“Tuff! Tuff! Bissy! Bissy! Bissy!” Tiberius called out into the depths of the cistern in an almost tender tone, where the two bunnies splashed about, hanging onto the ladle. How was the dear couple to be rescued without the aid of a second person?
“Urschl! Urschl!” the little one howled from the cistern.
Shocked and shaking all over, the cook ran out of the kitchen and discovered her Tiberius with widely spread legs, as Negroes are wont to do, standing on the hatch of the cistern. At that instant, she had no idea whether he was making a joke or whether his howling had some foundation. But since he did not cease his howling for Urschl, she ran up the steps to the room and flew through the window that Tiberius had opened before going out on the cistern.
“Urschl, Urschl! See how the rabbits are drowning—Tuff, Tuff—Bissy, Bissy, Bissy!”
“Jesus Christ, Tiber—did you throw them in?”
The saucy cook turned to Tiberius so suddenly when she said this that he slipped and, as he tried to steady himself by grabbing Urschl’s dress, he pulled her into the cistern along with him. The fall was sudden, but no less suspicious even if one overlooks the results. Tiberius, who landed on his feet, pulled the saucy cook, who had landed head first, out of the hostile element. In thanks she sprayed his face with the water she had swallowed.
“No matter, Urschl—the water isn’t deep.”
“But the bissies, Tiber? Jesus Christ, if the ladies come!”
“Never mind—they could have landed as well as we did.”
“But Tiber—the bissies, the bissies?”
“No matter, they’re quite dead anyhow.”
And so they were. The good little animals had already lost their lives. The cook sought in vain to awaken their vanished spirits by warming them on her bosom. But Charon’s boat had already rowed them beyond the warmth of life.
Only then did she wonder about how they were to get out.
They hung silently together for a long time while they inspected their prison on all sides and recognized the impossibility of getting to the light of day. Tiberius was the first to break the silence. Standing up to his waist in water, he warded off mosquitos here and there, for the hatch had fallen completely off, making their entry easier. His eyes were filled with the image of Urschl, then water, then fire. Tiberius, stamping like a young bull that has been taken from a rich pasture and tied to a post—who would dare, in the presence of such a tableau, to continue to doubt of the existence of romanticism in America?
Romance is there, but no one sees it, since the virgin Columbia has not yet produced a Tieck or a Stollberge.22
Chapter 4
A PARROT IN CUPID’S SERVICE
When the sisters returned home, they were not a little astounded to find the garden gate, the yard gate, and the front door open. Their astonishment turned to distress when they found two cows trampling their flower beds and borders, greedily stripping away the fresh leaves of the mulberries they themselves had planted. When they saw that both the beds they had planted on either side of the shadowy path, in the form of a heart, had been robbed of all their decoration, tears came to their eyes.
“It is dreadful of Tiberius to pay so little attention to our property,” Frida said to her sister.
“We have let him get away with too much up until now, my dear Frida, we should have kept a closer watch on him and punished him more,” Jenny responded, gazing at the ruin about her.
“I think it would be best to sell him before he causes new injuries from his limitless carelessness,” Frida remarked.
“I would have suggested that to you long ago if Tiberius had not been a remembrance of Emil, who gave him to me on my first birthday in the New World. Tiberius seemed to be an entirely subservient boy—only later did I discover that he had a sneaky character that could not be altered by the best, most careful handling.”
“That’s the way all Negroes are, Jenny. Only a truly military discipline will keep them within limits. You have seen that he did not dare to utter a sound, and that he was as obedient as a dog when Karl was around.”
“But Cousin Karl is often too strict with him. You can punish a person with fasts and work, for a time, when others wish—but to beat him, even with a light belt—I don’t like that, Frida. I could not see my worst enemy beaten, even if he displeased me greatly.”
“Cousin Karl hates that too, dear Jenny—but he knows how to make exceptions, and you have to admit that they always came at the right moment.”
