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

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  The entry to these buildings is a large gate, always blocked with heavy timbers that must be removed before one can come in.

  The garden in front of the house is poorly maintained, and the owner has even neglected to fill all the muddy space with gardening soil.

  This was the place Constanze now strolled on her brother’s arm.

  Although the day has been wet and cold, the sun is now shining again like a giant blast furnace, driving spring growth out of the muddy earth to the rejuvenating light in a matter of hours. All those trees that had put aside their coats of leaves in the winter months now gaze from a thousand eyes and suck eagerly, drunkenly from the fiery breasts of the Louisiana sun. Magnolias, orange trees, cinchonas, and all the other evergreens shoot out new needles, shaming their dark green winter garb with their fresh splendor. The spireas, junipers, denzias, and hollies shake old pollen away and put on their spring dress with gusto. The small red cerculio ventures once more onto the platters of red cedar, sticking his trunk into the fragrant nectar. Lourier amandier is proud as a peacock, tearing away the cobwebs, which now yield to the pressure of his vital force. The evergreen thorn tree drops his old spines and presses out new ones. Among the evergreen bushes, the Mahonia aquifolia lustily spreads her wide branches against the neighboring myrtle, and the “bright rosy purple” gives way to the “queen of the prairies,” which brings forth fresh kernels.

  There is life and action, kissing and pressing, stressing and pushing under Louisiana’s glowing heaven—and all in a matter of a few hours.

  Only the live oak is dark and dismal.

  Its black-green leaves are hidden under hanging moss, and, while it might have its own springtime secret, the live oak gives no inkling of it. He gazes at us like a giant of primeval times, shaking his long hair when we ask him how old he is.

  Where are the slim, feathered palms?

  Look about. The palmetto is good enough for the clumsy alligator.

  It was already 2:30, precisely the hour merchants, lawyers, and brokers in our city leave their offices to take dinner with their families. The omnibuses are filled at this hour, and a person can wait from two until five o’clock without finding a place. This is particularly true on the Magazine and Apollo route, where the top businessmen live. The horsecar crosses Nayades Street and drops its hungry passengers here, particularly at Tivoli Circle. The second group of elites live around Dryades Market, at Withe and Thalia Streets, and the Dryades omnibus lets them out here—although, as is the case with almost all buses, the chief stop is in Canal Street.

  The brother and sister stood in front of Anderson’s property.

  Hugo knocked on the large gate with a rock while Constanze peeked through the wide gaps in the fence.

  “There’s no one in there, Sister,” Hugo said with an irritated air after knocking several times in vain.

  “Is that so, Hugo? Just look through here—they must not have heard you,” Constanze replied, pushing her brother over to the gap in the fence.

  “Somebody is coming—do you want to ask for Mr. Anderson?”

  “I think it would be better if you asked, Brother.”

  A worker in shirtsleeves and reddish-brown trousers opened the gate and asked Hugo what he wanted.

  “We would like to speak with Mr. Anderson—is he not at home?” Hugo asked in an accent that showed that he was German.

  “You speak German?” asked the worker. He told the siblings that Mr. Anderson must have gone into his house, since it was midday.

  “You can wait here until he comes back,” he added after Constanze stated her concern that they might be disturbing Mr. Anderson.

  “Just look up there,” Constanze excitedly called to her brother, who had climbed over the low fence with her to step over to Anderson’s house. “Look up there, that splendid moss. No, no, it is just too fine—you can see it all from here—oh, oh, and back there, dear Brother, no, it’s splendid, a fortune …”

  “That would be enough to stuff the mattresses of an entire regiment of soldiers,” Hugo joined in, phlegmatically.

  “Oh, I cannot believe we will be allowed to pull that down—it is all just too pretty!”

  “Anderson will not care what tree we pull moss from if he gives us permission.”

  “What will you say when he comes, Brother?”

  “I’ll just ask him for permission to take down moss.”

  “But what if he asks you what you want it for?”

