“Then came the malicious suggestion of negro blood. Could it be proved, I was free; that taint I could not pardon. (And here, even as the surgeon spoke, I noticed this as the peculiarity of the New England Abolitionist. Theoretically he believed in the equality of the enslaved race, and stood ready to maintain the belief with his life, but practically he held himself entirely aloof from them; the Southern creed and practice were the exact reverse.) I made inquiries of Father Piret, who knows the mixed genealogy of the little French colony as far back as the first voyageurs of the fur trade, and found—as I, shall I say hoped or feared?—that the insinuation was utterly false. Thus I was thrown back into the old tumult.
“Then came that evening in this parlor when Jeannette made the coffee and baked little cakes over the coals. Do you remember the pathos with which she chanted File, file, pauvre Marie; File, file, pour le prisonnier? Do you remember how she looked when she repeated ‘Ivry’? Did that tender pity, that ringing inspiration, come from a dull mind and shallow heart? I was avenged of my enforced disdain, my love gave itself up to delicious hope. She was capable of education, and then—! I made a pretext of old Antoine’s cough in order to gain an opportunity of speaking to her alone; but she was like a thing possessed, she broke from me and sprang over the icy cliff, her laugh coming back on the wind as I followed her down the dangerous slope. On she rushed, jumping from rock to rock, waving her hand in wild glee when the moon shone out, singing and shouting with merry scorn at my desperate efforts to reach her. It was a mad chase, but only on the plain below could I come up with her. There, breathless and eager, I unfolded to her my plan of education. I only went so far as this: I was willing to send her to school, to give her opportunities of seeing the world, to provide for her whole future. I left the story of my love to come afterward. She laughed me to scorn. As well talk of education to the bird of the wilderness! She rejected my offers, picked up snow to throw in my face, covered me with her French sarcasms, danced around me in circles, laughed, and mocked, until I was at a loss to know whether she was human. Finally, as a shadow darkened the moon, she fled away; and when it passed she was gone, and I was alone on the snowy plain.
“Angry, fierce, filled with scorn for myself, I determined resolutely to crush out my senseless infatuation. I threw myself into such society as we had; I assumed an interest in that inane Miss Augusta; I read and studied far into the night; I walked until sheer fatigue gave me tranquillity; but all I gained was lost in that encounter at the Arch: you remember it? When I saw her on that narrow bridge, my love burst its bonds again, and, senseless as ever, rushed to save her,—to save her, poised on her native rocks, where every inch was familiar from childhood! To save her,—sure-footed and light as a bird! I caught her. She struggled in my arms, angrily, as an imprisoned animal might struggle, but—so beautiful! The impulse came to me to spring with her into the gulf below, and so end the contest forever. I might have done it,—I cannot tell,—but, suddenly, she wrenched herself out of my arms and fled over the Arch, to the farther side. I followed, trembling, blinded, with the violence of my emotion. At that moment I was ready to give up my life, my soul, into her hands.
“In the woods beyond she paused, glanced over her shoulder toward me, then turned eagerly. ‘Voilà,’ she said, pointing. I looked down and saw several silver pieces that had dropped from my pocket as I sprang over the rocks, and, with an impatient gesture, I thrust them aside with my foot.
“‘Non,’ she cried, turning toward me and stooping eagerly,—‘so much! O, so much! See! four shillings!’ Her eyes glistened with longing as she held the money in her hand and fingered each piece lovingly.
“The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by her words and gesture filled me with fury. ‘Keep it, and buy yourself a soul if you can!’ I cried; and turning away, I left her with her gains.
“‘Merci, monsieur,’ she answered gayly, all unmindful of my scorn; and off she ran, holding her treasure tightly clasped in both hands. I could hear her singing far down the path.