During this conversation, the sisters had drawn near to the cistern.
Frida, who first noted that the hatch had fallen away, said: “Yet another proof of Tiberius’ negligence. He only had to go into the room and replace the hatch from the window—that certainly takes no great effort. Still, he leaves the cistern open, and the dust and dirt that flies about makes the water undrinkable and unhealthy, particularly at this time of year.”
Frida stood together with her sister.
The former, having taken a look, continued: “It is also inconceivable, by the way, how boards could fall down at all without having been moved on purpose. Tiberius probably committed some foolish stunt while we were away.”
“Didn’t you close that window, dear sister? See, it is completely open. Perhaps Tiberius saw the bunnies and had some fun with them,” Jenny contributed.
“This boy finds that irresistible; we’ve forbidden it more than twenty times. If he could be gentle with them, then of course he could play with them. But he nicks them in the ears or the legs, or he ties them together.”
“Urschl lied to me, missus—Urschl is guilty of all the trouble!” sounded from the interior of the cistern.
The two sisters looked about in wonder, and when they did not see Tiberius, whose voice sounded once more in their immediate vicinity, they thought the rascal was hidden in the cooling hole under the cistern, eating the preserves.
“Missus! It wasn’t me, Urschl is guilty!” sounded for the third time from the belly of the cistern.
That was just too strange to the ladies, for the door of the cooling hole had been closed from outside, and when they opened it they found everything in good order and Tiberius was not there.
Inside the cistern, the saucy cook used both hands to hold the mouth of her betrayer, to whom she had sworn eternal faith only a short time before, and she admitted to him in a soft voice that cleaning the carpet and catching the rabbits had been a pretext. The ladies had not told her this; it was only a trick to get him away in the easiest manner possible, so she could go ahead and finish the midday meal. Tiberius appreciated this confession. That made him all the readier to pass all the guilt to Urschl. The little rascal did not think that she would revenge herself by revealing his own improper conduct toward her in the kitchen. At least he did not believe that Miss Urschl would do that, since she would be compromising herself as well. And the new episode in the cistern? One can see that this black, untrue beau depended on the wayward cook’s modesty. Such an attitude would have befitted any grown man.
It is easy to imagine the astonishment of the two sisters when they discovered the hiding place of Urschl and Tiberius. Things got rather rough in a confrontation in the parlor afterward. Tiberius adamantly denied the accusations made by Urschl, who described everything in exquisite detail. After the cross-examination that Frida undertook with the little blighter, he was declared guilty. His sentence was delayed until Cousin Karl, who was then in St. Louis as an agent of K. & W. returned. Urschl, who had been blindly foolish enough to give Tiberius all her money, was to receive her money back from him. He had clearly intended to swindle her of it. She also received notice that she would have to leave their service at the end of a month. The sisters gave her a day off so she could seek new masters at the German Society or some other place.
The two sisters were now sitting at the midday meal, and Tiberius, now transformed into an enthusiastic waiter, came down the stairs with a half-emptied terrine. As he turned to go to the cookhouse, t
he young man with a dark blue, white-bordered fireman’s uniform stepped into his way and asked if he had performed his mission. Tiberius was nonplussed, quavering out a simple “No, sir!”
“No?” the young man responded. “You did not tell them anything about my being here?”
“Pardon me, sir—I forgot,” Tiberius stammered.
“All the better,” the young man murmured to himself as he entered the house, as naturally and securely as a practiced member of the household.
He could tell from the terrine Tiberius was carrying that the ladies were in the midst of eating. Without further ado he knocked at the half-closed door of the dining room. When he entered, the two sisters rose from their chairs almost at the same instant, and Jenny cried out: “You already have your fireman’s uniform, Albert? I would not have believed that you would honor my wishes so quickly. Splendid, fine, my friend.”
“And I congratulate you for your fine choice among the companies. American No. 2 has the most handsome and best educated men,” the blonde Frida added in.
