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

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

“But sir—I do not know—but excuse me, I do not doubt the rightness of your statement—but how is it possible?” Lady Evans-Stuart asked in great confusion, for she now believed that the Hiram of the Mantis religiosa was before her. A nameless dread tightened in her chest.

  The brain of the Hungarian convulsed once more. The captain ran his hand into his uniform, reaching for his heart. As decisive, enterprising, and unshakable as this soldier was, he still felt himself cornered. The others, except for Frida, simply marveled at the old man’s words.

  “He was one hundred sixty years old in 1763?” the baroness de Saint Marie said as she calculated to herself. Jenny did the same, staring at the old man’s face.

  Claudine de Lesuire was afraid.

  “Lady Stuart,” Hiram continued, “I beg your pardon, but you provoked my statement yourself by seeking to learn something more about my estate and ancestry.”

  “Sir, as you will,” the lady addressed responded in confusion.

  “The very cause that drove me from Spain also compelled me to flee New Orleans—”

  No lip moved, but the eyes of those present spoke all the more.

  “The Inquisition of those days would have condemned me to death—but fortunately I understood the art of making myself invisible, so that I could reach the place of my birth, the source of the Red River, with safety.”

  Captain Marcy’s whole face turned pale as a corpse. The old Scotswoman also lost her color and appeared to have lost all her presence of mind—as had the baroness de Saint Marie, Claudine de Lesuire and the Countess Jenny. Only the Hungarian suddenly became utterly different—which is to say he came alive.

  His brain had ceased to turn inward and suddenly recovered totally. It purged itself through the following logical process: the gray beast said that he’d made himself invisible—such an assertion seems to any reasonable person to be a grandiose trick; whoever committed such a trick was obviously a charlatan, but charlatans are liars; ergo, I have nothing to fear from this gray beast.

  The Hungarian’s conclusion was entirely correct in its own right. He would have had nothing to fear from a liar; but for him there was the dilemma of whether this conclusion could be applied to Hiram.

  We know that Hiram had spoken the naked truth when he asserted that he knew the art of making himself invisible to the Inquisition. The document we have already quoted makes that sufficiently clear.

  Lady Evans-Stuart and Captain Marcy knew only too well that the facts were precisely as Hiram had presented them.

  “But … but sir—why did they bring you before the Inquisition at that time?” Lady Evans-Stuart asked with a shaking voice, simply because she realized she had to say something.

  “Because I was seen as a malignant sorcerer,” Hiram responded abruptly.

  “That is impossible,” the old Scotswoman responded mechanically.

  “Why not?” the Hungarian interjected with the most superficial nonchalance. Then he cheekily said, while staring rudely at Hiram, “We would certainly not take it to court if you would make a little presentation of your magical arts—only naturally there should be nothing malignant about it,” he said in a mocking tone.

  Hiram did not look at him but rather he said to Lady Evans-Stuart: “Madame, if you would permit me to close the festivities of the day with some interesting presentations—”

  “Presentations? What sort of presentations?” Lady Evans-Stuart responded.

  “Projections—copies, tableaux, polychromes, whatever you call them.”

  “The fellow really is a charlatan,” the Hungarian thought to himself. “To devil with it, it must be that this charlatan is not the gray beast that has already thwarted me several times before—but I cannot deny a certain resemblance. A blunder, to devil with it, Lajos, you’ve been seeing ghosts again.”

  Even Captain Marcy was no longer as perplexed. “All of it is humbug!” he thought. “Our spirits were already agitated before he appeared—no wonder that such silly things were put into our heads. If we had not talked all afternoon about such mad nonsense, none of us would have been ready to see anything uncanny here—and that old man at the mouth of Cache Creek was just a spook of my imagination, conjured up by the tales of those two young people. As clear a head as mine, and me, the best mathematician in the United States Corps of Engineers, a hardened hunter of the purest mettle that I am—no, no, it is upsetting that they can dupe me so easily.” These were the captain’s thoughts.

  Hiram had risen from his place on the sofa.

  “Sir,” the old Scotswoman said quietly, “one of our esteemed guests has stepped away for a moment—please be so good as to delay your presentation until he returns.” Lady Evans-Stuart had in fact nodded her approval without really wanting to do so when Hiram had asked her permission to make a presentation.

  “You mean the prince of Württemberg?” Hiram asked with emphasis.

  “Yes,” the old Scotswoman responded with amazement.

  “He shall certainly not return,” Hiram continued. “I know that it was his intention to visit a physician.”

  It is not nice to say it, but an author must be loyal to truth—everyone dropped their jaws because Hiram knew of the prince and his intentions.

  There was a painful pause. Then the Hungarian abruptly rose and spoke, turning toward the place where the old Scotswoman was seated.

  “Madame, would you find it improper if I ask you to step outside for a moment with me?”