“It is a bitter thing to feel a scorn for yourself! Did I love this girl who stooped to gather a few shillings from under my feet? Was it, then, impossible for me to conquer this ignoble passion? No; it could not and it should not be! I plunged again into all the gayety; I left myself not one free moment; if sleep came not, I forced it to come with opiates; Jeannette had gone to the fishing-grounds, the weeks passed, I did not see her. I had made the hardest struggle of all, and was beginning to recover my self-respect when, one day, I met her in the woods with some children; she had returned to gather blueberries. I looked at her. She was more gentle than usual, and smiled. Suddenly, as an embankment which has withstood the storms of many winters gives way at last in a calm summer night, I yielded. Without one outward sign, I laid down my arms. Myself knew that the contest was over, and my other self rushed to her feet.
“Since then I have often seen her; I have made plan after plan to meet her; I have—O degrading thought!—paid her to take me out in her canoe, under the pretence of fishing. I no longer looked forward; I lived only in the present, and thought only of when and where I could see her. Thus it has been until this morning, when the orders came. Now, I am brought face to face with reality; I must go; can I leave her behind? For hours I have been wandering in the woods. Aunt Sarah,—it is of no use,—I cannot live without her; I must marry her.”
“Marry Jeannette!” I exclaimed.
“Even so.”
“An ignorant half-breed?”
“As you say, an ignorant half-breed.”
“You are mad, Rodney.”
“I know it.”
I will not repeat all I said; but, at last, silenced, if not convinced, by the power of this great love, I started with him out into the wild night to seek Jeannette. We went through the village and round the point, where the wind met us, and the waves broke at our feet with a roar. Passing the row of cabins, with their twinkling lights, we reached the home of Jeannette and knocked at the low door. The Indian mother opened it. I entered, without a word, and took a seat near the hearth, where a drift-wood fire was burning. Jeannette came forward with a surprised look. “You little think what good fortune is coming to you, child,” I thought, as I noted her coarse dress and the poor furniture of the little room.
Rodney burst at once into his subject.
“Jeannette,” he said, going toward her, “I have come to take you away with me. You need not go to school; I have given up that idea,—I accept you as you are. You shall have silk dresses and ribbons, like the ladies at the Mission-House this summer. You shall see all the great cities, you shall hear beautiful music. You shall have everything you want,—money, bright shillings, as many as you wish. See! Mrs. Corlyne has come with me to show you that it is true. This morning we had orders to leave Mackinac; in a few days we must go. But—listen, Jeannette; I will marry you. You shall be my wife. Do not look so startled. I mean it; it is really true.”
“Qu’est-ce-que-c’est?” said the girl, bewildered by the rapid, eager words.
“Dr. Prescott wishes to marry you, child,” I explained, somewhat sadly, for never had the disparity between them seemed so great. The presence of the Indian mother, the common room, were like silent protests.
“Marry!” ejaculated Jeannette.
“Yes, love,” said the surgeon, ardently. “It is quite true; you shall be my wife. Father Piret shall marry us. I will exchange into another regiment, or, if necessary, I will resign. Do you understand what I am saying, Jeannette? See! I give you my hand, in token that it is true.”
But, with a quick bound, the girl was across the room. “What!” she cried. “You think I marry you? Have you not heard of Baptiste? Know, then, that I love one finger of him more than all you, ten times, hundred times.”
“Baptiste?” repeated Rodney.
“Oui, mon cousin, Baptiste, the fisherman. We marry soon—tenez—la fête de Saint And
ré.”
Rodney looked bewildered a moment, then his face cleared. “Oh! a child engagement? That is one of your customs, I know. But never fear; Father Piret will absolve you from all that. Baptiste shall have a fine new boat; he will let you off for a handful of silver-pieces. Do not think of that, Jeannette, but come to me—”
“Je vous abhorre; je vous déteste,” cried the girl with fury as he approached. “Baptiste not love me? He love me more than boat and silver dollar,—more than all the world! And I love him; I die for him! Allez-vous-en, traître!”
Rodney had grown white; he stood before her, motionless, with fixed eyes.
