The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures)

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  “The greenhorn is dumb enough!” Emil declared phlegmatically.

  “But damn it!” the other went on, “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I haven’t been feeling well for several days,” Emil said.

  “An aorta surely burst in your heart, old Don Juan!”

  “It is remarkable what you … look, look,” he interrupted himself suddenly, rushing right across the street, “our Cocker!”

  As the two of them made their way to safety on the other side of the street with as much dignity as possible, Emil quickly used the opportunity to relieve himself of his comrade, who was inconvenient at the moment.

  He swiftly turned the corner and blended in with the crew of a fire engine, which had just rattled down the street. When he saw a second and third engine follow, blocking his way, he swung himself over one of them, perhaps to demonstrate he had once been a member of one of the crews.

  Since he had made his acquaintance with Lucy Wilson, he had cast aside his red jacket and black belt, for the fire signal awoke him from his wonderful reveries too frequently. He preferred to play Adonis, and also he had enough to do controlling the raging elements within himself. He was much missed by his company, for he was one of the boldest and most daring fellows, and he never failed to elicit general amazement when he balanced on the narrowest gables, at a dizzying height, nimble as a cat, hose in hand, directing water on the most threatening point.

  Emil went straightaway to the house, or rather to Lucy’s old tenement. He was hardly three steps away when he saw a figure slip out of the courtyard door.

  The blood that shot to his head when he saw her soon returned when he made a quick turn to the center of the street and recognized Lucy in his own clothing.

  He first thought to follow her, but then he had a better idea.

  After a bit of consideration, he had no doubt that she was seeking him in this costume in order to embarrass him or to play some trick on him. If that was the case, then she would visit the Hamburg Mill, where he regularly went at ten o’clock when he did not pass the evenings staying with her until one or two in the morning.

  It was not long before he made a similar decision. He wanted to make the same gallant metamorphosis in order to await her at the same Mill, where he would probably meet her soon.

  Her clothes fit him—he knew that; after quick musing, he measured his own waist with his hands, then checked himself from head to feet. His not overly wide but arched breast was also contemplated.

  Anyone who saw him in such a pose, with such gesticulations, would have taken him for a young actor who was preparing himself for his first starring role and had gotten drunk the night before the performance. But, as it happened, no one noticed, with the exception of a few rats that ran across his lacquered shoes.

  The whole undertaking would be easy to carry out after this inspection. There was only one problem in the way, which was how he was to get over the fencing of vines and thorny roses in women’s clothing, for Lucy had taken the key.

  It would be easy to climb in, he could see that. But after he had changed, it presented significant difficulties for him to get out without tearing to shreds the dress, petticoat, and other appurtenances of the fair sex.

  He could not get into the rooms on the lower floor to climb from there through the windows, since these were barred and he had no idea where the key was kept. It seemed dangerous to him to let himself down from the upper story, on account of the night watch.

  What was he to do?

  After long musing, he finally decided, for want of an alternative, to lower himself from the upper story and risk being caught by the night watch.

  As he was crossing the fence, he lost his hat, which remained hanging on a branch reaching over the street.

  He seemed not to notice this in his zeal.

  In order not to cause undue alarm for Lucy’s gray-headed Negroes, who lived in a shanty pitched in the courtyard, he informed them of his plan.

  The old niggers were entirely amused by their young master’s notion, particularly since he pressed a Spanish dollar into each one’s hands.

  When Emil found his trunk so pitilessly split and its contents scattered all over the floor, he froze for a moment, stunned. He was as surprised as he had been when he had first glimpsed Lucy costumed, since he had not considered how she had come into possession of his clothing. He was offended at her high-handed manner with his property, which he had placed under her protection. But this upset only lasted a little while, and then he continued carrying out his plan with the same liveliness with which he had first made his original decision.