  At any other time than the present, Lady Evans-Stuart would have upbraided the Hungarian for such coarseness. But now she was happy to hear this direct request.

  “Absolutely not,” she responded, rising from the sofa. The Hungarian went with her to one of the large glass doors that led to the veranda.

  “Something exceedingly opportune, Madame,” and he made a movement with his hand toward the veranda.

  The Scotswoman mechanically went where he directed. Both of them stood outside. The Hungarian leaned over the iron railing, as did the Scotswoman. The Hungarian brought his face quite close to hers and whispered: “Madame, we must speak very quietly.”

  “Yes,” the Scotswoman said; she was so confused by what had happened that she believed she had to submit to everything and do everything the count demanded of her.

  “Everything is proceeding quite naturally, Madame—let the fellow do his magic tricks, and then permit me to throw him out of the house—”

  “Count, I beg your pardon, don’t do that—one cannot know—”

  “One can know perfectly well, Madame—but listen to what I really wanted to tell you: the prince of Württemberg and the captain are real cads—”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  “Let me speak, Madame, and listen to what I know for certain; the prince and the captain have sent this person to us—”

  “Great God, how did you come to such a notion, Count,” the Scotswoman interrupted the Hungarian with a shocked manner.

  “You are not speaking quietly enough, Madame.”

  “Yes—yes indeed, count!”

  “Well, then listen: the fact that the captain steered discussion this afternoon to his adventurous expedition as well as to someone called Hiram had been worked out in advanced between himself and the prince. They had won over this charlatan ahead of time—do you understand me?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe.”

  “He was to appear suddenly this evening at this command and announce himself by the name of Hiram—well, now do you understand me, Madame?”

  “In order to frighten us all?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I can hardly believe that the prince would stoop to such a prank in my house—”

  “Why not? Royal Highnesses are no better than other people. First the two of them heated our imaginations with their magic stories, and now they have him appear—that’s all!”

  Although the Scotswoman was upset about this supposed hoax by the prince and the captain, her face lightened at the thought that Hir
am was only a made-up charlatan who had been sent by the prince to scare the company.

  “Then it would be no marvel that he knew I expected the prince’s return.” After some thought she added, “But how did he know the prince was visiting a physician?”

  “That is one of this spook’s tricks of the trade, Madame—let’s calmly await the unfolding of matters, but let’s not let on. When we return to the salon, we must appear as if we are really afraid.”

  “I marvel at your penetration, count,” Lady Evans-Stuart said, and she was about to cross the threshold of the glass door when she grasped his arm and pulled him back out on the veranda.

  “Something further, Count, before we leave this place,” the old Scotswoman whispered.

  “Well, what is it?” the Hungarian asked in a quiet but incurious tone.

  “Two persons were announced and only one person has appeared—what does that mean, Count, what do you think?”

  The Hungarian thought a moment, then he asked: “Two? Yes, you’re right, I believe I recall that the Negro called out two names—what was the second?”

  “Sam—Sam—no, I have really forgotten the name …”

  “The name is of no importance, Madame—don’t torment your memory over it—but I believe this second person will really be the prince.”

  “Yes, that could be,” Lady Evans-Stuart agreed enthusiastically. “Perhaps he will come creeping out of some corner dressed as a ghost in order to cause more fright—no, no, that is just one of the prince’s bad jokes. I am only concerned about my dear guests—a sudden fright has often imperiled lives that were otherwise orderly and peaceful.”

  “Leave it be, Madame, I shall intervene at the proper moment.”

  “It would be a great relief to me to be able to rely on your discernment and presence of mind.”

  “Rest assured, Madame!” the Hungarian declared with utter confidence.

  Lady Evans-Stuart, who in her utter confusion had not thought to give a word of excuse to Hiram before she had stepped out of the salon with the Hungarian, was now friendliness and courtesy itself when she returned. Naturally this was nothing like petty-bourgeois friendliness and courtesy.

  The Hungarian threw himself into his armchair, and if he had been any closer to the table he could actually have put his legs up on it. He even seemed to be considering this, as he stretched out his legs to measure the distance. Anyone could imagine what would have been said, or rather not said but thought, if he had actually carried out this maneuver.

  Hiram, who had seated himself on the sofa after the Scotswoman had left the salon, received Lady Evans-Stuart’s apologies with short but fine phrases.

  Everyone was quite surprised with the Scotswoman’s conduct, which had earlier been so confused. It is obvious that everyone thought: “What sort of secret do Count Lajos and Lady Evans-Stuart have?”

  Lady Evans-Stuart looked at her watch, small but rich with rubies and pink diamonds, and said to Hiram: “It is five minutes to ten—his Royal Highness shall probably not return. Sir, your generous offer—we all will listen to your presentation with the greatest interest.”

  These words did not appear to make a good impression on those present, according to the long faces. They would have preferred to hear Lady Evans-Stuart tell the old man in an elegant fashion that he was superfluous.

