STE. ANNE DE BEAUPRÉ AND A TRAVELLER'S VOW
Ste. Anne de Beaupré is usually referred to as the Lourdes of Canada.
When a metaphor of this sort is used it usually means that the spot
referred to is in some way inferior to the original. In the case of
Ste. Anne de Beaupré, the inferiority is not, I believe, in the
matter of the number of miracles wrought there, but in the matter of
general picturesqueness. Ste. Anne de Beaupré is not nearly so
picturesque as Lourdes. If you wish to palliate this fact, you say,
as one writer has said, that 'The beauty of modern architecture
mingles at Beaupré with the remains of a hoary past.' If you do not
wish to palliate it, you say, as I do, that Ste. Anne de Beaupré is
not in the least picturesque. I did not particularly care for the
modern architecture, and the hoary past is not particularly in
evidence. Do not suppose me to say that Beaupré has not a hoary
past. Red Indians, long before the days of railroads, {48} travelled
thither to pray at the feet of Ste. Anne. Breton seamen, who belong
only to tradition, promised a shrine to Ste. Anne, if she would save
them from shipwreck. They erected the first chapel. The second and
larger chapel was built as far back as 1657, and miracles were quite
frequent from then onwards. Nevertheless, the basilica is quite new,
and so is the whole appearance of the place.
I visited it in company with a French-Canadian commercial traveller.
He was a great big good-looking youth with curly hair and blue eyes,
and he travelled in corsets or something of that sort for a Montreal
firm. I could not help thinking that many ladies would buy corsets
from him or anything else whether they wanted them or not, because of
his charming boyish manner and his good looks. He asked me to go to
Ste. Anne de Beaupré with him. He said that he supposed that I was
not a Catholic, but that did not matter. He wished to go to the good
Ste. Anne, and it would be a good thing to go. He had been several
times before, but he had not been for several years. He could easily
take the afternoon off, and first of all we would go by the electric
train to the good Ste. Anne, and then on the way back we would step
off {49} at the Falls station, and see the Montmorency Falls, and
also the Zoo that is there. It would be great fun to see the Zoo.
He had not seen the Zoo for several years, and the animals would be
very interesting.
So we took an afternoon electric train. There are electric trains
for pilgrims, of whom a hundred thousand at least are said to visit
the shrine yearly, and there are also electric trains for tourists.
We took a tourist train, and having secured one of the little
handbooks supplied by the electric company, had the gratification of
knowing that even if the car was pretty full it was, so the company
claimed, run at a greater rate of speed than any other electric
service.
At times in Canada I found myself getting very slack in attempting
descriptions of things simply because some company that had rights of
transport over the particular district had, so to speak, thrust into
my hand some pamphlet in which all the description was done for me.
Thus it was in the case of the district line between Quebec and Ste.
Anne de Beaupré. 'It is difficult,' I read in the electric company's
handbook which we had secured, 'to describe in words the dainty
beauty of the scenery along this route.'
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'That is a nuisance,' I said to my companion, 'because words are the
only things I could describe it in.'
'It is much better to smoke,' said he.
So we smoked; and now I tell you straight out of that illogical
pamphlet, that 'The route from Quebec to Ste. Anne may be compared to
a splendid panorama. There are shady woodlands and green pastures,
undulating hills and sparkling rivers, whose banks are lined with
pretty villages, the tinned spires of the parish churches rising
above the rest of the houses, sparkling in the sun.' There, a little
ungrammatically, you have the scene 'to which,' adds my pamphlet,
'the Falls of Montmorency river add a touch of grandeur.' Ste. Anne
de Beaupré itself is twenty-one miles from Quebec. We went straight
from the station into the church, where the first thing to catch the
eye are the votive offerings and particularly the crutches,
walking-sticks, and other appliances left there by pilgrims who,
having been cured of their infirmities by miracle, had no further use
for these material aids. It is difficult to arrange such things in
any way that can be called artistic, and since the general effect is
nothing but ugly it might be wise for the church officials also to
dispense with such material {51} aids to faith. Apart from these the
most striking object is the miraculous statue. It stands on a
pedestal ten feet high and twelve feet from the communion rails. The
pedestal was the gift of a New York lady, the statue itself was
presented by a Belgian family. At the foot of it many people were
kneeling. A mass was being said and the church was very full, and
every time a petitioner got up from his knees from the feet of the
statue another moved down the aisle and took his or her place. I
suppose we were in the church fully half an hour before my companion
found an opportunity to go and kneel at the feet of the good Ste.