“Jeannette,” I said in French, “perhaps you do not understand. Dr. Prescott asks you to marry him; Father Piret shall marry you, and all your friends shall come. Dr. Prescott will take you away from this hard life; he will make you rich; he will support your father and mother in comfort. My child, it is wonderful good fortune. He is an educated gentleman, and loves you truly.”
“What is that to me?” replied Jeannette, proudly. “Let him go, I care not.” She paused a moment. Then, with flashing eyes, she cried, “Let him go with his fine new boat and silver dollars! He does not believe me? See, then, how I despise him!” And, rushing forward, she struck him on the cheek.
Rodney did not stir, but stood gazing at her while the red mark glowed on his white face.
“You know not what love is,” said Jeannette, with indescribable scorn. “You! You! Ah, mon Baptiste, où es-tu? But thou wilt kill him,—kill him for his boats and silver dollars!”
“Child!” I said, startled by her fury.
“I am not a child. Je suis femme, moi!” replied Jeannette, folding her arms with haughty grace. “Allez!” she said, pointing toward the door. We were dismissed. A queen could not have made a more royal gesture.
Throughout the scene the Indian mother had not stopped her knitting.
In four days we were afloat, and the little white fort was deserted. It was a dark afternoon, and we sat clustered on the stern of the steamer, watching the flag come slowly down from its staff in token of the departure of the commanding officer. “Isle of Beauty, fare thee well,” sang the major’s fair young wife, with the sound of tears in her sweet voice.
“We shall return,” said the officers. But not one of them ever saw the beautiful island again.
Rodney Prescott served a month or two in Florida, “taciturn and stiff as ever,” Archie wrote. Then he resigned suddenly, and went abroad. He has never returned, and I have lost all trace of him, so that I cannot say, from any knowledge of my own, how long the feeling lived,—the feeling that swept me along in its train down to the beach-cottage that wild night.
Each man who reads this can decide for himself.
Each woman has decided already.
Last year I met an islander on the cars, going eastward. It was the first time he had ever been “below”; but he saw nothing to admire, that dignified citizen of Mackinac!
“What has become of Jeannette Leblanc?” I asked.
“Jeannette? O, she married that Baptiste, a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow! They live in the same little cabin round the point, and pick up a living most anyhow for their tribe of young ones.”
“Are they happy?”
“Happy?” repeated my islander, with a slow stare. “Well, I suppose they are, after their fashion; I don’t know much about them. In my opinion, they are a shiftless set, those French half-breeds round the point.”
* “Le Prisonnier de Guerre,” Béranger.
Solomon
* * *
MIDWAY in the eastern part of Ohio lies the coal country; round-topped hills there begin to show themselves in the level plain, trending back from Lake Erie; afterwards rising higher and higher, they stretch away into Pennsylvania and are dignified by the name of Alleghany Mountains. But no names have they in their Ohio birthplace, and little do the people care for them, save as storehouses for fuel. The roads lie along the slow-moving streams, and the farmers ride slowly over them in their broad-wheeled wagons, now and then passing dark holes in the bank from whence come little carts into the sunshine, and men, like silhouettes, walking behind them, with glow-worm lamps fastened in their hat-bands. Neither farmers nor miners glance up towards the hilltops; no doubt they consider them useless mounds, and, were it not for the coal, they would envy their neighbors of the grain-country, whose broad, level fields stretch unbroken through Central Ohio; as, however, the canal-boats go away full, and long lines of coal-cars go away full, and every man’s coal-shed is full, and money comes back from the great iron-mills of Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and Cleveland, the coal country, though unknown in a picturesque point of view, continues to grow rich and prosperous.
