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| La chasse-galerie (Collection personnelle) |
Bien assis dans ma nouvelle chaise berçante, je sirote paisiblement un bon thé noir. Entre deux gorgées, je dépose ma plus récente lecture des Fêtes : The Dead of Winter: Beware of the Krampus and Other Wicked Christmas Creatures, de l’historienne Sarah Clegg. Comme l’indique son titre, l’ouvrage porte un œil historique sur les légendes européennes du temps des Fêtes. Alors que je continue de me bercer, je fixe l’œil sur la neige qui recouvre à peine ma petite cour arrière et je me mets à réfléchir sur notre propre patrimoine folklorique des Fêtes. En particulier, les recherches de Clegg au sujet de la légende de la « Wild Hunt » (chasse fantastique, chasse aérienne, ou chasse sauvage) me font immédiatement penser à notre bonne vieille chasse-galerie.
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| La
Chasse-Galerie selon C. Lepine L'Opinion publique, le jeudi 19 août 1875, p. 394. |
Ceux qui me connaissent savent que j’adore la légende de la chasse-galerie. D’ailleurs, ma première bière fut une Maudite, attiré comme je l’étais par son étiquette reprenant la légende de damnés volant dans le ciel dans un canot enchanté par le Diable en personne. Je viens également de m’acheter une sculpture de chasse-galerie chez Sculpteur Flamand dans le Petit-Champlain à Québec. En somme, j’aime beaucoup la chasse-galerie. Mais au fait, il faudrait plutôt parler des légendes de la chasse-galerie!
En effet, sa légende, telle qu’on la connaît de nos jours, est en quelque sorte fossilisée : la mémoire populaire ne retient que la version mise sur papier par Honoré Beaugrand en 1891, dans les pages du journal La Patrie (vol. XIII, No. 260, 31 décembre 1891, p. 1-2). La popularité de cette version a fait oublier à peu près toutes les versions orales qui circulaient déjà au xixe siècle, elles-mêmes des versions de la chasse-galerie originale qui remonte jusqu’au Moyen Âge. Il faut quand-même rendre à César ce qui revient à César : peut-être sans le savoir, Beaugrand avait tout de même sut sauvegarder la mémoire de la chasse-galerie à une époque où les cercles intellectuels cherchaient à la faire disparaître ainsi que toutes les autres superstitions populaires. Citons qu'un seul exemple de la première moitié du xixe siècle :
« Dans ce siècle philosophe, impie, voltairien en effet, on ne croit plus ni au sabbat, ni aux sorciers, ni aux incubes, ni aux succubes, ni aux revenans, ni aux loups-garoux, ni aux grands veneurs (ce qu’on appelle ici chasse-galleries) ni aux vampires; et l’on croit que les feux follets sont tout simplement des exhalaisons de la terre et par conséquent un phénomène très naturel, Quant à moi je me réjouis que toutes ces folles croyances disparaissent. Le sort de la pauvre humanité est déjà assez triste sans le rendre encore plus mauvais par la foi dans ces extravagances, qu’on doit encore au moyen âge. » Signé B., Compté de H., le 24 décembre 1849. [« Dimes », L’Avenir. Journal républicain, le jeudi 17 janvier 1850, p. 1. https://collections.banq.qc.ca/ark:/52327/4334611 ]
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| J.
Grignon qui nous rappelle des traditions canadiennes. Le Journal des Trois-Rivières, le lundi 20 novembre 1882, p. 1. |
Les écrits de Marie Caroline Watson Hamlin nous offrent une perspective privilégiée sur le folklore des Pays d’en haut [Note de JG : Lire, la région des Grands Lacs], montrant à la fois des liens évidents avec la culture de la vallée laurentienne et des innovations et des adaptations typiques de la vie à l’intérieur du continent. Décédée à l’âge de trente-cinq ans, Watson Hamlin n’a laissé qu’un ouvrage important – Legends of le Détroit (1884), un recueil de 31 récits et légendes portant sur les Canadiens français des deux rives de la rivière Détroit – ainsi qu’un seul article, « Old French Traditions », texte d’une allocution livrée aux membres de la Wayne County Pioneer Society en 1878 et publié plus tard dans le Report of the Pioneer Society of the State of Michigan (1883). Descendante d’une famille pionnière du Détroit, Watson Hamlin fait partie de l’élite bilingue de l’époque et fonde plusieurs de ses récits sur les traditions orales circulant dans sa famille. Elle livre, entre autres, la plus ancienne version publiée de « La chasse-galerie » en Amérique du Nord. En plus des légendes qu’elle rapporte, ses écrits foisonnent de détails ethnologiques concernant les coutumes des fêtes calendaires et des rites de passage, les croyances populaires et la culture matérielle de la région du Détroit. Bien que son public ait été largement états-unien et anglophone et qu’aucune traduction française de ses légendes n’ait paru avant la fin du xxe siècle (Watson Hamlin, 1991, 2000), elle mérite sans aucun doute une place parmi les préfolkloristes du Canada français. [Marcel Bénéteau, « Le folklore des Pays d’en haut au xixe siècle : le témoignage de Marie Caroline Watson Hamlin », dans Francophonies d’Amérique no 40‑41 (2015), p. 163.]