“Ladies,” Albert declaimed with a diplomatic bow suited to a salon, “words from such lips are the best blessing for my estate.” Then he turned to Jenny and said: “And you, my dear, may regard me as your vassal henceforth.”
“And I am proud that a man has so completely overcome his prejudice to please a friend,” Jenny responded, as the prettiest pink advanced across her lovely cheeks.
“My friend,” Albert responded somewhat more dryly, “my prejudice against fire companies was more powerful than my will. But the will of a beautiful woman cast it all overboard.”
“Now you see what woman can accomplish,” Jenny declared.
“If we want to,” Frida opined.
In order to explain the friendly reception Albert was receiving from the two sisters, we will have to return to something in our friend’s recent past, namely that nocturnal incident that had its most important moment in the Louisiana Ballroom.
“There will come a time when you will say something different.” These words from that mysterious rider had sounded in his ears the entire night. Several times he attempted to sleep, but in vain.
He woke little Bridget, who had gone to bed as soon as her master had arrived and was sound asleep, and he had her prattle on to him about silly things just in order to give his thoughts a new direction. She told him about her parents, her homeland, her trip to America, the sorrows and troubles she had endured on the transatlantic passage, and her arrival on American soil. And after long wanderings her account arrived at the time when Claudine hired her as a serving maid. Bridget’s talkativeness was in fact an excellent remedy for her master’s sleeplessness. By means of her narrative, he fell asleep, his left hand on his forehead. Bridget, who had not noticed this, since Albert was turned with his face to the wall, as was his habit, talked on for some time, until her own eyelids fell from exhaustion and she let her upper body sink from her chair onto her master’s bed.
Albert slept until the sunlight warmed the bed. Sleep had not refreshed him. He felt weak all over his body, to an even greater degree than when he had gone to bed. He stood up, discontented, put on his morning clothes, and went into the side chamber. Bridget was already waiting for him with coffee. He wished her a good morning, which he had never done before, and even permitted her to drink her coffee with him at the table. He poured himself nearly half a cup of cognac, smoked a very strong Figaro, and read some of Heinzen’s Janus,23 then he sampled a few editorials in the Boston Investigator. Today he did not touch the New Orleans newspapers. The politics disgusted him, and their serial columns offered nothing interesting. He was about to start Heinzen’s presentation in the Columbus Revolution when there was a knock at the door. The landlord entered with true Irish amiability. Only Bridget, who had a great respect for Green Ireland, stood up from her chair to greet Mr. Fitzpatrick. He sat down at once without saying much. The conversation soon turned to the fatal issue of rent. They arrived at the agreement that a certain contract that Albert had made with Mr. Fitzpatrick orally should be fixed in writing. The contract declared that a third of the rent owed, coming to one hundred and ninety-five dollars, should be paid in half a year, and that the balance and interest should be paid once the construction of the new customs house had been completed. The modification concerning the customs house had been made by Albert in a momentary flight of good spirits, and he had no idea that Fitzpatrick would take it seriously and accept it. The balance had been owed for some time, and, since the young architect was convinced that he would not live to see the customs house completed, he was not bothered about it. All the less so because he expected to make the first payment without difficulty.
No sooner had the cheerful Fitzpatrick withdrawn than our friend received a second visitor.
This was a Spaniard, one of the richest cavaliers in the Third District, whose real property had a value nigh unto a half-million. He wanted Albert, who was known as a talented surveyor, to measure a tract of land bordering Metairie Ridge and prepare a map, for which the Spaniard was ready to pay the sum of four-hundred and fifty dollars. This offer came just at the right moment for our friend. He had given his last bit of money, as we know, to free the Cocker from the watchman. A small advance was not rejected. That same day, Albert carefully examined his long-dormant equipment and hired two persons to carry his theodolite, surveying table, standards, and the like and to help with the surveying itself. For Albert, it was a time of activity and practical accomplishment. Since he did not wish to carry out his tasks negligently, he had to put all disturbing thoughts to one side and commit himself totally, which is precisely what he did. It had been his habit in the past to leap from utter sensuality to practical work whenever there was money in it. It was thus easy for him to carry out his assignment with the most assured care and scrupulously to bring it to completion.