Yet picturesque it is, and no part more so than the valley where stands the village of the quaint German Community on the banks of the slow-moving Tuscarawas River. One October day we left the lake behind us and journeyed inland, following the water-courses and looking forward for the first glimpse of rising ground; blue are the waters of Erie on a summer day, red and golden are its autumn sunsets, but so level, so deadly level are its shores that, at times, there comes a longing for the sight of distant hills. Hence our journey. Night found us still in the “Western Reserve.” Ohio has some queer names of her own for portions of her territory, the “Fire Lands,” the “Donation Grant,” the “Salt Section,” the “Refugee’s Tract,” and the “Western Reserve” are names well known, although not found on the maps. Two days more and we came into the coal country; near by were the “Moravian Lands,” and at the end of the last day’s ride we crossed a yellow bridge over a stream called the “One-Leg Creek.”
“I have tried in vain to discover the origin of this name,” I said, as we leaned out of the carriage to watch the red leaves float down the slow tide.
“Create one, then. A one-legged soldier, a farmer’s pretty daughter, an elopement in a flat-bottomed boat, and a home upon this stream which yields its stores of catfish for their support,” suggested Erminia.
“The original legend would be better than that if we could only find it, for real life is always better than fiction,” I answered.
“In real life we are all masked; but in fiction the author shows the faces as they are, Dora.”
“I do not believe we are all masked, Erminia. I can read my friends like a printed page.”
“O, the wonderful faith of youth!” said Erminia, retiring upon her seniority.
Presently the little church on the hill came into view through a vista in the trees. We passed the mill and its flowing race, the blacksmith’s shop, the great grass meadow, and drew up in front of the quaint hotel where the trustees allowed the world’s people, if uninquisitive and decorous, to remain in the Community for short periods of time, on the payment of three dollars per week for each person. This village was our favorite retreat, our little hiding-place in the hill-country; at that time it was almost as isolated as a solitary island, for the Community owned thousands of outlying acres and held no intercourse with the surrounding townships. Content with their own, unmindful of the rest of the world, these Germans grew steadily richer and richer, solving quietly the problem of co-operative labor, while the French and Americans worked at it in vain with newspapers, orators, and even cannon to aid them. The members of the Community were no ascetic anchorites; each tiled roof covered a home with a thrifty mother and train of grave little children, the girls in short-waisted gowns, kerchiefs, and frilled caps, and the boys in tailed coats, long-flapped vests, and trousers, as soon as they were able to toddle. We liked them all, we liked the life; we liked the mountain-high beds, the coarse snowy linen, and the remarkable counterpanes; we liked the cream-stewed chicken, the Käse-lab, and fresh butter, but, best of all, the hot bretzels for breakfast. And let not the hasty city imagination turn to the hard, salty, sawdust cake in the shape of a broken-down figure eight whic
h is served with lager-beer in saloons and gardens. The Community bretzel was of a delicate flaky white in the inside, shading away into a golden-brown crust of crisp involutions, light as a feather, and flanked by little pats of fresh, unsalted butter, and a deep-blue cup wherein the coffee was hot, the cream yellow, and the sugar broken lumps from the old-fashioned loaf, now alas! obsolete.
We stayed among the simple people and played at shepherdesses and pastorellas; we adopted the hours of the birds, we went to church on Sunday and sang German chorals as old as Luther. We even played at work to the extent of helping gather apples, eating the best, and riding home on top of the loaded four-horse wains. But one day we heard of a new diversion, a sulphur-spring over the hills about two miles from the hotel on land belonging to the Community; and, obeying the fascination which earth’s native medicines exercise over all earth’s children, we immediately started in search of the nauseous spring. The road wound over the hill, past one of the apple-orchards, where the girls were gathering the red fruit, and then down a little declivity where the track branched off to the Community coal-mine; then a solitary stretch through the thick woods, a long hill with a curve, and at the foot a little dell with a patch of meadow, a brook, and a log-house with overhanging roof, a forlorn house unpainted and desolate. There was not even the blue door which enlivened many of the Community dwellings. “This looks like the huts of the Black Forest,” said Erminia. “Who would have supposed that we should find such an antique in Ohio!”
Constance Fenimore Woolson Page 6