  Emil was pretty. Perhaps too pretty for a man. Even Apollo’s clear, pure face would have turned yellow with envy at the sight of this ideal body with its elastic shape and roundness of limbs. Phidias would have thrown away his mallet in shame, and the Venus de Medici would not have hidden her charms with her hands, or rather she would have fallen about Emil’s neck at first glimpse.

  If Lucy had seen him now, standing half-naked in front of the full-length mirror, moving his upper body back and forth on his elastic, full haunches as he sought to press his arm through a sleeve that was a bit too narrow for a man’s arm—she would have gone half mad. And Emil? Emil had not lowered his thyrsus-staff, and if Leda’s swan had been female this time, Juno rather than Zeus would have abandoned Olympus and descended to earth.

  True beauty always deserves our wonder, whether it gleams from a woman or a man. It’s all the same! Whether it is a whim or a perversity of Mother Nature, she bestows her full gifts only on those who are regarded in social life as decadents and ne’er-do-wells, who waste their lives wandering from one day to the next in careless indifference. Who has ever seen a beautiful banker, a beautiful grocer, a beautiful established citizen, a beautiful newspaper editor, and so on? Certainly no one.

  Vice has to have a beautiful exterior on this earth in order to put virtue to shame. So heaven has glittering stars, sun, moon, and comets as its court, in order to hide the empty spaces of its interior …

  Emil had completed his ensemble.

  A straw-colored dress of satin with an extended, segmented bodice set with black lace and beads was most becoming on him. His blond hair had been parted in the middle, combed on both sides so as to cling to his forehead, and from there descended to his ears. He almost had a problem with Lucy’s shoes because they were—too large for him. Lucy had small feet, but Emil’s were even smaller.

  The head covering he chose was entirely in keeping with the rest of the ensemble in its elegance. He looked like a young lady of the court, pretty as a picture, suitable to be led on the arm of a dutiful chamberlain into the chamber of her mistress.5

  Everywhere prose—which is epidemic in America—has invaded the halls of poetry. It was unfortunately the case here as well.

  Downstairs, a savior of his country, which the Germans so charmingly call the Nachtwatsch, was already awaiting our friend with impatience.

  He had seen him pass over the fence, and he had already seized his hat, which had been left on the outward branches. Since he was sure that something evil was afoot—for, incidentally, the watch was obsessed with keeping an eye on Lucy Wilson’s house—he waited patiently for a little while for some fruit for this leaping. Finally he grew impatient and was about to knock on the courtyard door when he saw one of the windows to the street open and a feminine figure appear and start to let herself down on a rope. Even before Emil touched the ground with his feet, he felt a muscular arm around his bodice, which, incidentally, was not making his tender acquaintance for the first time.

  Chapter 3

  TWO SISTERS

  Several weeks have passed. January 8th,6 the most celebrated day in New Orleans after the Fourth of July, could not be observed this year with the proper pomp, since a steady rain had continued for a month and undermined all preparations for it. The fireworks that had been planned to close the joy and celebrations of the day, under the direction of Professor
Müller, had to be omitted, and due to rain and wind it was cannons alone that proclaimed the undying glory of our beloved general. All the houses in Jack-sonburgh were illuminated, and the rich planters whose holdings lay between Bayou Bienvenue and the left bank of the Mississippi left their proud cottages and villas and came to Versailles, where they celebrated with their equals a day immortal in the annals of the South. In New Orleans itself, people could make out little of the celebration other than the sounding of cannons and the frequent display of the Star-Spangled Banner. Only the youngsters fired off thousands of firecrackers and blasted away with their guns and pistols on the open streets until early morning, doing what they pleased the whole night through.

