CHAPTER XXVI
A RIDE AND A RESCUE
"Douane or Bienville?"
Such was the choice presented by Honore Grandissime to JosephFrowenfeld, as the former on a lively brown colt and the apothecary on anervy chestnut fell into a gentle, preliminary trot while yet in therue Royale, looked after by that great admirer of both, RaoulInnerarity.
"Douane?" said Frowenfeld. (It was the street we call Custom-house.)
"It has mud-holes," objected Honore.
"Well, then, the rue du Canal?"
"The canal--I can smell it from here. Why not rue Bienville?"
Frowenfeld said he did not know. (We give the statement for what it isworth.)
Notice their route. A spirit of perversity seems to have entered intothe very topography of this quarter. They turned up the rue Bienville(up is toward the river); reaching the levee, they took their course upthe shore of the Mississippi (almost due south), and broke into a livelygallop on the Tchoupitoulas road, which in those days skirted thatmargin of the river nearest the sunsetting, namely, the _eastern_ bank.
Conversation moved sluggishly for a time, halting upon trite topics orswinging easily from polite inquiry to mild affirmation, and back again.They were men of thought, these two, and one of them did not fullyunderstand why he was in his present position; hence some reticence. Itwas one of those afternoons in early March that make one wonder how therest of the world avoids emigrating to Louisiana in a body.
"Is not the season early?" asked Frowenfeld.
M. Grandissime believed it was; but then the Creole spring always seemedso, he said.
The land was an inverted firmament of flowers. The birds were aninnumerable, busy, joy-compelling multitude, darting and flutteringhither and thither, as one might imagine the babes do in heaven. Theorange-groves were in blossom; their dark-green boughs seemed snowedupon from a cloud of incense, and a listening ear might catch anincessant, whispered trickle of falling petals, dropping "as thehoney-comb." The magnolia was beginning to add to its dark and shiningevergreen foliage frequent sprays of pale new leaves and long, slender,buff buds of others yet to come. The oaks, both the bare-armed and the"green-robed senators," the willows, and the plaqueminiers, were puttingout their subdued florescence as if they smiled in grave participationwith the laughing gardens. The homes that gave perfection to this beautywere those old, large, belvidered colonial villas, of which you maystill here and there see one standing, battered into half ruin, high andbroad, among foundries, cotton-and tobacco-sheds, junk-yards, andlongshoremen's hovels, like one unconquered elephant in a wreck ofartillery. In Frowenfeld's day the "smell of their garments was likeLebanon." They were seen by glimpses through chance openings in loftyhedges of Cherokee-rose or bois-d'arc, under boughs of cedar orpride-of-China, above their groves of orange or down their long,overarched avenues of oleander; and the lemon and the pomegranate, thebanana, the fig, the shaddock, and at times even the mango and theguava, joined "hands around" and tossed their fragrant locks above thelilies and roses. Frowenfeld forgot to ask himself further concerningthe probable intent of M. Grandissime's invitation to ride; thesebeauties seemed rich enough in good reasons. He felt glad and grateful.
At a certain point the two horses turned of their own impulse, as byforce of habit, and with a few clambering strides mounted to the top ofthe levee and stood still, facing the broad, dancing, hurrying,brimming river.
The Creole stole an amused glance at the elated, self-forgetful look ofhis immigrant friend.
"Mr. Frowenfeld," he said, as the delighted apothecary turned withunwonted suddenness and saw his smile, "I believe you like this betterthan discussion. You find it easier to be in harmony with Louisiana thanwith Louisianians, eh?"
Frowenfeld colored with surprise. Something unpleasant had latelyoccurred in his shop. Was this to signify that M. Grandissime hadheard of it?
"I am a Louisianian," replied he, as if this were a point assailed.
"I would not insinuate otherwise," said M. Grandissime, with a kindlygesture. "I would like you to feel so. We are citizens now of adifferent government from that under which we lived the morning we firstmet. Yet"--the Creole paused and smiled--"you are not, and I am glad youare not, what we call a Louisianian."
Frowenfeld's color increased. He turned quickly in his saddle as if tosay something very positive, but hesitated, restrained himselfand asked:
"Mr. Grandissime, is not your Creole 'we' a word that does much damage?"
The Creole's response was at first only a smile, followed by athoughtful countenance; but he presently said, with some suddenness:
"My-de'-seh, yes. Yet you see I am, even this moment, forgetting we arenot a separate people. Yes, our Creole 'we' does damage, and our Creole'you' does more. I assure you, sir, I try hard to get my people tounderstand that it is time to stop calling those who come and addthemselves to the community, aliens, interlopers, invaders. That is whatI hear my cousins, 'Polyte and Sylvestre, in the heat of discussion,called you the other evening; is it so?"
"I brought it upon myself," said Frowenfeld. "I brought it upon myself."
