Crescent City

by Belva Plain

  None of her imaginings had prepared her for the reality. Neither apprehension nor those most secret and suppressed, most embarrassing and ravishing imaginings had prepared her. For this was the most ugly and terrible thing that could happen. The impressive gentleman in gray broadcloth who could quote the classics and the Bible, who brought proper gifts and paid compliments—this gentleman was—he was an animal. His touch was a horror.

  Were all her nights to be like this? The first one had been especially humiliating. A tumultuous racket of cowbells, drums, and horns had gone on for hours in the street beneath their window. Miriam had been appalled, but Eugene had been merely amused.

  “An old custom,” he said. “The charivari.” They wouldn’t do it after the first night. Why did she let it upset her so?

  She could not have told him it was because it seemed to her that they knew what had been happening in their room and were laughing at her—which was not true, and she knew it was not true, but was sick with shame nevertheless. And she covered her hot face with her hands.

  Yet, perhaps all men were like that; perhaps it was supposed to be like that. Or maybe it would change in time and he would be different, or she would be different.

  Now on the fourth morning she woke to see a lake of sunshine on the floor, which meant that it must be nearly noon. Under the sky-blue canopy her husband still slept with little puffing noises coming from his open mouth.

  She got up quietly. The house was still and she understood that out of consideration for the bridal couple, the servants had been instructed to make no noise. On the table the wilted wedding bouquet lay in its frame of paper lace. Emma had offered to have it dried and framed. On the table also lay the ketubah, the marriage contract with its graceful Hebrew letters running across the page like bird tracks on sand. She picked it up. The thick parchment, the important signatures, the words which she was unable to read, all filled her with a sense of awe and gravity, a conviction of permanence. It was as if she were holding a tablet of the Law between her hands. Actually she was holding her own life, two lives. And she felt the terrible weight of it.

  But at the same time something else said desperately: You’re young, you’re sixteen, what can you know? Nothing. Or not very much. Much is yet to reveal itself. Surely this can’t be all there is ever to be?

  From her basket in the corner the dog Gretel raised her head. Miriam picked her up, laying her own head against the warm hair and the delicate bones of the little skull. And her mind traveled through this link with the past, back to the road where the dog had first been found, to the village, the house, and her unknown mother. How far away and long ago! Maybe a mother would be able to explain—

  “You’re deep in thought. What is it?”

  Eugene was sitting up in bed. Wide awake and curious, he might have been observing her for some minutes.

  Flustered, she answered, “Nothing, really. Nothing.”

  “Come, now. One doesn’t stand without moving in the middle of a room and think about nothing.”

  “I was thinking about—yes, thinking about God,” she said suddenly.

  His eyebrows moved, giving his face an expression of amusement or faint mockery. In the confinement of this room she was already becoming familiar with his gestures and expressions. This one was habitual, she saw; the eyebrows moved, they slid on his forehead like black caterpillars. Strange that she had never noticed them like that before; otherwise perhaps she would have had courage enough to refuse him.

  “Religion is certainly respectable and I have no quarrel with it. But now is hardly the time or place. Come back to bed.”

  “It must be almost noon. Shan’t I ring for breakfast?”

  “Later. Come back to bed. Come now.”

  “Please.” she said. It sounded like a whimper. She despised the helpless sound of it.

  “Please what?”

  “I want—not—”

  Eugene got up and moved toward her. Naked, he seemed twice as tall. He threatened her, although surely he had done her no physical harm and she had no fear that he would. Her pain was deep inside, a pain of the spirit. She closed her eyes. It was easier when she did not look at his nakedness; she could pretend she was not there at all.

  She lay inert. Yes, this was happening to somebody else. Her pretense, if he could know it, wouldn’t matter to him; it seemed as if what he was doing was only for himself anyway. Besides, a woman was not supposed to show pleasure, nor supposed to feel it, if she was a decent woman. Everyone knew that. It was only a pleasure for the man. Therefore it did not trouble her that she had no pleasure.