  Today, however, would have been perfect for a festival, for New Orleans had not seen such a beautiful, clear sky for many weeks. Merry busyness and pushing predominated once more in the French Market. Here the nations buzzed together like an anthill. Black, yellow, white, brown, and red families—all colors mingled together like a colorful mosaic And it was still early in the day; the sun had just risen from the hollows, breaking through the mists in its peculiar violet glory. A fresh morning breeze stirred, and soon the sun rose with all its royal splendor, spreading its purple mantle and dropping it in the yellow flood of the old stream. The air vibrated with joy. People quickly forgot the many dark, rainy days—nothing but happy and cheerful faces as far as the eye could see! The first ray of the sun conjured up life in an instant from all directions. Now we want to concentrate on one image, since it is impossible to traverse the entire city at this early morning hour. We mean the French Market.

  Despite the winter month, Pomona had generously emptied out her cornucopia. From the tiny hickory nut to the hairy fruit of the coconut palm, from the fine apples to the splendid golden orange, from the short babas to the bunches of pisang figs or bananas, shaped like grape-clusters; apples, pineapples, lemons, oranges—all presented in great pyramids, with bobbing diadems and garlands of large Levantine figs in between. Costly flowers flourished among aromatic vegetables of all sorts, seducing many a buyer through their beauty to linger here a bit longer, causing their gaze to move from the flowers to the vegetables, for the floral decorations had been placed with that in mind. Several rows of cactus stood like stern guardians around the smaller flowerpots; a gigantic Cereus grandiflorus stood sad and closed among her sisters. Perhaps she dreamed of her coming splendor as the enchanting queen of the night!

  Everywhere women were selling, but rather few men were present. Broad-shouldered Negro women with their orange-colored, bright red, or green-striped headcloths; Mulatto and Negro girls with their swiveling gait and precocious gaze; grotesquely made-up French women who violated the usual quiet, cursing one another or throwing pieces of fruit; Indians offering healing herbs, their women hiding much in baskets on their backs, holding a suckling baby as they crouched on the stone floor of the market hall, only half-covering their nakedness, allowing the curious to gape and inspect their bodies. There were German girls, working their way shyly through the colorful press with their little market baskets, soon departing the market hall in disappointment because they could not find the ingredients for German cuisine. There were Irish women with copper-colored noses and swollen mouths, who cursed and shouted in competition with fat, thick-necked Negresses. There were drinkers of coffee, tea, and chocolate, contemplating themselves reflected twenty-fold in the mirrors opposite them during breakfast before bustling away, leaving their chairs for others, and so on. All of this rotated about the head of the onlooker like a wild carousel.

  Among those lucky enough to have completed their purchases and be on their way home were two elegantly clothed ladies, followed at a respectful distance by a Negro youth with a basket on his arm and a net in one hand. Besides various baked goods, some oranges and bananas were in the basket, probably destined for dessert. In the net were a few bunches of red radishes, which looked cheerful and inviting in the midst of green, fresh lettuce. The youth followed, singing and whistling to the young ladies, who were proceeding along the levee to await the return of the ferry that would take them to Algiers.7

  As the boat paused on the opposite shore, the little Negro was subjected to a brief examination from one of the ladies.

  “Tiberius,” began the younger one, who had beautiful black hair and dreamy eyes of deep blue, “put down the basket and the net on these cotton bales and come closer.” The Negro did it at once what he was bidden. He approached the two ladies with his cap in his hand.

  “Tell me, Tiberius, whether you met Mr. R* at his home when you delivered the note?”

  “Yes, Madame!”

  “Can you recall what this gentleman was doing, and whether he was dressed to go out?”

  “I know nothing except that he was stretched out on the sofa in shirtsleeves, leafing through a little book—while a tall lady sat at the window weeping, for her eyes were quite red, and she turned her head away as I entered.”

  The two ladies looked at each other in shock. Then the same one spoke again: “Did the gentleman say anything further to you when you left?”

  The short fellow was silent a moment, then he finally stuttered: “Massa said to me as I went out to say nothing about the lady I saw with him. I had to promise him that I would say nothing.”

  “So you broke your word, you little scoundrel!” she threatened him mockingly with her finger.

  “Then you shouldn’t have asked me, Madame,” Tiberius responded naively.