"Ah!" interrupted M. Grandissime, with a broad smile, "excuse me--I amfully prepared to believe it. But the charge is a false one. I told themso. My-de'-seh--I know that a citizen of the United States in the UnitedStates has a right to become, and to be called, under the laws governingthe case, a Louisianian, a Vermonter, or a Virginian, as it may suit hiswhim; and even if he should be found dishonest or dangerous, he has aright to be treated just exactly as we treat the knaves and ruffians whoare native born! Every discreet man must admit that."
"But if they do not enforce it, Mr. Grandissime," quickly responded thesore apothecary, "if they continually forget it--if one must surrenderhimself to the errors and crimes of the community as he finds it--"
The Creole uttered a low laugh.
"Party differences, Mr. Frowenfeld; they have them in all countries."
"So your cousins said," said Frowenfeld.
"And how did you answer them?"
"Offensively," said the apothecary, with sincere mortification.
"Oh! that was easy," replied the other, amusedly; "but how?"
"I said that, having here only such party differences as are commonelsewhere, we do not behave as they elsewhere do; that in most civilizedcountries the immigrant is welcome, but here he is not. I am afraid Ihave not learned the art of courteous debate," said Frowenfeld, with asmile of apology.
"'Tis a great art," said the Creole, quietly, stroking his horse's neck."I suppose my cousins denied your statement with indignation, eh?"
"Yes; they said the honest immigrant is always welcome."
"Well, do you not find that true?"
"But, Mr. Grandissime, that is requiring the immigrant to prove hisinnocence!" Frowenfeld spoke from the heart. "And even the honestimmigrant is welcome only when he leaves his peculiar opinions behindhim. Is that right, sir?"
The Creole smiled at Frowenfeld's heat.
"My-de'-seh, my cousins complain that you advocate measures fatal to theprevailing order of society."
"But," replied the unyielding Frowenfeld, turning redder than ever,"that is the very thing that American liberty gives me theright--peaceably--to do! Here is a structure of society defective,dangerous, erected on views of human relations which the world isabandoning as false; yet the immigrant's welcome is modified with thewarning not to touch these false foundations with one of his fingers."
"Did you tell my cousins the foundations of society here are false?"
"I regret to say I did, very abruptly. I told them they were privatelyaware of the fact."
"You may say," said the ever-amiable Creole, "that you allowed debate torun into controversy, eh?"
Frowenfeld was silent; he compared the gentleness of this Creole'srebukes with the asperity of his advocacy of right, and felt humiliated.But M. Grandissime spoke with a rallying smile.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, you never make pills with eight corn
ers eh?"
"No, sir." The apothecary smiled.
"No, you make them round; cannot you make your doctrines the same way?My-de'-seh, you will think me impertinent; but the reason I speak isbecause I wish very much that you and my cousins would not be offendedwith each other. To tell you the truth, my-de'-seh, I hoped to use youwith them--pardon my frankness."
"If Louisiana had more men like you, M. Grandissime," cried theuntrained Frowenfeld, "society would be less sore to the touch."
"My-de'-seh," said the Creole, laying his hand out toward his companionand turning his horse in such a way as to turn the other also, "do meone favor; remember that it _is_ sore to the touch."
The animals picked their steps down the inner face of the levee andresumed their course up the road at a walk.
"Did you see that man just turn the bend of the road, away yonder?" theCreole asked.
"Yes."
"Did you recognize him?"
"It was--my landlord, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Did he not have a conversation with you lately, too?"
"Yes, sir; why do you ask?"
"It has had a bad effect on him. I wonder why he is out here on foot?"
The horses quickened their paces. The two friends rode along in silence.Frowenfeld noticed his companion frequently cast an eye up along thedistant sunset shadows of the road with a new anxiety. Yet, when M.Grandissime broke the silence it was only to say:
"I suppose you find the blemishes in our state of society can all beattributed to one main defect, Mr. Frowenfeld?"
Frowenfeld was glad of the chance to answer:
"I have not overlooked that this society has disadvantages as well asblemishes; it is distant from enlightened centres; it has a language andreligion different from that of the great people of which it is nowcalled to be a part. That it has also positive blemishes of organism--"
"Yes," interrupted the Creole, smiling at the immigrant's suddenmagnanimity, "its positive blemishes; do they all spring from onemain defect?"
"I think not. The climate has its influence, the soil has itsinfluence--dwellers in swamps cannot be mountaineers."
"But after all," persisted the Creole, "the greater part of our troublescomes from--"
"Slavery," said Frowenfeld, "or rather caste."
"Exactly," said M. Grandissime.
"You surprise me, sir," said the simple apothecary. "I supposed youwere--"
"My-de'-seh," exclaimed M. Grandissime, suddenly becoming very earnest,"I am nothing, nothing! There is where you have the advantage of me. Iam but a _dilettante_, whether in politics, in philosophy, morals, orreligion. I am afraid to go deeply into anything, lest it should makeruin in my name, my family, my property."