Anne, and having watched him there, I got up from my place and went
out into the village. It was rather a depressing village, full of
small hotels and restaurants and shops stocked with miraculous
souvenirs. I suppose more rubbish is sold in this line than in any
other. After inspecting a variety of it, I bought a bottle of cider
and a local cigar and sat on a fence smoking until my friend
reappeared. He came out most subdued and grave--not in the least the
boisterous person who had gone in--and said we would now go back. As
we had to wait half an hour for a returning train, I suggested that
we should go and have some more cider, {52} but he said no, he would
rather drink from the holy spring. 'Although this water,' said my
pamphlet, 'has always been known to be there, it is only within the
last thirty or thirty-five years that the pilgrims began to make a
pious use of it. What particular occasion gave rise to this
confidence, or when this practice first spread among the people,
cannot be positively asserted. However it may be, it is undeniable
that faith in the water from the fountain has become general, and the
use of it, from motives of devotion, often produces effects of a
marvellous nature.' Unfortunately, the fountain was not working,
owing, I expect, to the water having got low in the dry weather, and
my friend had to go without his drink. He said, however, that it did
not matter, and remained in a grave, aloof state all the way back in
the train as far as the Falls station, and indeed till we got to the
Zoo in the Kent house grounds. There, the exertion of trying to get
the beavers to cease working and come out and show themselves to
me--an exertion finally crowned with success, for the fat, furry,
silent creatures came out and sat on a log for us--livened him up a
bit. But he fell into a muse again in front of the cage containing
the timber wolf, and remained there so long that I was almost {53}
overcome by the smell of this ferocious animal. I got him away at
last, and I do not think he spoke after that until we got to Quebec
and were walking from the station to our inn.
'I have made a vow,' he then said suddenly.
'What sort of vow?' I inquired.
'I made it this afternoon,' he said, 'to the good Ste. Anne--never
any more to drink whisky.'
'It's not a bad vow to have made,' I said.
'No,' he said seriously, 'whisky is very terrible stuff. I shall
never drink it again. When I drink it it goes very quickly to my
head. Soon I am tight. That will not do.'
'Much better not to drink it certainly,' I agreed.
'Yes,' he continued vehemently. 'I am married. You did not guess
that perhaps? Also it is only recently that I have gone "on the
road." If the company I work for hears that I go about and get
tight, I shall at once be fired. So I shall not drink any more
whisky. Never. That is why I made the vow to the good Ste. Anne.'
We walked in silence the rest of the way to the inn, and I reflected
on the nature of vows. {54} It seemed very possible that a vow like
this might easily be a help to my companion. He was obviously not
what is called a strong character. It is strange how often a charm
of manner goes with a weakness of the will. And commercial
travelling--particularly perhaps in Canada--lays a man open to the
temptations of drink. If he went on drinking, it would probably mean
the ruin of the young girl he had married. Only one has always the
feeling that a vow is only a partial aid to keeping upright, just as
a stick is to walking. A man may lean too heavily on either.
Moreover, the making of a vow, while it may strengthen a man
temporarily in one direction tends to leave him unbalanced in other
directions. It makes him feel so strong perhaps in one part of him
that he forgets other parts where he is weak. I rather think that
the last part of these somewhat superficial reflections upon vows
occurred to me later in the evening, and not as we were walking home.
We had had supper by that time, and my companion had drunk a good
deal of water during the meal--a beverage, by the way, which is not
particularly safe either here or in any other Canadian town. At
times he had been depressed by it, at times elevated. After we had
smoked {55} together and he had grown more and more restless, he
jumped up and said:
'Let us go out for a walk.'
'Where to?' I asked.
'Oh, up on to the terrace,' he said. 'I tell you,' he went on
excitedly, 'where I will take you. There is a special place up there
that I know very well. It is where one meets the girls. We will go
there to-night and meet the girls.'
Really, I could have given a very good exposition of the temptation
offered by vows at that moment when he suggested this Sentimental
Journey.
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