Chapter Nineteen
A Louisian Landscape
Life in the chamber of an invalid – who cares to listen to its details? They can interest no one – scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a daily routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections – a monotony, broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being I loved. At such moments I was no longer ennuyé; my spirit escaped from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed an Elysium.
Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes’ duration, while the intervals between them were hours – long hours – so long, I fancied them days. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion. Neither ever came alone!
There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. My conversation was with the Creole, my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but expressive language.
Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt that they might awaken jealousy – I thought not of such a thing. Eugénie was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her. From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the statue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a still rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and, strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather gratified me!
How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Did she love me? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond eagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but not a word dare I exchange with her, although my heart was longing to yield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betray me. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and despise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!
I understood this feeling well – this black crime of her nation. What was it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? But under that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes of Love, rank loses its fictitious charm – titles seem trivial things. For me, Beauty wears the crown.
So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the whole world had known of my love – not a straw for its scorn. But there were other considerations – the courtesy due to hospitality – to friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still graver nature – the promptings of prudence. The situation in which I was placed was most peculiar, and I knew it. I knew that my passion, even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. Talk of making love to a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian – a ward in Chancery – an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but “child’s play” to break through the entourage that surrounds one of such. To scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!
My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to be a rugged one.
Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of my convalescence passed pleasantly enough. Everything was furnished me that could contribute to my comfort or recovery. Ices, delicious drinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me. For my dishes I was indebted to the skill of Scipio’s helpmate, Chloe, and through her I became acquainted with the Creole delicacies of “gumbo,” “fish chowder,” fricasséed frogs, hot “waffles,” stewed tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisiana cuisine. From the hands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of “roasted ’possum,” and went even so far as to taste a “’coon steak,” – but only once, and I regarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples about eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of one at a single sitting!
By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of life upon a Louisiana plantation. “Ole Zip” was my instructor, as he continued to be my constant attendant. When Scipio’s talk tired me, I had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,) filled the little book-case in my apartment. I found among them nearly every work that related to Louisiana – a proof of rare judgment on the part of whoever had made the collection. Among others, I read the graceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz. In the former I could not help remarking that want of vraisemblance which, in my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not known to him by actual observation.
With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. This remark applies, without exception, to all the old writers on American subjects – whether English, Spanish, or French – the chroniclers of two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to swallow both horse and rider! Indeed, it is difficult to conceive how these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced “to audit their accounts.”
More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures and melancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering that American writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave chevalier – surely the most picturesque passage in their early history – the story and the scene equally inviting.
“The scene! Ah! lovely indeed!”
With such an exclamation did I hail it, when, for the first time, I sat at my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.
The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; and seated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautiful French curtains thrown back, I commanded an extended view of the country.
A gorgeous picture it presented. The pencil of the painter could scarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring.
My window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow flood before my face, its ripples glittering like gold. On its farther shore I can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of the sugar-cane, easily distinguished from the tobacco-plant, of darker hue. Upon the bank of the river, and nearly opposite, stands a noble mansion, something in the style of an Italian villa, with green Venetians and verandah. It is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whose frondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance. No mountains meet the view – there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; but the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.
On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besançon. Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of trees that form the shrubbery. I observe the Magnolia, with large white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giant nympha of Guiana. Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers themselves.
Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely exotic, a native of Orient climes – though here long naturalised. Its large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green, – for both shades are observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging in axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow cherry-like fruits – some of which are already formed, – all point out its species. It is one of the meliaceae, or honey-trees, – the “Indian-lilac,” or “Pride of China” (Melia azedarach). The nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates the estimation in which it is held. “Tree of Pre-eminence,” lays the poetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; “Tree of Paradise” (Arbor de Paraiso), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. Such are its titles.
Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. Among the former I behold the “catalpa,” with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped blossoms; the “Osage orange,” with its dark shining leaves; and the red mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits. Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (Psidium pyriferum), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; the tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of pale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy – “the queen who carries her crown upon her bosom” – and the legendary but flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as a standard to the height of thirty feet.
Scarcely exotic are the yuccas, with their spherical heads of sharp radiating blades; scarcely exotic the cactacea, of varied forms – for species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the flora of a not far-distant region.
The scene before my window is not one of still life. Over the shrubbery I can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of these runs the Levee road. Although the foliage hinders me from a full view of the road itself, I see at intervals the people passing along it. In the dress of the Creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and the hats are usually palmetto, or “grass,” or the costlier Panama, with broad sun-protecting brims. Now and then a negro gallops past, turbaned like a Turk; for the chequered Madras “toque” has much the appearance of the Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. Now and then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies in their gossamer summer-dresses. I hear their clear ringing laughter; and I know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. The travellers upon the road – the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their chorus songs – occasionally a boat booming past on the river – more frequently a flat silently floating downward – a “keel,” or a raft with its red-shirted crew – are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.
Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my window. The mock-bird (Turdus polyglotta) pipes from the top of the tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (Turdus migratorius), half intoxicated with the berries of the melia, rivals him in his sweet song. The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower shrubbery.
