The Flower of the Chapdelaines Read online

  "Juz' to say tha'z maybe better those fault' are there. If thepublisher be not _sympathetique_ we want him to rif-use thatmanuscrip'."

  "Yes!" several responded. "Yes! He can't have it! Tha'z the en' of_that_ publisher."

  "Well, at any rate," Chester said, "after using up this whole weektrying, fruitlessly, to edit those faults out of it, here it isunaltered. I still feel them, but I have to confess that to feel themis one thing and to find them is quite another. Maybe they're only inme."

  "Tha'z the only plase they are," said Dubroca, with kind gravity. "Ihad the same feeling--till a dream, which reveal' to me that thefeeling was my fault. The manuscrip' is perfec'."

  "Messieurs," Mme. Castanado broke in, "please to hear Mlle. Aline."And Aline spoke:

  "Perfect or no, I think that's what we don't require to conclude. Butif that manuscript will join well with those other two--or three, orfour, if we find so many--or if it will rather disjoint them--'tis thatwe must decide; is it not, M. De l'Isle?"

  "Yes, and tha'z easy. That story is going to assimilate those other'to a perfegtion! For several reason'. Firz', like those other', 'tisnot figtion; 'tis true. Second, like those, 'tis a personalegsperienze told by the person egsperienzing. Third, every one ofthose person' were known to some of us, an' we can certify that personthat he or she was of the greatez' veracity! Fourth, the United Statesthey've juz' lately purchaze' that island where that story tranzpire.And, fifthly, the three storie' they are joint'; not stiff', likeboard' of a floor, but loozly, like those link' of a chain. They arejointed in the subjec' of friddom! 'Tis true, only friddom of negro',yet still--friddom! An', _messieurs et mesdames_, that is now theprecise moment when that whole worl' is _wile_ on that _topique_;friddom of citizen', friddom of nation', friddom of race', friddom ofthe sea'! And there is ferociouz demand for short storie' joint' onthat _topique_, biccause now at the lazt that whole worl' is biccomefuriouzly conscientiouz to get at the bottom of that _topique_; an'biccause those negro' are the lowez' race, they are there, of co'se, adthe bottom!"

  "M. Beloiseau?" the chair--hostess--said; and Scipion, with languor inhis voice but a burning fervor in his eye, responded:

  "I think Mr. Chezter he's speaking with a too great modestie--or else_dip_-lomacie. Tha'z not good! If _fid_-elitie to art inspire me aconceitednezz as high"--his upthrown hand quivered at arm's length--"asthe flagpole of Hotel St. Louis dome yonder, tha'z better than amodestie withoud that. That origin-al manuscrip' we don't want thatag-ain; we've all read that. But I think Mr. Chezter he's also maybegot that _riv_-ision in his pocket, an' we ought to hear, now, at ones,that _riv_-ision!"

  Miles. Corinne and Yvonne led the applause, and presently Chester wasreading:

  XXVII

  THE HOLY CROSS

  This is a true story. Only that fact gives me the courage to tell it.It happened.

  It occurred under my own eyes when they were far younger than now, on abeautiful island in the Caribbean, some twelve hundred milessoutheastward from Florida, the largest of the Virgin group--the islandof the Holy Cross. Its natives called it Aye-Aye. Columbus piouslynamed it Santa Cruz and bore away a number of its people to Spain asslaves, to show them what Christians looked like in quantity and howthey behaved to one another and to strangers. You can hear much aboutSanta Cruz from anybody in the rum-trade.

  It has had many owners. As with the woman in the Sadducee's riddle,she of many husbands, seven political powers have had this mermaid asbride. Spain, the English, the Dutch, the Spaniards again, the French,the Knights of Malta, the French again, who sold her to the GuianaCompany, who in 1734 passed her over to the Danes, from whom theEnglish captured her in 1807 but restored her again at the close ofNapoleon's wars. Thus, at last, Denmark prevailed as the ruling power;but English remained the speech of the people. The island is abouttwenty-three miles long by six wide. Its two towns are Christianstedon the north and Fredericksted on the south. Christiansted is thecapital.