  Yet it seemed fairly sensible to assume that she was not supposed to feel loathing, either. Surely one was not supposed to loathe one’s husband. But if one did, if one hated “it,” how far was that from hating him?

  7

  From the bluff northwest of Lake Pontchartrain one saw the bronze shimmer of the great muddy river as it moved slowly toward the Gulf.

  “Get out of the carriage. We’ll walk the rest of the way,” Eugene said. “I want you to see the view.”

  The light was green; moved by a wish to see its shimmer on her hand, Miriam turned her palm up into it. The light was tender, a veil on the waving corn, and beyond to a line of sweet gum trees, and beyond to a low rising hill, and beyond … To walk there, to keep on walking in an unswerving line through the corn, past elm and hickory, up the hill, to keep on walking, keep going—

  “You’re not even looking at the house,” Eugene said.

  Obediently, she turned. There it stood, much as it had been described, perhaps even more imposing than she had imagined. Its brick was rosy. Twenty-two Doric columns upheld the gallery. On the left lay a long camellia garden. The oleander hedges were a mass of pink.

  “Beautiful,” she said, adding, since one was expected to produce more than a single word of praise, “Beau Jardin. It’s well named.”

  “That beech is a treasure. A hundred fifty years old. Unfortunately it hides one wing of the house. What’s behind it are the garçonnière and a schoolroom. I had that built last year.”

  And as Miriam had no comment, he continued smoothly. “Over there is the pigeon house. You should find that pleasing, with your love for animals. That’s a wine house and that’s a smokehouse. Behind the kitchen wing are the stables, the cabins, and the sugar house. But you’ll have time enough to see it all after you’ve rested.”

  She stood quite still. Where the live oaks were hung with moss, where the ground was sandy, that must be the way to the bayou. There, some afternoon, if you were lucky, you might see a heron feeding in the brackish water.

  “Come. Why are you standing there?”

  “I was only listening to the silence.”

  “Silence? But the servants are waiting to be introduced. Come, will you?”

  Entering the house, coming from outdoors, she blinked into the dimness. In a blur she saw a two-storied hall, a spiral staircase, black-and-white marble squares, black faces, white teeth, and a bust of Homer on a pedestal. Beau Jardin.

  In the heat everything sagged. The curtains were limp and the crystal pendants on the chandelier were cloudy.

  “Ah, but it’s lovely, lovely.” Emma sighed.

  “Nothing to compare with the Labouisse place,” Eugene responded, choosing to assume modesty. “I’ve only eight hundred acres here, and fifty hands. But that’s all I want. There are so many problems—floods and plant diseases and freezes. Anyway, I’m not a planter at heart. Tell them about our visit to the Valcour Aime plantation, Mrs. Mendes. There’s something to see if you want splendor.” And as Miriam hesitated, he continued almost impatiently, “It’s modeled after Versailles, but of course you know that The parterres, the gardens, the furnishings, everything’s French. My wife doesn’t like it.”

  Miriam said quietly, “Why are you surprised? You’ve known I was not intended for grandeur.”

  “Well,” said Emma, glancing uncertainly from one to the other, “I should think
Beau Jardin was grand enough for anyone. You’re a fortunate young woman, my dear, to be mistress of this place at your age. But I’m sure you realize it.”

  She was being wistful, Miriam knew, about Pelagie, who would not become mistress of her home until the death of her father-in-law.

  “Yes,” Ferdinand added, “it’s a blessing to see one’s child so happy. The happiness I see in your face is worth everything to me. The most wonderful time in a woman’s Ufe,” he finished, making a tactful oblique reference to her pregnant state.

  The happiness in her face! Blind! Blind! She could scorn her father’s insensitivity and at the same time pity it; but he had been diminished in her eyes; she had been diminished in her own eyes. There he sat, unseeing, accepting service from the platter which had been borne in by the siffleur, the pathetic boy who must whistle all the way in from the kitchen wing to prove that he was not sampling the food. Behind him another small boy waved a fly brush made of peacock’s feathers. In the pleasant stirring of the air Ferdinand smiled his contentment. Through his greed he had beguiled his daughter, tempted and coaxed her, using Emma, willing Emma, to aid with motherly advice.