  “Such a businessman has no time to ask about that. He will either permit us or deny it straightaway.”

  “But what if he does ask?”

  “He won’t!”

  “No, dear brother, what if he does ask you? What would you tell him? You couldn’t tell him that we have no beds—that would just not do!”

  “But he won’t ask, Constanze.”

  “No, no, understand me correctly, hypothetically, if he were to ask you—I am only supposing.”

  Anderson’s arrival interrupted this little dispute.

  Hugo approached him with his sister.

  “Mr. Anderson, would you be so good as to permit us to take down a few armfuls of moss from your live oaks?”

  “What for?” he asked.

  If Anderson had been an American, he would not have asked, but Swedes are very curious, they must know everything.

  One could see that Hugo’s knowledge of the ways of businessmen did not rest on a sound foundation, as it did not allow for nationality. Constanze was not so far off.

  “For our henhouse,” Hugo quickly responded to the Swede’s question.

  “For your henhouse?” Anderson repeated in astonishment. “Do your hens need moss to sleep on?”

  Constanze would just as happily have dropped through a hole in the ground. Her embarrassment was without limits. She turned away from the two and looked at the long moss that enclosed Andersons home in a dark frame. She soon chirped and hopped on her feet, silently thanking her lucky stars that the conversation quickly moved to another subject after they received permission to take down as much moss as they wished.

  Anderson, who was a great devotee of fowl of all kinds, still found it worthwhile to ask the young man what sort of hens they kept in their chicken coop.

  “Various sorts,” declared Hugo, “a creole hen is there, I believe, but, as with most fowl, you can’t really keep them in perfect order. Soon one runs away, the rooster sneaks out of the yard, then a brood-hen, and there is always plenty to do—I could not even guess how many we have at home.”

  “Then you must not pay much attention to your animals,” Anderson remarked. “I know precisely how many hens I have, and if one is missing I know where to go to find it. For instance, I know a man not far from here who loves my creole hens so much that he cannot let two weeks go by without taking one of them.”

  Anderson smiled roguishly when he spoke these words.

  “Is that your wife?” he asked.

  “No, it’s my sister—she has only accompanied me here to help me to take moss back, in case we could receive permission, Mr. Anderson,” Hugo responded, presenting his sister Constanze to the wholesale milkman.

  He greeted her, making a little bow with his head and pushing his hat back so that his whole forehead was visible.

  “’Tis most ungallant of this man that he did not give us a worker to help,” Constanze said to her brother as she approached the loveliest of the live oaks in the square.

  “Yes—one should hold it against him, but perhaps he does not know any better,” Hugo consoled her. He had only now realized that Anderson had shown too little cooperation and gallantry.

  It was characteristic of Anderson not to have much to do with the fair sex. Since his earlier career as a sailor had rarely brought him together with ladies, he had adopted a patriarchal tone toward them, which was quickly broken off when anyone tried to join him to one. Then it was all he could do to hide his clumsiness in their presence.

  Although he had considerable property a
nd was years beyond being a young man, he remained a confirmed bachelor. He had never been able to decide to marry, for reasons easy to derive from what has been said.

  Yet he liked Constanze the moment he saw her, and, if he did not act gallantly toward her, that was due to his distrust of himself. He was afraid of acting badly in her presence, and so he preferred to avoid doing anything at all that might show he was even aware of her.

  The results will confirm that our interpretation has a foundation.

  “Brother, I have no idea how it will be possible for me to go up, the live oak is too broad—if only your arm were better you could climb up yourself…”

  “This way, Constanze?”

  “No, not yet, bring your shoulder closer to the trunk and somewhat lower to the left.”

  “Yes—now you’re not helping me at all, Hugo—I cannot keep doing this—try it and raise yourself a bit—so—so—now it’s right, now just a little—just a very little further if possible …”

  Now Constanze was sitting in the place where the enormous main trunk of the live oak divided into two great branches, each with a circumference of fifteen feet.

  “This is not easy as I thought, Hugo—the things don’t want to come off,” Constanze called to her brother down below.

