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

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  He would laugh maliciously and give this dry answer: “What concern is your howling and whimpering to me about the dead? What concern are the dead in the moist earth? I have only had one purpose, and I accomplished it—I wanted to make money.” That is only a single image of them, but doctors are still the most striking actors in that dismal setting, which is called the palmetto boudoir of Louisiana, with its poisonous miasma. These actors have sated themselves the most, have killed the most, and are the greatest of thieves: can anyone blame us if we place them at the very head of the column of robbers and murderers, they who exceeded even the plague itself in cruelty and insatiability? There is no contradiction to such an accusation; any opposition in favor of such quacks, or even in favor of real physicians, will not be listened to. The people have seen it themselves, felt it themselves, and complained over the manifold losses; there is nothing libelous in such an accusation, and it is not seen as injurious once public opinion has accepted and registered it. The wounds that they inflicted on us are still to be felt, then, and many families who were plundered and robbed then by these scoundrels are even now perishing! Yet revenge raises its finger threateningly—and no one knows what the future holds for that physician, robber and murderer.

  Certainly there are exceptions, where are there none? But there are only a few of this profession who remain in honorable memory. Among a hundred demons there is an angel now and then, someone who works to lessen the misery of his suffering fellow human beings with noble dedication and selfless sacrifice. Hail to them, for they bear an awareness in their breasts, rare among physicians, that they are neither thieves nor murderers.

  “Go away! Go away! You’ll find no heart here—if you have no money, you seek in vain.”

  “Go away! Go away! That one was only a quack, but he demanded money, even more than the other, for he has been well paid for the murders of his patients. No one is murdered for nothing—Money! Money! You have none? Then get out, get out, just go! You’re still trying here? Still nothing there? Go away, go away—go back to your loved ones and tell them that they must die!” Hounded by this voice, whose source remains unknown, a poor, beautiful girl goes from house to house; she has sought a physician for three hours, in vain. She is about to collapse from exhaustion, but her anxiety spurs her steps ever anew. Everyone at home is ill with the yellow fever—father, mother, and siblings. A sympathetic soul, who sees the beautiful girl weeping as she runs through the street, determines the reason for her tears and directs her to a house on * Street, in the Third District, where a *** physician lived who would be sure to help and whom it would not be a waste of time to visit. The poor child betook herself there—and now she enters the house, where doctor *** lives. The child trembles from joy and inexpressible excitement when she learns from an old woman that the doctor is at home and will appear right away.

  Let us take a closer look at this beautiful poor child.

  It is a girl of noble and gentle face, who has barely reached her ninth year. The blue of her usually bright forget-me-not eyes has been clouded by the many bitter tears they have poured. The intelligent little face, which appears already to have seen things beyond the ken of children, has to capture the heart at the first glance, and when you see the child pale and suffering, you are driven to ask from the innermost part of your being: “Child, what’s the matter? And if I can help you, will you trust me?”

  The girl wore no covering on her head, and her long, blonde hair hung down, half plaited in braids and half loosely spread down her neck, far over the indent of her delicate waist. One could see that she had no time to adorn herself or give her makeup the slightest attention. And how could she? She had kept watch the entire previous night at the beds of her sick parents and siblings, and, by morning, sleep had overcome her—yet she could not even enjoy that for very long, since the doctor again failed to show up, having determined the day before that there was no more money to be had. That was how the girl had come to her wandering and finally to the door of this doctor in the Third District.

  The doctor did not leave her waiting for long. Accompanied by the old woman, he soared like a hawk into the room, where the girl awaited him with a pounding heart.

  “Someone is ill? Probably yellow fever?” the doctor asked hastily.

  There was something repellent in his face as he asked this. Out of these gray eyes there gazed not the slightest bit of good will; a certain incontinence had singed his lashes, leaving a red rim in their place.

  When he spoke, his mouth displayed an ugly white line on the lower lip, such as one finds on many varieties of shellfish if one jabs them with a finger. Despite his appearance, this person had once married a maiden who was pretty as a picture. Now he had only a rather elderly and immeasurably ugly woman as housekeeper.

  The beautiful girl pulled back shyly and hardly seemed to have the courage to answer this repellent specimens questioning.

  “Someone is ill? Yellow fever, huh?” he snorted at the girl.

  She stepped forward, rather more courageously.

  “Well, yellow fever, or something else?”

  “Yes,” the girl answered, as tears brightened in her eyes. She directed an unspeakably distressed gaze at the doctor.

  “Is your father, your mother sick?” the doctor continued.

  “Everyone at home is sick, all the way down to my little sister.”

  “When did the illness befall your relations?”

  “Three days ago by now.”

  “And they have lain all that time without a physician?”

  “Oh no, we called a physician at once, but he did not come today—probably because we were unable to give him the money he was demanding,” the girl added softly and hesitantly.

  “Do you have money now?” the doctor asked in a superior tone, half turning on his heels.

  “Oh no—where could we get money all of a sudden? We have barely enough to buy ice for the packs.”