Now and then I catch a glimpse of the “ruby-throat,” coming and going like the sparkle of a gem. Its favourite haunt is among the red and scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms of the bignonia.
Such was the view from the window of my chamber. I thought I never beheld so fair a scene. Perhaps I was not looking upon it with an impartial eye. The love-light was in my glance, and that may have imparted to it a portion of its couleur de rose. I could not look upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone was wanted to make the picture perfect.
Chapter Twenty
My Journal
I varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal.
The journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident. Mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts. I transcribe a few passages from it – not on account of any remarkable interest which they possess – but because, dotted down at the time, they represent more faithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me during the remainder of my stay on the plantation Besançon.
July 12th. – To-day I am able to sit up and write a little. The weather is intensely hot. It would be intolerable were it not for the breeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the delicious perfume of the flowers. This breeze blows from the Gulf of Mexico, by Lakes Borgne, Pontchartrain, and Maauepas. I am more than one hundred miles from the Gulf itself – that is, following the direction of the river – but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of the Mississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a few miles of New Orleans, and still farther to the north. Sea-water might be reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear of Bringiers.
This sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of Lower Louisiana. Without its cooling influence New Orleans during the summer months would hardly be habitable.
Scipio tells me that a new “overseer” has arrived on the plantation, and thinks that he has been appointed through the agency of Mass’r Dominick. He brought a letter from the avocat. It is therefore probable enough.
My attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer, whom he represents as a “poor white man from de norf, an a Yankee at daat.”
Among the blacks I find existing an antipathy towards what they are pleased to call “poor white men” – individuals who do not possess slave or landed property. The phrase itself expresses this antipathy; and when applied by a negro to a white man is regarded by the latter as a dire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring with the “cowskin,” or a slight “rubbing down” with the “oil of hickory.”
Among the slaves there is a general impression that their most tyrannical “overseers” are from the New England States, or “Yankees,” as they are called in the South. This term, which foreigners apply contemptuously to all Americans, in the United States has a restricted meaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives of New England. At other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit; and in this sense every American is proud to call himself a Yankee. Among the southern blacks, “Yankee” is a term of reproach, associated in their minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs, cypress hams, and such-like chicanes. Sad and strange to say, it is also associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide. Strange, because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished for its Puritanism! A land where the purest religion and strictest morality are professed.
This would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomaly after all. I had it explained to me by a Southerner, who spoke thus: —
“The countries where Puritan principles prevail are those which produce vice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance. The villages of New England – the foci of blue laws and Puritanism. – furnish the greatest number of the nymphes du pavé of New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New Orleans; and even furnish a large export of them to the Catholic capital of Cuba! From the same prolific soil spring most of the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the American name. This is not an anomaly. It is but the inexorable result of a pseudo-religion. Outward observance, worship, Sabbath-keeping, and the various forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating the true duties which man owes to his fellow-man, obscure or take precedence of them. The latter grow to be esteemed as only of secondary importance, and are consequently neglected.”
The explanation was at least ingenious.
July 14th. – To-day, twice visited by Mademoiselle; who, as usual, was accompanied by Aurore.
Our conversation does not flow easily or freely, nor is it of long continuance. She (Mademoiselle) is still evidently suffering, and there is a tone of sadness in everything she says. At first I attributed this to her sorrow for Antoine, but it has now continued too long to be thus explained. Some other grief presses upon her spirit. I suffer from restraint. The presence of Aurore restrains me; and I can ill give utterance to those common-places required in an ordinary conversation. She (Aurore) takes no part in the dialogue; but lingers by the door, or stands behind her mistress, respectfully listening. When I regard her steadfastly, her fringed eyelids droop, and shut out all communion with her soul. Oh that I could make her understand me!
July 15th. – Scipio is confirmed in his dislike for the new overseer. His first impressions were correct. From two or three little matters which I have heard about this gentleman, I am satisfied that he is a bad successor to the good Antoine.
A propos of poor Antoine, it was reported that his body had been washed up among some drift-timber below the plantation; but the report proved incorrect. A body was found, but not that of the steward. Some other unfortunate, who had met with a similar fate. I wonder if the wretch who wounded me is yet above water!
There are still many of the sufferers at Bringiers. Some have died of the injuries they received on board the boat. A terrible death is this scalding by steam. Many who fancied themselves scarce injured, are now in their last agonies. The doctor has given me some details that are horrifying.
One of the men, a “fireman,” whose nose is nearly gone, and who is conscious that he has but a short while to live, requested to see his face in a looking-glass. Upon the request being granted, he broke into a diabolical laugh, crying out at the same time, in a loud voice, “What a damned ugly corpse I’ll make.”
This reckless indifference to life is a characteristic of these wild boatmen. The race of “Mike Fink” is not extinct: many true representatives of this demi-savage still navigate the great rivers of the West.
July 20th. Much better to-day. The doctor tells me that in a week I may leave my room. This is cheering; and yet a week seems a long while to one not used to being caged in this way. The books enable me to kill time famously. All honour to the men who make books!