  “Be careful, Constanze. If you don’t keep your leg around the branch, you could lose your balance and fall.”

  “I won’t do that, Brother. This dumb bark scratches me so—I am sitting solidly enough. If only I didn’t have to stretch so far to pull down the moss, it is so solidly attached—has it grown to it, Hugo?”

  “Constanze, you can see that from there better than I can.”

  “So—there are a few bushels’ worth, there, catch them!”

  “Just let them fall, Constanze, they won’t hurt you,” Hugo laughed aloud.

  “This dumb bark scratched me again, Brother—I don’t want to do any more—I would rather climb down …”

  “That would be silly, Constanze, you were only too happy to get up there—be reasonable and think of your bed tonight.”

  “You can talk, you’re down there and look up at me so comfortably!”

  “You’re not demanding that I climb up with my bad arm?”

  “But Hugo, now it scratched me again—I won’t put up with this dumb live oak any more.”

  “Let it scratch, Little Constanze, scratch it back!”

  “But Hugo, it is really nasty of you to keep making fun of me.”

  Constanze finally managed to get several bushels of hair from the old live oak; the more she saw the pile on the ground grow, the more she was spurred to continue. The bark of the nasty live oak had already hurt her several times, but she no longer paid much attention to it. If you had seen her delicate little hands, you would have noticed they were bleeding.

  “That’s enough, Little Constanze, that’s moss for at least five battalions—now climb down, we will take our treasure home together. Aunty Celestine can help us haul the rest over when we come back a second time. One trip won’t do it.”

  “Just this one last bit up there, Hugo. Oh, this long, beautiful moss, when I have that I’ll be finished!”

  “Little Constanze—look out and don’t be so careless! It is much too high for you—you could lose your balance and fall.”

  Despite her brother’s well-meant advice, Constanze climbed higher and higher, so nimbly that one might have thought she had been trained for that purpose. Then she finally reached a spot where she could grasp her last plunder. With her knee wedged against one branch, she held fast to another branch with her left hand and was about to grab the superb moss when the branch under her knee gave way—confusion caused her to reach behind her instead of in front of her. She briefly lost consciousness and hung for a moment between heaven and earth; only her left hand clung to the little branch, which threatened to break at any instant.

  Hugo, who had looked away at this crucial moment, his attention on a cow grazing nearby, no sooner heard his sister’s cry of fear than he forgot his bad arm, ripping it out of its sling, climbing up the tree with marvelous agility, and taking her in his arms.

  Constanze was saved. But then something happened which could have had even worse consequences than falling from the live oak tree.

  A bull that had been pleasantly browsing among the blossoms and his harem was roused into such a nasty mood by poor Constanze’s cry that he began to roar and charged with great strides toward the tree, just as the brother and sister were getting ready to come down. At the same time, the cows were making such a dreadful noise that Constanze became concerned and asked her brother to climb a bit higher and stay with her until someone arrived to liberate them.

  The bull stormed about the trunk of the live oak like a bedeviled Uriel, boring his short horns into the tree in his blind rage. He plowed the soil all around, then threw his rear legs in the air, then charged at the trunk, giving it solid blows, then rushed about in wide circles, roaring and stamping.

  The cows, who saw their esteemed gentleman consort carrying on in such a hair-raising manner, all joined him in the same manner, making crazy forward and sideways jumps.

  Andersons workers, who were cleaning out the cow stall, removing unnecessary decorations and contributions in the cows’ absence, watched the dreadful dance with amazement. They stuck their heads over the fence and appeared at a loss over what to do.

  “Put your dogs in here!” Hugo cried to them from his place of exile. “They will bring the dumb cattle back to order!”

  This had the expected effect.

  Whether it was customary obedience or fear of the dogs—it is always hard to tell, since to this day the psychology of cattle has been little studied—the bacchantic cow-maenads, with their roaring satyr in the lead, restrained their madness and soon passed through the open gate of the cow stall in splendid order, returning to their reserved places. The bull did make an attempt now and then to pose as a sultan, but even he finally quit acting up and ambled to his fodder trough.