  “Yes, then I cannot help you,” the doctor declared, turning his back on the poor girl in order to pass through the door.

  “There you have it—another beggar,” remarked the woman, who had returned with the doctor and who now inspected the girl from head to foot. Then she added acidly, “I thought so right away, that begging was afoot—people think that one should slave away for nothing and risk one’s health to boot—”

  “Doctor, doctor!” the poor child cried, seized by the deepest pain, rushing after the cold man of money. “Even if we cannot pay you right away, we will pay you double and triple later; oh do come, come home with me!”

  The doctor, who already had the door-latch in his hand, turned to the girl and said: “Why didn’t you come to me at once when your parents and siblings were attacked by the fever? The physician you had at the start certainly was not willing to visit you for nothing.”

  “Oh no,” the girl sobbed, “he would not have taken a step into our house if we had not given him twenty-five dollars.”

  “There you see: now, when you have nothing left, I am supposed to come … Well, as I said … if you bring me money, I’m ready to come, and otherwise not. But still, I’ll give you some good advice. Take your whole family to the hospital, or have the Howard Association send a doctor … they are readier to do that than one of us.”

  “They told me of the Howard Association, too,” the tormented girl declared, “but if only I knew where to go—”

  At that very instant, the door opened so quickly that the doctor, who still held the latch in his hand, was roughly shoved aside.

  A young, quite elegantly clad man entered and, without ceremony, went to the shaken doctor and aggressively ordered him to come with him.

  “Did you bring a cab? My horses need a rest, they have been greatly strained today,” the doctor responded sullenly.

  “Just come quickly, doctor, my wife has suddenly become unwell, and all symptoms point to yellow fever. Hurry, it is a good distance from here, and I have already visited four physicians and found not
a one at home—”

  “To devil with it, my friend, I asked you if you had brought a cab! I will not go a step from this house on foot,” the doctor responded in a phlegmatic tone, in rudest contrast to the agitation of his new visitor.

  “No,” the young man responded with a stormy tone, “‘tisn’t necessary—we can mount at the next carriage stop—hurry, hurry, ‘tis not a minute to be lost.”

  At these last words, the excited young man grasped the doctor’s arm to pull him along.

  “Not so fast, my good man, I am not to be led about in this manner. Either you bring a cab to the house, or you give me the proper assurance, in case—in case we cannot find a cab at the halting place.”

  “Gladly—you are to have everything I have, but just come right away, I need you at once.”

  As the young man spoke these words, he released the doctor’s arm and rushed to the large round table that stood in the middle of the room. There he emptied out the entire contents of his wallet on the marble surface of the table, adding several smaller coins he had pulled from his vest pockets.

  The doctor placidly raised his eyeglasses in the air, pressing them on the bridge of his nose with his right index finger.

  The old woman went immediately to the table, her eyes glittering as she inspected the money.

  “Thirty dollars!” the doctor called out. “What are you thinking of, my good man! I will not take a step beyond my threshold for any thirty dollars—ha, ha—a remarkable imputation, that, sir. In these times, the most pitiful quack will not accompany you for this bagatelle.”

  “You are cruel, doctor,” the young man cried out in despair, “you shall receive another fifty dollars when you arrive at my home—hurry, hurry—demand of me what you want…”

  The old woman quietly nudged the doctor with her elbow and whispered to him:

  “You can go with him, old boy—the man has money.”

  Then she went back to the table and gathered the thirty dollars.

  “Well, come along,” the doctor said to the young man, “but this is the last time I leave my home under these circumstances.”

  They both rushed to the street. But where is our good child?

  The poor, pretty girl had withdrawn shyly when the elegant young man stormed in so rudely, and she had watched the whole procedure with a pale face and pounding heart. By the time the young man departed the room with the doctor, she had already left the house of this most despicable of all physicians in despair and stood for a few moments, as quiet and stiff as a column on a street corner. Many people passed her by, poor as well as rich, men, women, and children—still no one paid any heed to the pale child, pretty as a picture, with the long, loose hair and the suffering, forget-me-not eyes. Why should they be concerned with her? Everyone already had plenty to do, and most of them worried that they might be walking the streets for the last time and would be lying in the swampy, wet ground the next morning. The curse of yellow fever often strikes so unexpectedly that no one can contemplate the next hour cheerfully or with a light heart. The phrase “Red today, dead tomorrow” dropped from every mouth that opened. So enjoy yourself, my friend, and give a kiss to this and that person, for who knows whether you shall ever meet again.

  At such a time of tribulation and dreadful destruction, one constantly heard whispers from persons who never spoke on peaceful, fine days. Everyone spoke to you, everyone wept, sighed, and feared along with you. And even though they did so, you still had no friends, and only your money was always good to you, stroking your troubled cheeks and telling you: be not concerned, my friend, you have always carried me with such love in your heart in peaceful times, now I shall requite your love and tenderness. That is what money says; the unfortunate believes this slick, false serpent, and tomorrow he is dead.

