?

It's honest work.

You must all be well schooled.

I'd have liked to learn to write, but...

my family wasn't much with pencils.

- Mine, neither.
- Nor mine.

And you, Maria?

I wanted to be a teacher.
I loved school.

But my parents
needed me at home.

They shouldn't
have asked that of you.

They didn't, Lorenzo.

Is this how you pictured things...

life here?

Not exactly.

Life here's hard.
Real hard.

It can be a struggle at first,

but you'll be happy
once you're farming.

These men came from afar
to settle here and farm...

and I always thought
there must be nothing better

than to sit in an office
all day long,

pen in hand, out of the cold and sun!

We all have our ideas.

And yours wasn't to stay
in Honfleur sweating over stumps.

It's true, I won't deny it.

Just not for me.

These men bought my land.

Good land,
none can say otherwise.

I'm content where I am.

No stumps down there.

The roads are smooth and straight.
There's progress.

Progress makes
straight roads,

but crooked roads are roads of genius.

Progress is different for everyone.

You have to want it.

Nothing beats living on your own land,
healthy and debt-free.

You have no boss,
you have your animals.

And your labour profits you.

That's a beautiful thing!

You all say that.

"We're free! Our own boss!”

You pity mill workers
because they have to answer to a boss.

But free, on the land?
Come now.

No one is less free than a settler.

The truth is,
your animals own you.

The worst boss is a beloved animal.

That's right.

And it won't change.

Even if it could,

you'd have other masters.

The summer, too late or too short.

The winter, that eats up your profit.

Drought, rain...

In cities there's none of that.

They say that success
with the land

comes only to those
born and raised on the land.

As you'd expect.

City folk would never be so simple
as to accept that kind of life.

Don't say that.

No better life than
living on your own land.

Not in this country, ma'am.

You're too far north.

Winter's too harsh, summer too short.

I wonder why folks
didn't leave here long ago

for an easier place...

Where you can walk
outside in winter,

without fear of dying.

Twenty years ago, there was nothing here.

In another 20 years, who knows?

Maybe Mistouk'll be as big
as Quebec City. Who knows?

Maybe as big as Boston!

It's true!

People are needed here.

They can't all leave!

What do you think,
Mr Surprenant?

Would you live
in a big city?

Even the world's
most beautiful city

is still the loneliest corner ever

when you've lived
as long as I have!

Eugène! Play us some music!

Father Tremblay be darned,
I'm tired of dancing in my chair.

I'm leaving in two days.

It's a costly trip,
but I'll be back soon.

You'll think on what I asked you?

Yes.

Leaving already, Eutrope?
It's still early.

You know, me and dances...

I have to get back, as do you.

I'd rather leave early.

Hello, Tit'Bé.

I'm here to see Maria.

She's inside.

Your parents said I could visit
while they're away.

It's always a pleasure to see you.

You know I'm fond of you.

I didn't say anything before
because my land wasn't ready.

And also... I guessed you liked
François Paradis better.

But with him dead,
I thought I'd try my luck.

I'm not rich, but I have two lots,
both paid up, and the soil is good.

I'll work on it and come May
I'll sow my fields - 130 bushels' worth.

Wheat, barley, oats,
plus an acre of silage for cattle.

I'll buy all my seed in Roberval

and pay cash on the barrel.

I have the money,
won't owe a cent to anyone.

Then, between haying and harvest,

I'll build a solid, cozy house
of spruce.

The wood's by the barn,
cut and stacked!

My brother will help,

and maybe Esdras and Da'Bé
once they're back.

Next winter
I'll ride up to go logging

and come back in spring with $200.

Then it would be time to...

I know it'll be
hard work at first, but...

you've got grit, and so do I.

I'm a hard worker,
nobody can say I'm lazy.

So...

If you'll marry me,
I'll love you very much.

I can't express
how fond of you I am.

Go see your sister, Télésphore.
I'm coming.

You're free to decide,
of course.

But you'd be happy
as the woman you are...

with me, Maria.

I'm sorry, Eutrope.

I made no promises,
but Lorenzo was here.

He talked to me.

He proposed, Eutrope.

I understand.

I have nothing against him.

So you'll be leaving?

Goodbye, Tit'Bé.

Bye, Eutrope.

Final Chapter
THE DEPARTURE

You haven't done much today.

Are you weaving in reverse?

You'll never finish.

I had to unravel it all.

I wanted you to bring up
a bag of flour, but I'll go.

I'm not hungry.

I must've strained myself
lifting the flour.

My back's in a knot.

Mind the baking, Maria.

I'll go lie down.

See to the chores, Maria.

Your father can help milk.

I'm useless this morning.

That's fine.

Just rest. We'll manage.

Stay outside.

Still in bed?

Here.

Our neighbour brought it.

It helped his brother.

He said to take one or two.

I've left my chores.

Tell Maria to cook supper.

Don't torment yourself.
The chores are looked after.

Maria can manage.

And everything else!

She's as able as you.

She's no longer a child.

Just lie quietly,
stop stirring up the covers.

It'll only worsen things.

It hurts, Samuel.

I cannot endure it.

It's frightening
to hear her like this.

It's unlike your mother.

Get the kids in for supper.

At first light I'll hitch Charles-Eugène.

I'll get the doctor.

And speak to Father Tremblay.

He'll guide us.

I should be back by evening.

The road's bad in spring.

Give me some cold water.
I'm thirsty.

You shouldn't drink too much.

Try to bear the thirst.

Thanks, Tit'Bé.

Father must be near Mistouk.

He'll need to let the horse rest
before returning.