July 21st. – Scipio’s opinion of the new overseer is not improved. His name is “Larkin.” Scipio says that he is well-known in the village as “Bully Bill Larkin” – a soubriquet which may serve as a key to his character. Several of the “field-hands” complain (to Scipio) of his severity, which they say is daily on the increase. He goes about constantly armed with a “cowhide,” and has already, once or twice, made use of it in a barbarous manner.
To-day is Sunday, and I can tell from the “hum” that reaches me from the negro “quarters,” that it is a day of rejoicing. I can see the blacks passing the Levee road, dressed in their gayest attire – the men in white beaver hats, blue long-tailed coats, and shirts with enormous ruffles; the women in gaudy patterns of cotton, and not a few in silks brilliant enough for a ball-room! Many carry silk parasols, of course of the brightest colours. One would almost be tempted to believe that in this slave-life there was no great hardship, after all; but the sight of Mr Larkin’s cowhide must produce a very opposite impression.
July 24th. – I noticed to-day more than ever the melancholy that seems to press upon the spirit of Mademoiselle. I am now convinced that Antoine’s death is not the cause of it. There is some present source of distraction, which renders her ill at ease. I have again observed that singular glance with which she at first regarded me; but it was so transitory, I could not read its meaning, and my heart and eyes were searching elsewhere. Aurore gazes upon me less timidly, and seems to be interested in my conversation, though it is not addressed to her. Would that it were! Converse with her would perhaps relieve my heart, which burns all the more fiercely under the restraint of silence.
July 25th. – Several of the “field-hands” indulged too freely on yesternight. They had “passes” to the town, and came back late. “Bully Bill” has flogged them all this morning, and very severely – so as to draw the blood from their backs. This is rough enough for a new overseer; but Scipio learns that he is an “old hand” at the business. Surely Mademoiselle does not know of these barbarities!
July 26th. – The doctor promises to let me out in three days. I have grown to esteem this man – particularly since I made the discovery that he is not a friend of Gayarre. He is not his medical attendant either. There is another medico in the village, who has charge of Monsieur Dominique and his blacks, as also the slaves of the Besançon plantation. The latter chanced to be out of the way, and so Reigart was called to me. Professional etiquette partly, and partly my own interference, forbade any change in this arrangement; and the latter continued to attend me. I have seen the other gentleman, who came once in Reigart’s company, and he appears much more suited to be the friend of the avocat.
Reigart is a stranger in Bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising in the esteem of the neighbouring planters. Indeed, many of these – the “grandees” among them – keep physicians of their own, and pay them handsomely, too! It would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect the health of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after than that of the “poor white folks” in many a European state.
I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the connexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besançon. I could only make distant allusion to such a subject. I obtained no very satisfactory information. The doctor is what might be termed a “close man,” and too much talking would not make one of his profession very popular in Louisiana. He either knows but little of their affairs, or affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from him, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.
“Poor young lady!” said he; “quite alone in the world. I believe there is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but she has no male relation to look after her affairs. Gayarre seems to have everything in his hands.”
I gathered from the doctor that Eugénie’s father had been much richer at one period – one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had kept a sort of “open house,” and dispensed hospitality in princely style. “Fêtes” on a grand scale had been given, and this more particularly of late years. Even since his death profuse hospitality has been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father’s guests after her father’s fashion. Suitors she has in plenty, but the doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a “lover.”
Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besançon. Why, no one could tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. It was thought by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that which usually exists between debtor and creditor.
The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio has already told me. It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young Creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker than any that has shadowed her past – darker even than that produced by the memory of Antoine!
July 28th. – Gayarre has been here to-day – at the house, I mean. In fact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells me something new and strange. It appears that some of the slaves who had been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and she in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject. His reply was that the “black rascals deserved all they had got, and more,” and somewhat rudely upheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt his protégé. The lady was silent.
Scipio learns these facts from Aurore. There is something ominous in all this.
Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief. He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon “him kettle Chloe.” The brute! if this be so! – My blood boils at the thought – oh! slavery!
August 2nd. – I hear of Gayarre again. He has been to the house, and made a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual. What can he have to do with her? Can his society be agreeable to her? Surely that is impossible! And yet such frequent visits – such long conferences! If she marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim! – for victim will she be. He must have some power over her to act as he is doing. He seems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders to every one with the air of its owner. All fear him and his “nigger-driver,” as the ruffian Larkin is called. The latter is more feared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part of the overseer towards “him leettle Chloe.” Poor fellow! he is greatly distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to protect the honour of his own child!
I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear, from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipio himself!
August 3rd. – To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of my room. I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. I encountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit; but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket. What would I not have given to have found her alone! A word or two only was I able to exchange with her, and she was gone.
She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. She seemed pleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely. The exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like sapphires. Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of her form.
I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. It exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure – a certain embonpoint characteristic of her race. She was large and womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. Her hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press upon the pebbles. My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration. The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitary chamber.