  In 1848 I lived in Fredericksted, on Kongensgade, or King Street, withmy aunts, Marion, Anna, and Marcia, and my grandmother--whom theservants called Mi'ss Paula--and was just old enough to begin takingcare of my dignity. Whether I was Danish, British, or American Ihardly knew. When grandmamma, whose husband had been of a family thathad furnished a signer of our Declaration, told me stories of BunkerHill and Yorktown I glowed with American patriotism. But when sheturned to English stories, heroic or momentous, she would remind methat my father and mother were born on this island under British sway,and--"Once a Briton always a Briton." And yet again, my playmateswould say:

  "When _you_ were born the island was Danish; you are a subject of KingChristian VIII."

  Kongensgade, though narrow, was one of the main streets that ran thetown's full length from northeast to southwest, and our home was along, low cottage on the street's southern side, between it and thesea. Its grounds sloped upward from the street, widened outextensively at the rear, and then suddenly fell away in bluffs to thebeach. It had been built for "Mi'ss Paula" as a bridal gift from herhusband. But now, in her widowhood, his wealth was gone, and onlyrefinement and inspiring traditions remained.

  The sale or hire of her slaves might have kept her in comfort; but aclergyman, lately from England, convinced her that no Christian shouldhold a slave, and setting them free she accepted a life of self-helpand of no little privation. She was his only convert. His zeal cooledearly. Her ex-slaves, finding no _public_ freedom in custom or law,merely hired their labor unwisely and yearly grew more worthless.

  [The reader lifted his eyes across to Aline:

  "I had a notion to name that much 'The Time,' and this next part 'TheScene.' What do you think?"

  "Yes, I think so. 'Twould make the manner of it less antique."

  "Ah!" cried Mlle. Corinne, "'tis not a movie! Tha'z the charm, thatantie-quitie!"

  "Yes," the niece assented again, "but even with that insertion 'tis yetas old-fashioned as 'Paul and Virginia.'"

  "Or 'Rasselas,'" Chester suggested, and resumed his task.]

  XXVIII

  (THE SCENE)

  Yet to be poor on that island did not compel a sordid narrowing oflife. You would have found our living-room furnished in mahogany richand old. In a corner where the airs came in by a great window stood ajar big enough to hide in, into which trickled a cool thread of waterfrom a huge dripping-stone, while above these a shelf held nativewaterpots whose yellow and crimson surfaces were constantly pearledwith dew oozing through the porous ware. On a low press near by waspiled the remnant of father's library, and on the ancient sideboardwere silver candlesticks, snuffers, and crystal shades.

  But it was neither these things nor cherished traditions that gave theroom its finest charm. It was filled with the glory of the sea. Therewas no need of painted pictures. Living nature hung framed in widehigh windows through which drifted in the distant boom of surf on therocks, and salt breezes perfumed with cassia.

  Outside, round about, there was far more. A broad door led by a flightof stone steps to the couchlike roots of a gigantic turpentine-treewhose deep shade harbored birds of every hue. To me, sitting there,the island's old Carib name of Aye-Aye seemed the eternal consent ofGod to some seraph asking for this ocean pearl. All that poet orprophet had ever said of heaven became comprehensible in its dailytransfigurations of light and color scintillated between wave,landscape, and cloud--its sea like unto crystal, and the trees bearingall manner of fruits. Grace and fragrance everywhere: fruits crimson,gold, and purple; fishes blue, orange, pink; shells of rose and pearl.Distant hills, clouds of sunset and dawn, sky and stream, leaf andflower, bird and butterfly, repeated the splendor, while round allpalpitated the wooing rhythm of the sea's mysterious tides.

  The beach! Along its landward edge the plumed palms stood sentinel,rustling to the lipping waters and to the curious note of theThibet-trees, sounding their long dry pods like castanets in theevening breeze. By the water's margin, and in its shoals a
nd depths,what treasures of the underworld! Here a sponge, with stem bearingfive cups; there a sea-fan, large enough for a Titan's use yet delicateenough to be a mermaid's. Red-lipped shells; mystical eye-stones;shell petals heaped in rocky nooks like rose leaves; and, moving amongthese in grotesque leisure, crabs of a brilliance and variety to taxthe painter. All the rector told of a fallen world seemed but idlewords when the sunset glory was too much for human vision and the youngheart trembled before its ineffable suggestions.