  Then Miriam straightened in the chair, stiffening her spine.

  I despise self-pity.

  And blaming someone else for your own folly.

  Well, then, stop doing it! You betrayed yourself! Why do you blame your father and Emma and Pelagie and even Rosa and even Fanny? True, they persuaded you, but the fact is, you were yourself beguiled by the dignity of the Mendes name, by the house and the garden, and being the first of your age to be married.

  How could you have demeaned yourself so?

  Yet people everywhere spoke as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a young woman to desire a proud name and a fine house, and for a young woman’s family to seek them for her. So Ferdinand, like a thousand other fathers, had only meant the best for his daughter. It was simply the way things were.

  Eugene had warned her against snakes in the bayou area and alligators coming up on the grass at night The first time she had ever seen him at Pelagie’s christening party he had warned her.

  And then one night Gretel did not return to the house. Fanny and Miriam went calling round and round the lawns until long after dark, when Eugene, becoming impatient, ordered them to come back.

  “I’ll sleep on the verandah,” Fanny whispered, “so I can let her in. She’ll come, she can’t have gone far.”

  She had not gone far. She had gone just to the sandy grove near the bayou, perhaps to flush a red squirrel or on some other errand of importance. In the morning Blaise told Fanny.

  “No, don’t go, Miss Miriam, don’t go,” Fanny cried. But Miriam had already gone to follow Blaise, and so she came upon the little tragedy.

  It was a horrifying sight. The alligator, surprised somehow before he had completed his atrocious deed, had left the remains of Gretel on the path: a part of the tiny body and some blowing tufts of white-blond hair. There was scarcely enough to weep over, only enough to retch over. And Miriam, after that first look, fled sick and weeping behind a tree.

  Shuddering and cold in the heat, she stood with her hands covering her face. She had a flash of recollection: She was on the ship and the trembling wet puppy was placed in her hands; the boy Gabriel had such a tender look on his face—the recollection vanished. She was standing on the lawn with Fanny, Blaise, and Eugene staring at her.

  Eugene had followed from the house.

  “Take it away, Blaise,” he commanded.

  “Right away, right away.” Blaise turned to Miriam. “Is there any special place you’d like for me …” And on the dark face there was a look of extraordinary gentleness.

  “Come, now,” Eugene said, “it’s too bad, and I’m sorry, but let’s not go into mourning. Spare me, please. I’ll get another dog for you, and that will be that.”

  As if a dog were a thing!

  “Don’t look so glum,” he admonished. “You have other things to think about now anyway.”

  Her hands went to her stomach, its swelling bulge hidden under the circling skirts.

  Fanny had told her how after a while she would feel the new life moving. Her thoughts went then from life to death, to violent death, as if the dog’s death were an omen.

  Lately she had been thinking of her mother and of her own birth; she could then feel, actually feel, a thrust of pain, even while she knew these thoughts were morbid and unreasonable.

  But fear went with her, nevertheless. A looming ghost, it came with darkness. Early in the night, as if on signal, the trill and throb of insects gave sudden way to a foreboding silence. After a while the wind rose, flying and soughing through the Scotch pines on the bayou path where the wet black alligator with the hideous snake-head would be slithering after prey. An owl screeched. The owl’s screech is a death sign, Fanny used to say. The house stood abandoned to the night.

  Who would tell what lurked beyond the bolted doors? Every night, after everyone was asleep, Eugene bolted the heavy doors.

  Often Miriam thought about what lay outside those doors. Much that she had seen on the plantation troubled her. She had looked into the quarters where, on the littered floors, children crawled among fowl and their droppings, while dogs and sheltering hogs rooted under the shacks. She had seen the families taking their evening meal on their doorsteps, eating out of a common iron pot with their fingers or a piece of wood. Friendly voices greeted, “Evening, missis.” They were friendlier than the overseer, a sullen Yankee who lived with his family at the far end of the line of shacks. Strange that he never smiled, while those whom he ruled from his tall post on horseback could smile.