Such roads make it hard
to visit our patients.

You've hidden yourselves in the woods,
it seems.

As far away as possible.

You could all die without...

a soul coming to help.

So...

You've taken ill, like rich folks?

You really are sick, it seems.

Can you tell me
how it started?

She was lifting a sack of flour.

Has this happened before?

Where exactly does it hurt?

My stomach.

I can't get up.

And my head is burning.

Listen...

If it's merely a wrench,
it'll heal on its own.

Stay quiet in bed.

But if it's an injury within,
it may be serious.

Such ailments can be worse
than dire illness.

We don't know, we can't see it.

But it might be something else.

No professor could tell you more.

We must wait.

I can give you something
for the pain.

That's the best I can do.

It will help you sleep.

I have other people to see.
I'll stay in Péribonka.

Can I take your horse?
I know the way.

I'll billet at Napoléon Bérubé's
and return tomorrow afternoon.

The horse is exhausted.

It's fine.

- Father...
- It's fine!

See you tomorrow.

What if we need him?

We'll stay with your mother.
We won't need him.

I'd hoped to find her recovered.

It seems the medicine is working.

She's slept three hours.

Nice of you to come, Eutrope.

- I thought the doctor...
- A quack!

I'll tell him myself.

He gave her a useless tonic, then returned
to the village as if he'd earned his money!

The damn crook!

I won't give him a cent.

Not one cent!

Samuel!

It hurts too much.

I think I'm dying.

Don't say that.

That's up to the good lord.

It's not your time.

What would He do with you?

Heaven's full of old women.

Here we only have one.

She still serves us well.

That doctor is an old fool.

He can't even say what it is.

I'm dying, I know.

Get the priest from St Henri.

Please.

Samuel...

I can't, Laura.

I'll go, Mr Chapdelaine.

The doctor took the horse.

I'll go anyway.

It's too far.

I'll go by the woods.

I'll run to Honfleur,
then to St Henri.

Someone will lend me a horse and sleigh.

I'll be back early tomorrow.

Count on me.

Tit'Bé!

She's awake now.

Laura, do you wish to confess?

Yes.

Let us say the Act of Contrition.

Lord, I am heartily sorry
for having offended Thee.

Lord,

I am heartily sorry
for having offended Thee.

Will the doctor come soon?

I hope he's not held up.

We'll await him together.

Come, children.

I came as soon as I heard.

She looks like a city lady.

So pale.

It's as if death refined her.

It's a heavy loss.

You were well met in marriage.

In all the parish, no woman was more
hardworking or devoted than she.

A woman with both a good heart

and a good head.

A very friendly woman,
kind and sincere.

In the old parishes,
and even in the towns,

not many could match her.

Your wife, Samuel, was...

goodness.

Goodness itself.

Mr Surprenant speaks truly.

Your mother was a good woman.

Courageous.

A courageous woman
all her life.

When we took up
our first land in Normandin,

we had very little pasture.

The whole claim was standing timber,
the devil to clear.

I took my ax and said,
"I'll make land for you."

Morning to night I chopped,
only returning to the cabin to eat.

All the while she minded house,
tended the livestock,

mended fences, hauled rocks,

never resting from her work.

I said to let me do it,

but she just shouted,

"Leave this to me,
leave it all to me

and clear me land."

She'd laugh
to cheer me up,

but I could see she was struggling,
her eyes ringed with fatigue.

Three or four times a day
she'd come to the door

and stand there watching me
labour with all my strength,

clearing the spruce and birch
to make land for her.

In Normandin and Mistassini
and all the other places we've lived,

I've always worked hard,
thinking that one day

we'd have a nice farm

where your mother would live
like the women in the old parishes,

with fields as flat as a lake,
far as the eye could see.

And now she's died
in this half-savage place,

so far from houses and churches,
and so close to the woods.

It's my fault she died here.

It's damn well my fault!

Too often,

after spending years in one place,

things were going well.

People came and settled nearby.

All we had to do was wait
and labour diligently,

and we'd have been
in a nice parish

where Laura could have been happy.

Then suddenly, I was restless.

I grew tired of the work,
tired of the place.

I began to hate those
who had settled nearby,

who called on us.

I heard that farther north,
in the woods,

there was good land.

And this place I'd heard of
but never seen,

where no man had yet settled...

I began to hunger for it
as if I'd been born there.

In those days,
when the work was done,

instead of smoking by the stove...

I'd go sit on the doorstep...

like a man who is
homesick and lonely.

Everything I saw before me...

the land I'd struggled to clear
with my own hands,

the fields, the fences,
the rocky knoll that shut us in...

I started to hate all of it
beyond reason.

Your mother would
walk up behind me, quietly...

and she would gaze at our land.

And I knew she was happy

because it was beginning
to look like her old parish,

where she would
have gladly stayed.

Instead of calling me
an old fool

for wanting to leave —
as most women would have...

she only sighed,

thinking of the toil that lay ahead
again in the woods.

And she said to me,

"Well, Samuel!

Will we be moving on once again?"

I forgot.

I have a letter for you.

From my nephew, Lorenzo.

Of course, he doesn't
know about your mother.

But I'm sure he hopes to see you soon.

It's mild out.

Everyone says spring
will come early this year.

Haw! Get a move on!

Mr Chapdelaine, I'm ready
to work for you again.

$5 a week, with room and board.

Show me where to clear!

Do you still think
of leaving?

I know now's not the time,

but if you could tell me
I'd have a chance one day,

I could bear waiting.

The spring after next...

when the men come back
for sowing.

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