  “Well, if you go back there, and he asks you whether you revealed anything, what will you say?”

  “Then … I’ll say … that I said nothing about the lady.”

  “That is improper, Tiberius, you must always speak the truth!”

  “So I am allowed to say that to Massa?”

  The lady was distressed by this question, and in order to put an end to the discussion she ordered the little fellow back to his place. Then she turned to the other, sighing and speaking with a strained, sad voice, “So she is with him again—and he had promised you so solemnly not to see her again! Oh how unhappy I am!”

  “Console yourself, dear sister,” the other began, “what I always predicted has come to pass. Never believe he will give up that disreputable woman so long as she is in the vicinity. I know him all too well. He could promise it to you a thousand times over, reinforced by the holiest oaths—once he turns his back to you, he will forget everything. Look—my precious Jenny, follow my well-intentioned advice at last and let’s go back to our country. Your sick heart can only recover health on native soil, and there you will be safe from shame and misery. Dear, good Jenny, we are both companions in sorrow! I with my husband, who has abandoned me so callously and has not sent me a word in two years—without any concern for whether I am well or whether I am ruined, and you with your own husband, who continually proclaims his love to you through his hot tears and promises to do better, and then—oh—we are both unhappy creatures!”

  “Oh, don’t talk about leaving, dear sister! How could I bring myself to leave my husband? No matter how bad he is, he remains my husband—perhaps he loves me yet—only his frivolity makes him so often untrue. Oh, he will yet come to himself and become a faithful, loving husband! There are so many examples of such men. Do you know the story of Count A*—it was exactly that way with him, in the first years of his marriage he was wild, clumsy, committed indiscretion on indiscretion … they began speaking of divorce, and now neither can live without the other. You read it to me yourself in the letters from Germany … What, isn’t that so?”

  During the conversation, the steamboat had returned to the near shore, and the two sisters boarded along with little Tiberius, and in a few minutes they were in Algiers, where they had chosen to reside only a short time before. We will escort them home.

  Barely a hundred feet to the left of the landing, not far from the bank of the Mississippi, a lovable cottage stands separated from the other buildings. It is located in the midst of a la
rge garden, decorated by a significant number of orange trees, all their branches groaning under the burden of their golden fruit, together with arbor vitae trees, shaped like pyramids, and slender oleanders. The orange trees formed a shadowed pathway to the front door, separating there to the right and left before rejoining at the back of the house. Between the orange trees stood luxurious rosebushes with the lushest green color and the fullest of blossoms. The splendid landscape offered a most surprising sight to passers-by. If a stranger came here from the eastern or northwestern states, where everything was frozen with cold and buried in heavy snow at this time of year, he would think himself touched by a magic wand and imagine that a generous fairy had taken residence here. With joy he would breathe in the vanilla aroma of the tea-rose, displaying its most wonderful blossom. He would look in longing on the bright red, violet, or white balsamins, so sensually called “lady slippers” in English. He would also not overlook the dark red lychnids, the significant “bachelor buttons,” which is the American woman’s favorite flower. Wherever lady slippers and bachelor buttons are to be found together, rest is assured! The greatest order and neatness reigns in such a garden. There is no grass or weed, hardly even a stray leaf to be seen on the clean, hard-rolled garden paths. Following both good taste and poetry, the paths are not set with bricks, such as one finds in all American gardens, which always gives even the most beautiful layouts a hint of stiffness and lifelessness. On the north, next to the cottage, whose exterior is painted a silver-gray and supplied with bright green shutters, stands a water tank of dark green, bound with heavy iron bands, into which a gutter of the same color, running around the entire house, delivers rainwater, which can then be tapped by a cock on the bottom of the tank. Other than the Mississippi, rainwater is the only drinkable water in New Orleans and its environs. We are taking the greatest care to mention every detail concerning this place, since it will be the theater for so many events in our Mysteries.