  “He steals from the master,” Fanny told Miriam. “Everybody knows he does.”

  He got a bonus for every bale of cotton over the fixed quota, and he worked the people hard. Everyone over the age of ten labored from the rising of the sun to its setting. Even children, before they were old enough to cut cane or to pick cotton fast enough to make their three or four hundred pounds a day, worked carrying water to the fields.

  So Eugene kept a gun and pistols in the cupboard next to the bed. Eugene, she could have told him while she lay awake, listening to every creak and whisper, Eugene, neither the doors nor the guns will help if they want to get in. She could almost hear the snapping flames whir as they rushed up the chimney and devoured the stairs.

  But there were worse fears. The rounded bulk of Eugene’s back made a deeper darkness in the dark space of the bed. Her eyes, stretched wide, fixed themselves on the man’s sleeping back. A whole life. A whole life, like this.

  He was not satisfied with her. And why should he be? She could not love him. He wanted what she could not give. He wanted a wife to please him in return for fils name and his support; that was only what any man would want. A woman was supposed to please, and to act pleased, whether she was or not. That, too, was part of the unspoken bargain.

  But I can’t do it, she thought; something in me can’t do it. And she felt pity for him because he gave fairly to the bond called marriage while she did not. They were strangers to each other, although he would never undermine his dignity by admitting that he knew they were, or that she loathed him.

  Only in company did his laughter ring. All the long summer, by carriage and steamer, the guests came and went, whole families of them, to stay for a day, a week, or longer. Early in the morning before they clattered away on horseback to the hunt, the men breakfasted downstairs. Still in bed, for pregnancy gave her an excuse to avoid whatever she wanted to avoid, Miriam could hear them talking over their potted meats, their salmon and prawns, their claret and sugared brandy.

  In the evening after dinner she could excuse herself again and go upstairs; a pregnant woman was supposed to be delicate. But she was not delicate; her body tingled with energy. Her feet moved to the sound of violins, to the mazurkas and quadrilles being danced below. It was only the spirit, weighted down, that did not move.

 
; Her mind drifted. To walk downstairs and out of the door! To throw off all these cumbersome skirts, to stride away like some countrywoman in her shift, her cotton or linsey-woolsey with a hole for the head, her cool garments so poor and still so graceful! Yes, dressed like that, to walk and walk through the fields, past the sweet gum groves, up the hill, free, free—Her hand made an arc in the air, a falling gesture of resignation.

  Romantic nonsense! Free, free, and over the hill to where?

  Late, after she had fallen asleep, Eugene would come upstairs. She would awake to the rustle of his clothes and the creak of the bed when he climbed in; then he would turn and take her by her shoulders. Someday, she thought, someday it will happen. Something inside me that I am holding back will give way, and I shall pummel his back with my fists and scream.

  Yet he meant her no harm. He had sought her out and wanted her. She was to mother his child. Would the child make a change? In him? Or in herself? She wanted to ask Pelagie, now pregnant with her sixth child, whether that was so. When Pelagie came to visit she would ask.

  “I’m very unhappy, Pelagie,” she said.

  The blood flowed up Pelagie’s white neck and tinged her earlobes.

  “I hate it,” Miriam whispered. “I dread it.”

  And she wanted to ask, Is there something wrong with me? Is there any way I can make it better? But Pelagie’s hideous blush prevented her.

  “If one wants children, it’s the only way,” Pelagie said. She had not once looked at Miriam. Her answer was no answer.

  Pelagie’s trailing, wispy hair had not yet been done that morning. Her hair had gone dead. Her brightness had flowed away, gone into the children. Thick and swollen, how changed she was from that girl with the sweet round face! All those children! All those months of vomiting, for Pelagie was sick each time. Now, feeling Miriam’s gaze, Pelagie looked up. The same sweet smile came to her face. Uncomprehending and sweet.