  I often rode a pony. If we turned inland our way was on a roaddouble-lined with cocoa palms, or up some tangled dell where a silverycascade leaped through the deep verdure. On one side the tall mahoganydropped its woody pears. On another, sand-box and calabash treesrattled their huge fruit like warring savages. Here the banyan hungits ropes and yonder the tamarind waved its feathery streamers. Herewas the rubber-tree, here the breadfruit. Now and then a clump of themanchineel weighted the air with the fragrance of its poisonous apples,the banana rustled, or the bamboo tossed its graceful canes. Besidesome stream we might espy black washerwomen beetling their washing.Or, reaching the summit of Blue Mountain, we might look down, elevenhundred feet, on the vast Caribbean dotted with islands, and, nearerby, on breakers curling in noble bays or foaming under rocky cliffs.Northward, the wilderness; eastward, green fields of sugar-cane palingand darkling in the breeze; southward, the wide harbor ofFredericksted, the town, and the black, red-shirted boatmen pushingabout the harbor; westward, the setting sun; and presently, everywhere,the swift fall of the tropical night, with lights beginning to twinklein the town and the boats in the roadstead to leave long wakes ofphosphorescent light.

  Of course nature had also her bad habits. There were sharks in thesea, and venomous things ashore, and there were the earthquake and thehurricane. Every window and door had heavy shutters armed with bars,rings, and ropes that came swiftly into use whenever between July andOctober the word ran through the town, "The barometer's falling." Thencandles and lamps were lighted indoors, and there was happy excitementfor a courageous child. I would beg hard to have a single pair ofshutters held slightly open by two persons ready to shut them in asecond, and so snatched glimpses of the tortured, flying clouds andwrithing trees, while old Si' Myra, one of the freed slaves who neverhad left us, crouched in a corner and muttered:

  "Lo'd sabe us! Lo'd sabe us!"

  Once I saw a handsome brig which had failed to leave the harbor soonenough stagger in upon the rocks where it seemed her masts might fallinto our own grounds, and grandmamma told me that thus my father,though born in the island, had first met my mother.

  XXIX

  (THE PLAYERS)

  Si' Myra was a Congo. She believed the Obi priests could boil waterwithout fire, and in many ways cause frightful woes. To her own mythsshe had added Danish ones. "De wehr-wolf, yes, me chile! Dem nightsw'en de moon shine bright and de dogs a-barkin', you see twelb dogsa-talkin' togedder in a ring, and one in de middle. Dah dem wait tilldem yerry [hear] him; den dem take arter him, me chile," etc.

  Strangest, wildest practice of the slaves was the hideous misuseChristian masters allowed them to make of Chrismas Day and week. Itwas then they danced the bamboula, incessantly. All through the yearthis Saturnalia was prepared for in meetings held at night by theirleaders. The songs to which they danced were made of white society'sscandals reduced to satirical rhyme; and to the rashest girl or manthere was power in the warning, "You'll get yourself sung about atChristmas." Yearly a king, queen, and retinue were elected. Thedresses of court and all were a mixture of splendor and tawdriness thatexhausted the savings and pilferings of a twelvemonth. Good-natured"missies" often helped make these outfits. They were of velvet, silk,satin, cotton lace, false flowers, the brilliant seeds of the licoriceand coquelicot, tinsel, beads, and pinch-beck. Sometimes mistresseseven lent--firmly sewed fast--their own jewelry.

  On Christmas Eve, here and there in the town, ground-floor rooms werehired and decorated with palm branches; or palm booths were built,decked with oranges and boughs of cinnamon berries, lighted withcandles and lanterns and furnished with seats for the king, queen, andmusicians, and with buckets of rum punch. Then the "bulrush man" wenthis round. Covered with capes and flounces of rushes and crowned witha high waving fringe of them, he rattled pebbles in calabashes, dancedto their clatter, proclaimed the feast, and begged such of us whitechildren as his dress did not terrify, for stivers from our holidaysavings.

  Soon the dancers began to gather in the booths; women in gorgeoustrailing gowns, the men bearing showy batons and clad in gay shirts orsatin jackets, and with a mongrel infant rabble at their heels. Whenthe goombay--a flour-barrel drum--sounded, the town knew the bamboulahad begun. On two confronting lines, the men in one, the women in theother, a leading couple improvised a song and all took up the refrain.The goombay beat time, and the dancers rattled or tinkled the woodyseed-cases of the sand-box tree set on long handles and with each oftheir lobes painted a separate vivid color; rattles of basketwork; andcalabashes filled with pebbles and shells. All instruments were gaywith floating ribbons. So the lines approached each other by twosteps, receded, advanced, and receded, always in wild cadence to thesignals of voice and instrument; then bowed so low that theytouched--twice--thrice; then pirouetted and resumed the first movement,and now and then, with two or three turns or bows, clashed theirrattles together in time. As night darkened, the rude lights flaredyellow and red upon the dusky forms bedizened with beads, bangles, andgrotesquer trumpery. Faces, necks, arms reeked and shone in the heat,ribbons streamed, gross odors arose, the goombay dominated all, andchildren of the master race--for even I was permitted to witness theseorgies--without comprehending, stood aghast. Close outside, thematchless night lay on land and sea; a relieved sense caught etherealperfumes and was soothed by the exquisite refinement into whose spaceand silence the faint deep voice of the savage drum sobbed one griefand one prayer alike for slave and master.