  Who could be happier than Hugo and Constanze? The brother and sister embraced and kissed as soon as they touched solid ground.

  “How does it happen that your arm has so quickly recovered, Hugo?” Constanze asked her brother with a roguish laugh.

  “On your account, Sister, it was healed in an instant,” Hugo responded, replacing his arm in the sling, for it hurt him twice as much now that the excitement had passed.

  “You certainly hurt yourself, Hugo—does your arm hurt again?” Constanze asked with concern.

  “Oh, that’s nothing, Sister—it is better. Now come and let’s gather the moss the mad cattle scattered all over.”

  “You shouldn’t carry anything, Brother—stay here a bit, I’ll go and ask Aunty to help me.”

  Without waiting for Hugo’s objection, Constanze flew across the street and entered their tenement.

  The Irish woman was in the room paying two dollars for the work she had ordered. Then she ordered two more collars for the end of the week.

  “Constanze and I will complete them, Aunty,” Melanie said as Aunty reached for her needles to start anew. “Relax or knit little Amelie’s shirt.”

  “Mother, permit me to impose for a moment on Aunty’s good nature. I cannot bring all that moss across the street by myself, and Hugo’s arm hurts so badly,” Constanze explained.

  “I don’t know if Aunty is willing to do it,” Melanie responded, “I cannot decide for her.”

  Aunty Celestine did not have to be asked twice, since the prospect of a good bed gave her old legs wings. Together with Constanze, she rushed across to the live oaks.

  Chapter 3

  THE COFFEE PICKERS

  It had been a long time since Constanze had slept as well as she had in the night just past. After she had brought the dearly bought moss back with Aunty Celestine’s aid, she changed her previous resolution by stuffing her father’s mattress first of all rather than her own. Father slept together with Hugo. She stuffed a
nd smoothed their bed with a mastery that would have made a Venetian carpenter proud. She did this in order to make up for the many pains her brother must have suffered in his bad arm.

  Although Constanze continually fought with her brother, she still had the greatest affection for him. She lovingly bandaged up his arm with the greatest care before they went to bed, reinforcing the sling with a new knot and instructing him on how to lay in such a way as not to endanger it. Then she urged her father to take great care not to nudge Hugo’s arm in his sleep and cause him more pain.

  Little Amelie had cried half the night on her mother’s neck, so she was consoled with a good moss bed on the following day.

  Gertrude didn’t sleep well after she laid herself down, either. She had her index finger in her mouth and seemed to be thinking about something.

  Aunty Celestine, who was also looking forward to a new bed the next day, likewise couldn’t sleep. She jumped up at least twenty times during the night and ran about among the mattresses lying on the floor. Once she bumped into Hugo’s head during her wanderings, causing him to awaken in terror and give her a severe rebuke. Now and then she ran to the window and tapped on the panes, humming her melody of the unhappy, seduced daughter of a count. Then she gathered herself and laid her head on the suitcase, only to spring up and dance around the room again. She kept this up the entire night.

  Is there anything more important to a girl than a good bed? What girl would begrudge Constanze the fact that all her thoughts and wishes were concentrated on a better place to rest? One can read a girl’s character from the greater or lesser care with which she makes her bed. A girl who is never excited about her bedcover, even if it is of silk and eiderdown, is either not quite well or is given to reading boring novels. A good, spirited girl knows every stitch of her bed, whether it’s a side-stitch, a front-stitch, a hind-stitch, or a baste-stitch. Such a girl is also involved with her mosquito netting. She pulls it back so that it does not look baggy but rather has beautifully equal folds. A good, spirited girl in New Orleans will never kill a mosquito in her bed after it has fed on her, since that would leave a mess. She will only try to shoo the mosquito away, and if this doesn’t work, she will keep it safe—and all so as not to dirty a fresh bed, even if it is only a modest ticking filled with moss.