  The girl, although still half a child, felt the total seriousness of this dreadful time. Pain pays no respect to age. It can gnaw just as well on the heart of a child as it can on that of a maid or a mother. Her parents and siblings were lying helpless at home, without custody or care, and yet the girl stood like a column on the street corner, and she would surely have stood that way for even longer if a man had not knocked her aside to place a ladder against the post of a street lamp. The pale girl—where could her thoughts be?—was profoundly shaken, only now giving a thought for her sick parents and siblings at home. She walked a ways, then looked one way and the other—should she try again and ask where a doctor lived? But who knows what was happening at home?—so run, run back home, child; you’ll not find any doctor, you’ll not find any heart, for you have no money. Run to your home, as poor and careworn as you left it—for you will at least be with those who love you, even if they will soon be dead, too!

  Driven by these inner voices, the girl ran as if she were being pursued by the evil spirit of the dreadful illness itself, on and on, until she turned at last onto the street where her family lay sick and helpless. She remained standing at the corner of the street. There were only four more blocks to go and she would be home. But she had to rest here at the street corner for a few moments—the good child could not go any further without taking a breath of fresh air.

  She pressed herself into the depths of a shop doorway and repeatedly reached for her heart with her little hand. But in the next moment her hand dropped from her heart and moved to her forehead, near her temples. The gaslight, burning not far away, held this in its full shimmer and illuminated her strange look. Now the girl was no longer leaning on the shop door, she had dropped to the stone doorstep and was pressing her two little hands on her forehead.

  Drunks rushed past, wild young men disturbing the nighttime peace. They were wandering from coffeehouse to coffeehouse, offering their libations to the goddess of death. They were joking and laughing as they bustled past, calling out a stormy “to your health!” at the dead-carts creaking and groaning over the uneven pavement stones. A watchman making his rounds thought it odd that a child was sitting here on the stone doorstep, holding her forehead in her hand. He gently touched the child with his staff. The girl started and tried to rise, but she had to set herself down again. “Take me home, I live right around the corner, I think I am ill,” she sighed as she rose to meet the watchman. Her temples throbbed and her forehead burned. The watchman, who had already seen hundreds of such cases on the open streets, knew at once what was the matter with the child. He took his staff under his left arm in order to help the child up to take her home. Then another child’s head suddenly slipped under the watchman’s arm, and two thin arms clinged to the neck of the sick girl who was on her way home.

  “Gertrude!”

  “Lorie!” sounded in reply, as poor, sick Gertrude, the daughter of the old count, draped herself on the neck of her little friend, whom she had not seen since their adventure with the coffee pickers. The watchman observed this drama with amazement and patiently let it take its course. Had the watchman been a German, able to understand the language of the two friends, hot tears would have been running down his cheeks.

  The joyful agitation with which Gertrude had been seized at the sudden appearance of her Lorie appeared to put her deceitful enemy to flight momentarily, but only so it could later descend on its poor victim all the more greedily. The unexpected improvement Gertrude now believed she was feeling was one of those dreadful mirages that those attacked by yellow fever often experience in that terrible time.

  The count’s daughter would soon learn this.

  “How did you come to be here, Gertrude? What does the watchman want with you?” Lorie asked.

  “Nothing, dear Lorie,” she replied, “I just asked him to bring me home since I could not walk any more.”

  “What’s the matter, Gertrude? Are you sick?”

  “I was earlier—but now I think I was just imagining it. All you can see are dead-carts and coffins, and in the end one becomes convinced one must die.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of yellow fever, Gertrude? You shouldn’t be afraid, or you could really g
et it—that’s what the people I live with say.”

  “You don’t live anymore with your mother and—”

  “I have no mother anymore, Gertrude—she is dead,” Lorie said, her voice shaking as she shed hot tears.

  “Dead, Lorie?” the count’s daughter sighed, leaning her little head on her friend’s shoulder.

  “Yes, Gertrude. We brought Mother to the Charity Hospital, and whoever goes in with no money only comes out in a coffin. There are ugly, disgusting people in that hospital—they put her in with the worst persons sick of fever, and so she had to die, nothing else could have happened. Then they took the few things she had, and they did not want to give them back to me, even though I am her child and should have what was hers.* And now I am serving some strangers—I was taking them a piece of ice right now—”

  “Lorie, my legs are growing as heavy again as they were before,” Gertrude said suddenly, clinging so tightly to little Lorie that she almost pulled her to the ground.

  The watchman, who had been standing quietly observing, now approached the two children, leaning down to Gertrude to say: “It would be best if I took you home—you are not feeling well.”

  “Yes, Gertrude, the watchman and I will take you to your parents—where do you live?” Lorie asked anxiously, looking her friend in the fase questioningly.

  “The third house around the corner—oh take me, take me home …” Gertrude asked, trying to stay on her feet. But she lacked the strength. The watchman took her in his arms without further ado. Lorie walked alongside, hauling her large ice block, bound with a rope, behind her only with difficulty.

  “This is the third house from the corner,” the watchman said, “is this it?”

  “Yes,” Gertrude answered, barely audibly.