Il est possible d’acheter une traduction française
de cette version de la chasse-galerie auprès de la Société d’histoire
du Nouvel-Ontario ici (#88-89 : Le Détroit des légendes). Néanmoins, je vous
fais un petit cadeau de fin d’année : une transcription de l'édition anglaise originale de « LA
CHASSE GALERIE: A Legend of the Canadian Shore », tirée du livre de Watson
Hamlin Legends of Le Détroit (pages 126-133).
Je vous souhaite santé et prospérité pour
2025! À la vôtre!
LA CHASSE GALERIE
A Legend of the
Canadian Shore
THERE is a strange
resemblance in the legends of the different countries which leads one to
believe that they derive their source from the same fountain. History places
its signet on some, mythology throws its classic veil over others, while the
rest, like floating islands which ever and anon appear as bits of stray
fairy-land in our large bodies of water, dazzle us by their beauty, charm us by
their uniqueness, and glide away as magically as they came, to seek a sheltered
nook in some picturesque haven. So with regard to many of these legends once
current along “La Cote du Nord”* history is silent. [* “La Cote du Nord.” The
name by which that section lying east of what is now Woodward avenue was
called.]
The charming ideas
conveyed in them seem akin to the classic, but it is only in the memory of some
old habitante who has outlived her age and generation that they find a revered
niche. Seated by the side of one of these, whose hair the frosts of ninety
years have bleached, and who has never left the banks of the beautiful lake
where she first drew the breath of life, one can pick up many of these legends,
carelessly thrown aside by this progressive age.
Among the traditions
related by this survivor of a past generation, the best known and oldest is
that of “La Chasse Galerie,” or “The Spectral Aerial Hunt.” Many honest,
upright people still living will testify to having seen this phenomenon at some
period of their lives. It does not always appear under the same form. Sometimes
a canoe is visible, manned by twelve men, and in its prow is a dog whose incessant
barking attracts the attention or the person who is to see the vision. Always
to the north flies the phantom boat. At other times, dogs of a shaggy black,
with drooping ears, are constantly seen running on the water, barking as if in
the scent of game. Once in seven years a solitary horseman, with gaunt, bronzed
face, rifle in hand, followed by his pack of dogs, is seen in the sky after
sunset. He who sees the “chasse galerie”* knows that it betokens death either
to himself or to others dear to him. [* Galerie is a corruption of galere [sic], a low, flat built vessel with one
deck, and propelled by sails or oars.]
There once dwelt at
Askin Pointe, on the Canadian shore, a Nimrod of the forest called Sebastien
Lacelle. So devoted to the chase was he that his friends said that he was born
with a gun in his hand, and no persuasion of theirs could induce him to join
them in other sports. For weeks at a time he would be gone, and then return
laden with game. After one of these excursions it was noticed that Sebastien
was more silent than usual, had little to say of his hairbreadth escapes, nor
did he boast, as was his wont, of the fruits of his trusty rifle.
The mystery was soon
solved. One day, tired and weary, baffled by a deer he was pursuing, Sebastien
came to a cabin in the woods. A young girl was caressing a deer and deftly
dressing a wound in its side. Sebastien recognized it as the one at which he
had shot. She was Zoé de Mersac, who had accompanied her father to help him
extract the maple syrup from the trees. In the magic witchcraft of her smile
Sebastien buried his heart. Zoé admired the strong arm and the vigorous manhood
which could shield her from the rough blasts of the world.
It was on a glorious
September day that Sebastien and Zoé were strolling along the beach, discussing
the morrow, which was to be their wedding day. Zoé was possessed of a highly nervous
organization which, like the Æolian
harp, is played upon by each passing zephyr, and is peculiarly susceptible to
superstition. She was telling her lover how she feared her happiness could not
last and spoke of that serrement du cœur which
seemed prophetic of evil. Sebastien, in the superb enjoyment of his healthy
physique, could not sympathize with her, and only laughed at her fears.
What had presentiments
to do with him, he thought; would he not be obliged to relinquish his bachelor
habits and become a serious, home-staying man? An unconscious sigh escaped him.
Raising his eyes, he abruptly left Zoé. He returned shortly afterwards
accompanied by several men, guns in hand, whom he had called from the “seines”
near by, and followed by Sebastien’s dog, Chasseur. Whilst his friends were
loosening the boat from its moorings Sebastien joined his fiancée who asked him
to explain the cause of his sudden departure. He pointed to a flock of ducks
flying towards the flats (an unusual occurrence at that season) and said he was
going for a farewell hunt. As soon as she heard this she hid her face in her
hands, and the slender, girlish figure was convulsed. In accents tremulous with
unshed tears, she besought him not to leave her, for if he did, he would never
return. Sebastien tried to reason with her, but it was of no avail. He petted
her and tried those arts in which the lover is so proficient. She told him that
she had heard the past night the screech-owl in the willow tree near her
window, at the same time the barking of dogs and ringing of bells in the air— doleful
foreshadowings of approaching disaster.