On the seventh day after the start of his commission, Albert’s wallet experienced the most important phrase of Genesis, “Let there be light.” The Spirit of Worlds, when He created his ichthyosaurus, plesiosaurus, mesosaurus, megalosaurus, and the other monsters of the primitive world, could not have been more pleased than the young architect when he received four hundred dollars at one blow. But the bottle had its revenge on him, in old roué fashion, and the refreshing tide was soon followed by a sterile ebb. Our friend’s first heroic stunt was to camp on alien terrain for several nights in a row instead of regularly flying back to his own hedge, which would have suited a young man with orderly, solid thinking, preserving his married man’s virtues even as a widower.
Shellroad Mary? Yes, if he could find her while he still had some money. He had not seen her since the evening she’d bitten a couple hairs out of his black moustache. It never occurred to him, even in his wildest dreams, to spend money in the presence of men. A girl should enjoy it with him, and, among all the girls of New Orleans who enjoy a bad reputation, it had to be Shellroad Mary. Her limitless decadence, joined with a marvelous waist and an inexpressible, serious yet beautiful face, was what he longed for, the only thing that could hold him in thrall. Now his highest desire was to have Attic Nights with her, true symposia.24 Shellroad Mary had been living until recently over the tollgate where the New Orleans and Banking Canal Company controlled access to the Shell Road. One fine day Albert rode out to search for his classical playmate, whom he called his living Musarion, to lead her in triumph to ***. But he could neither find Shellroad Mary nor trace her down. Some said she had gone across the river, some said across the lake—destinations so imprecise as to give no guidance at all. Albert was furious. As he turned to go home, his horse fell over near the tollgate, and the impact injured his ribs. He was brought into the tollbooth, where he lay until a physician appeared and brought him into town in a wagon. Albert recovered quickly, and, since it was his principle always to pay a physician half of the fee demanded, his purse was not much lighter than before. On the day he recovered, one of his best friends had a similar accident with the sam
e horse, falling and breaking his arm.
Now a new era began for our friend. Yet only the radius of the circle of his life changed, the periphery remained the same. With a person such as Albert, whose entire being was occupied in satisfying sensual desires, to whom it was intolerable to concentrate on material survival except when absolutely necessary, and who did nothing to be loved nor disappointed, it was an ominous event that he had fallen in love. This time it sounds like something out of A Thousand and One Nights, for the god Cupid used a parrot to revive an inclination long since buried in the heart of our friend. When Albert had recovered enough to take short strolls and excursions, he suddenly had the idea of going across to Algiers to portray New Orleans in a manner that would exceed all his previous efforts.
For this purpose, he chose a point on the opposite bank that was almost directly across from the Odd Fellows’ Hall,25 so he could center his picture there. In this way, that portion of our city between St. Patrick’s Church and the Cathedral, on the one side, and that between St. Patrick’s Church and Annunciation Square, on the other, would appear in the main field, the smokestacks of the steamboats would be partially obscured in the foreground, and the Third Municipality and Lafayette on either side would be hidden in the forest of masts. The idea was fortunate, and in fact the heavens themselves seemed to be trying to aid the artist’s work. With nothing but a small sketchbook, Albert boarded the ferryboat at the Canal Street landing. Once he arrived on the opposite shore, the young architect turned to the right and went about fifty paces along the top of the levee before sitting down at the place he had designated. A tree trunk lying across the dam suited him perfectly as a place to lay his sketchbook. He planted an umbrella behind him in the soft ground to shield him from the rays of the sun, and thus he sat, like a silhouette-portrait of an artist from the Old Country.
The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) Page 49