A Man & His Sin

French Canadians revised the evening routine: cows were milked early, supper served late. Quebec's most popular radio serial, Un Homme et Son Peche (A Man and His Sin), was back on the air.

To one-third of Quebec's 3 1/2 million, missing the daily 7 p.m. episode of Un Homme would have been as unthinkable as substituting English for French. Listeners hissed Miser Seraphim Poudrier as he added to his $70,000 hoard and forgot to mention his avarice at confession. They sent gifts to his wife, Donalda, symbol of saintly suffering. These two main characters are so real that in Quebec "Seraphim" now means "miser," and good Catholics are "as saintly as Donalda."

Until One Man's Family is crossed with the Lone Ranger, U.S. radio will have no program quite like Un Homme. It is as French Canadian as the words of Alouette. The 45 characters who wander through the script portray life in la province during the 1890s. There is Caroline Malterre, an empty-headed little widow and gossip who runs the village tavern. There is Alexis Labranche, the jolly mayor. And there are a couple of rascals: Notary Lepotiron and a no-good half-breed, Bill Wabo. (Any French Canadian no-account is now apt to be called a "Wabo.")

Behind Un Homme is a very real character: Claude-Henri Grignon, 52-year-old writer-producer. When he drops his pen, he becomes the quarrelsome mayor of Ste. Adele, in the Laurentians north of Montreal. There he bosses his 1,200 constituents, fights resort hotel owners for more taxes, butts his head against the steady advance of tourist commercialism which he fears will destroy Ste. Adele's joie de vivre. No one in the Laurentians hates city life more than Claude-Henri. For 15 years he was a failure in Montreal, writing acid critiques and a bad book. Then he returned to his birthplace, Ste. Adele, to set forth in a monthly pamphlet his views on almost everything. Since his views are never tame, he offended nearly everyone. Finally, he wrote a short novel, and the radio adaptation, begun in 1939, became Un Homme et Son Peche.

To Ste. Adele, whose opinion of the mayor is divided, Grignon is more unbelievable than Seraphim. He struts through the village, strikes poses for tourists or opponents. But he has an eye for new scenes or faces. He mines his town for plots and characters for Un Homme.

As he scribbles the next episode, he acts out the lines, snarling like Seraphim, whimpering like Donalda. He insists on working alone. "I have but one friend in all this world," says he, striking a John Lewis pose. "If you want strength, you must live alone. The real puissance . . . the real force, comes from having no friends."

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