He laughed unpleasantly.
The question darted into Frowenfeld's mind, whether this might not be ahint of the matter that M. Grandissime had been trying to see him about.
"Mr. Grandissime," he said, "I can hardly believe you would neglect aduty either for family, property, or society."
"Well, you mistake," said the Creole, so coldly that Frowenfeld colored.
They galloped on. M. Grandissime brightened again, almost to the degreeof vivacity. By and by they slackened to a slow trot and were silent.The gardens had been long left behind, and they were passing betweencontinuous Cherokee-rose hedges on the right and on the left, along thatbend of the Mississippi where its waters, glancing off three miles abovefrom the old De Macarty levee (now Carrollton), at the slightestopposition in the breeze go whirling and leaping like a herd ofdervishes across to the ever-crumbling shore, now marked by the littleyellow depot-house of Westwego. Miles up the broad flood the sun wasdisappearing gorgeously. From their saddles, the two horsemen feasted onthe scene without comment.
But presently, M. Grandissime uttered a low ejaculation and spurred hishorse toward a tree hard by, preparing, as he went, to fasten his reinto an overhanging branch. Frowenfeld, agreeable to his beckon, imitatedthe movement.
"I fear he intends to drown himself," whispered M. Grandissime, as theyhurriedly dismounted.
"Who? Not--"
"Yes, your landlord, as you call him. He is on the flatboat; I saw hishat over the levee. When we get on top the levee, we must get right intoit. But do not follow him into the water in front of the flat; it iscertain death; no power of man could keep you from going under it."
The words were quickly spoken; they scrambled to the levee's crown. Justabreast of them lay a flatboat, emptied of its cargo and moored to thelevee. They leaped into it. A human figure swerved from the onset of theCreole and ran toward the bow of the boat, and in an instant more wouldhave been in the river.
"Stop!" said Frowenfeld, seizing the unresisting f.m.c. firmly by thecollar.
Honore Grandissime smiled, partly at the apothecary's brief speech, butmuch more at his success.
"Let him go, Mr. Frowenfeld," he said, as he came near.
The silent man turned away his face with a gesture of shame.
M. Grandissime, in a gentle voice, exchanged a few words with him, andhe turned and walked away, gained the shore, descended the levee, andtook a foot-path which soon hid him behind a hedge.
"He gives his pledge not to try again," said the Creole, as the twocompanions proceeded to resume the saddle. "Do not look after him."(Joseph had cast a searching look over the hedge.)
They turned homeward.
"Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld," said the Creole, suddenly, "if the _immygrant_has cause of complaint, how much more has _that_ man! True, it is onlylove for which he would have just now drowned himself; yet what anaccusation, my-de'-seh, is his whole life against that 'caste' whichshuts him up within its narrow and almost solitary limits! And yet, Mr.Frowenfeld, this people esteem this very same crime of caste the holiestand most precious of their virtues. My-de'-seh, it never occurs to usthat in this matter we are interested, and therefore disqualified,witnesses. We say we are not understood; that the jury (the civilizedworld) renders its decision without viewing the body; that we are judgedfrom a distance. We forget that we ourselves are too _close_ to seedistinctly, and so continue, a spectacle to civilization, sitting in ahorrible darkness, my-de'-seh!" He frowned.
"The shadow of the Ethiopian," said the grave apothecary.
M. Grandissime's quick gesture implied that Frowenfeld had said the veryword.
"Ah! my-de'-seh, when I try sometimes to stand outside and look at it, Iam _ama-aze_ at the length, the blackness of that shadow!" (He was sodeeply in earnest that he took no care of his English.) "It is the_Nemesis_ w'ich, instead of coming afteh, glides along by the side ofthis morhal, political, commercial, social mistake! It blanches,my-de'-seh, ow whole civilization! It drhags us a centurhy behind therhes' of the world! It rhetahds and poisons everhy industrhy wegot!--mos' of all our-h immense agrhicultu'e! It brheeds a thousan'cusses that nevva leave home but jus' flutter-h up an' rhoost,my-de'-seh, on ow _heads_; an' we nevva know it!--yes, sometimes some ofus know it."
He changed the subject.
They had repassed the ruins of Fort St. Louis, and were well within theprecincts of the little city, when, as they pulled up from a finalgallop, mention was made of Doctor Keene. He was improving; Honore hadseen him that morning; so, at another hour, had Frowenfeld. Doctor Keenehad told Honore about Palmyre's wound.
"You was at her house again this morning?" asked the Creole.
"Yes," said Frowenfeld.
M. Grandissime shook his head warningly.
"'Tis a dangerous business. You are almost sure to become the object ofslander. You ought to tell Doctor Keene to make some other arrangement,or presently you, too, will be under the--" he lowered his voice, forFrowenfeld was dismounting at the shop door, and three or fouracquaintances stood around--"under the 'shadow of the Ethiopian.'"