  The revel always ended with New Year's Day. The next morning brokesilently, and with the rising of the sun the plantation bell or theconch called the bondman and bondwoman into the cane-fields. Then,alike in broadest noon or deepest night, a spectral fear hoveredwherever the master sat among his loved ones or rode from place toplace. Not often did the hand of oppression fall upon any slave withillegal violence, or he or she turn to slaughter or poison theoppressor; but the slaves were in thousands, the masters were buthundreds, the laws were cruel; the whipping-post stood among the town'sbest houses of commerce, justice, and worship, with the thumbscrewshard by. As to armed defense, the well-drilled and finely caparisonedvolunteer "troopers" were but a handful, the Danish garrison a meresquad; the governor was mild and aged, and the two towns were the widthof the island apart.

  XXX

  (THE RISING CURTAIN)

  In that year, 1848, this unrest was much increased. King Christian hadlately proclaimed a gradual emancipation of all slaves in his WestIndian colonies. A squad of soldiers had marched through the streets,halting at corners and beating a drum--"beating the protocol," as itwas termed--and reading the royal edict. After twelve years all slaveswere to go free; their owners were to be paid for them; and meantimeevery infant of a slave was to be free at birth.

  I suppose no one knows better than the practical statesman howdisastrous measures are apt to be when designed for the _gradual_righting of a public evil. They rarely satisfy any class concerned.In this case the aged slaves bemoaned a promised land they might neverlive to enter; younger ones dreaded the superior liberty of free-bornchildren; and the planters doubted they would be paid, even ifemancipation did not bring fire, rapine, and death.

  One day, along with all "West-En'," as the negroes calledFredericksted--Christiansted was "Bass-En',"--I saw two BritishEast-Indiamen sail into the harbor. Such ships never touched atFredericksted; what could the Britons want?

  "Water," they said, "and rest"; but they stayed and stayed! theirofficers roaming the island, asking many
questions, answering few.What they signified at last I cannot say, except that they became ourrefuge from the black uprising that was near at hand. Likely enoughthat was their only errand.

  Sunday, the 2d of July, was still and fair. To me the Sabbath wasalways a happy day. High-stepping horses prancing up to thechurch-gates brought friends from the plantations. The organ pealed,the choir chanted, the rector read, and read well; the mural tabletstold the virtues of the churchyard sleepers, and out through thewindows I could gaze on the clouds and the hills. After church camethe Sunday-school. Its house was on a breezy height where the windswept through the room unceasingly, giving wings to the children'svoices as we sang, "Now be the gospel banner."

  But this Sunday promised unusual pleasure. I was to go with AuntMarion to dine soon after midday with a Danish family, in real DanishWest Indian fashion, and among the guests were to be some officers ofthe East-Indiamen. I carried with me one fear--that we should havepigeon-pea soup. Whoever ate pigeon-pea soup, Si' Myra said, wouldnever want to leave the island, and I longed for those ships to go.But in due time we were asked:

  "Which soup will you have--guava-berry or pigeon-pea?"

  Hoping to be imitated I chose the guava-berry; but without anyimmediately visible effect one officer took one and another the other.After soup came an elegant kingfish, and by and by the famous callalouand other delicate and curious viands. For dessert appeared "redgroat"; sago jelly, that is, flavored with guavas, crimsoned with thejuice of the prickly-pear and floating in milk; also other floatingislands of guava jelly beaten with eggs. Pale-green granadillascrowned the feast. These were eaten with sugar and wine, and beforeeach draft the men lifted their glasses high to right and left andcried: "Skoal! Skoal!" As the company finally rose, our host andhostess shook hands with all, these again saluting each other, each twosaying: "Vel be komme"--"May this feast do you good."