Sebastien gazed
tenderly into the upturned face, so pathetic in its tearful appeal, and felt
his resolve melting away. But the impatient call of his friends and a shy feeling
of being laughed at prompted him to hastily say good-bye to his promised bride.
“When shall you return?” asked Zoé. “To-morrow at dawn, dead or alive, sure,”
he jestingly added, to quiet her fears. Soon the hunters were off. Sebastien
waved the end of his red sash and Chasseur barked a jubilant farewell, for he
seemed to share his master’s love of the chase.
At early dawn Zoé came
to the shore to welcome the returning hunters. She seated herself on one of the
great boulders which are strewn upon the shores of the lake, thrown there by
the Indian spirit Manabozbo, who cast them at his father in his memorable
combat. Seldom had so glorious a scene burst on her view and all was in harmony
with her nature. The dark forests melted with azure softness, the magical veil
of misty golden haziness hung over everything, transforming the scene into a
sea of gold dissolved in rainbow tints. Lake, sky, land, all seemed flooded and
transfigured. The indescribable shades flowed into each other with a beauty which,
while enchanting, was the despair of the artist. The girl drank in the
delicious draught of loveliness, and thought if this was the dawn of a perfect
earthly day which must die in all its splendor, what must be that of the
eternal one in its undying beauty. To-day was her wedding day! Why did
Sebastien tarry? Had he not a loving impatience to meet his bride? Hour after
hour she waited, sending forth her petitions to Ste. Anne, the patroness of
mariners, to guide her Sebastien back. Others whose husbands and brothers had
gone with Sebastien joined her in her weary watchings. Night came but brought no
returning hunters. Day after day Zoé still came to the beach, questioning the
vast waters and the horizon for Sebastien. Winter passed, spring again hung her
bright blossoms on the trees, but Sebastien came not to gladden the sorrow-haunted
heart of the girl. Yet she seemed cheerful, as if buoyed up by some inward hope.
She constantly said that her lover would return to claim her,—he had promised
and he had never deceived any one. Once, shortly after he left, she had heard
Sebastien’s voice, and looking up saw him in a boat in the clouds. Chasseur was
with him, and Sebastien said: “I will come for you in a year and a day.” Then
towards the north the mystic apparition glided and the voice died away in the
moaning wind.
It was a year and a
day. The pale cheek with its hectic flush, the fragile figure, the transparent hand
told that this was a blossom for the grave.
Zoé desired that she
should be dressed as a bride and carried to the beach to watch for her bridegroom.
Her chair was brought to the place she designated. The scene was by a strange
coincidence of nature, nearly the same as on the bright day she waited
Sebastien’s return. Nature seemed anxious that the dying girl should take the
sweetest and most beautiful memories of earth with her. The wakening waves
chanted their low matins as they broke at her feet, the birds greeted her with
jubilant notes and the soft, balmy air played hide and seek through the meshes
of her hair.
The maiden heeded not
the beauty of the scene; her eyes were intently fixed on a spot in the skies.
Suddenly an ecstatic expression crept over her face, and raising herself up she
exclaimed, “See! see! there is Sebastien in the boat; he beckons to me, and
Chasseur is barking so joyously! Did I not tell you he would come for me?
Sebastien, I come, I come.” And the pure spirit of the girl leaped from its
mortal tenement to rejoin that of her spirit bridegroom. Her awe-stricken
friends looked where she pointed and saw a phantom boat drifting on a billow of
clouds and distinctly heard the echo of a barking dog as the vision melted into
the boundless blue.
Lectures suggérées :
- Beaugrand, Honoré. La chasse-galerie.
Montréal, Bibliothèque québécoise, 1991. 105 p.
- Bénéteau, Marcel. « Le folklore des Pays d’en haut au xixe siècle : le témoignage de Marie Caroline Watson Hamlin », Francophonies d’Amérique, No. 40‑41 (2015), p. 163‑184. En ligne : https://doi.org/10.7202/1043702ar.
- Clegg, Sarah. The
Dead of Winter: Beware the Krampus and Other Wicked Christmas Creatures,
First edition. Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill,
2024. 193 p.
- Gonthier, Claude et Bernard Meney (dir.). Treize Contes Fantastiques
Québécois: Anthologie. XYZ editeur/XYZ Publishing, 2006. 294 p.
- Janelle, Claude (dir.). Le XIXe
siècle fantastique en Amérique française. Québec, Éditions Alire, 1999. 366
p.
- Watson, Marie Caroline Hamlin. Legends of le Détroit, Deuxième édition. Détroit, Thorndike Nourse, 1884. 317 p. En ligne : https://archive.org/details/legendsofledtr00haml/mode/2up.
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