  “I could marry the woman—she makes her points magnifique” the Hungarian said to himself. Then he leaned toward Frida and said softly to her: “Don’t say a word, my dear child—as quiet as possible when important things happen. Tell me, how do you like the knight of Calatrava?”

  “Lajos, that was not very fine of you—where did you put Lajos if this isn’t you?” Frida spoke these words quite clearly. If all the thoughts of those present had not been concentrated on Hiram, her statement would certainly have astonished everyone. As it was, only the Hungarian heard them.

  “What are you saying, child?” he said, “The Knight of Calatrava must have infected you—silly talk, what does it mean?”

  Frida’s conduct certainly would have continued to concern Lajos if his attention had not suddenly been drawn by a marvelous phenomenon.

  Long, narrow strips of mist were issuing from Hiram’s hands, which he had closed in fists. These strips floated in the direction of the salon door, whose wings had been pulled back, permitting a view of the outside. Now the mist hung before the opening, literally forming a white wall. At the same instant the most pleasant fragrance wafted through the entire salon.

  There was a universal “Ah!” of astonishment from the guests. Then there was the deepest silence for a few moments, followed by the most varied expressions of surprise and anxiety. All the lights had been suddenly extinguished, and they sat in the light of the moon, weakened by the drawn window curtains. If there had been no moon, no one could have recognized another, for the shimmering white wall of mist retained its own light and radiated none. It was necessary to produce some sort of light if one wished to operate a camera obscura. Hiram drew just such a device, absurdly small, from his vest pocket and placed it in front of the white, shimmering cloud wall.

  If those present had been astounded by the splendid manipulation of mist, particularly by the way the mist had fixed into a flat white wall in the salon doorway—even Lady Evans-Stuart and the Hungarian were not immune despite their conversation on the veranda—now that they recognized the thing the uncanny magician drew out to be a projector, some of the company did their best to suppress a smile.

  “I know that thing,” Claudine de Lesuire whispered to her aunt, “as a child we often played with it, only ours was bigger than his.”

  The baroness de Saint Marie agreed, but she still did not understand the strange trick with the mists and the unexpected dousing of all the lights in the house.

  The Hungarian, who now sat beside Lady Evans-Stuart on the sofa, said after drawing near to her: “Well, didn’t I tell you? A perfectly ordinary charlatan—a child’s game with a projector, whatever the old gray fool can think of. The fellow acts as if no one has ever seen one—I would love to throw him out of the house right now.”

  “That’s all well and good, Count,” the old Scotswoman hissed, “but the clouds, this remarkable, almost narcotic aroma—the extinction of the lights, so suddenly and without anyone approaching them?”

  “That’s nothing, Madame. The aroma, these strips of mist—it’s nothing but incense. I have seen it done by such mountebanks, often much better. The sudden extinction of the lights? Pah! We could do that, too, if we made preparations to give people a scare.”

  “I am ready!” Hiram interrupted the whispered, hidden mockery. “Lady Evans-Stuart, you have permitted me to close the celebration this evening in a proper fashion, with the presentation of a number of images that my art is capable of producing?”

  “Yes, yes indeed, sir!” the old Scotswoman replied, but with less certainty than she thought she could muster.

  “Promise me, Madame, and all who are here, to watch my presentation without the slightest interruption, in case—”

  “Sir, whoever you might be,” the Hungarian suddenly rose, “that is impertinent language! It should be enough for you that our worthy hostess has consented to show us your black magic show, which every child can see through—whether we interrupt you or not is not your concern.”

  “Count, calm down, I beg you, leave off—” the old Scotswoman said, as if she expected a nasty conflict. But Hiram did not appear concerned about the Hungarian’s words and continued in his dramatic, but not routinely dramatic, tone.

  “The total number of images I will show on that wall is a mere five, and they are gathered in my portfolio under the rubric, Mysteries of New Orleans.”

  First Image

  The Confederates of the Atchafalaya Bank

  (Hiram inserted the first slide.)

  Making a mockery of Newton’s De quadratura curvarum, the image that flashed on the white wall was an elongated rectangle, a stone colossus of wh
ich the audience could perceive nothing at first. Gradually, however, they saw that it was undergoing a metamorphosis—it moved, but what it was becoming was not yet clear. Was it becoming a mausoleum, a pyramid, or a fantastic sculpture? It could well be the last of these, for the straight lines turned into snakes, the flat sides generated curves that clashed with one another like ambitious gladiators. Then the squared forehead of this colossus sprouted a gable, the curves reconciled and united—columns grew from it, the shafts obtained heads, feet—a portico was complete. But it did not remain so for long. The columns moved, seeming to experience a new metamorphosis. They took on life, warm life—had Deucalion been reborn, or did Prometheus risk being punished a second time? These columns are people—not blond or red-haired, not Teutons, not Anglo-Saxons, not Romans, not Indians or Malays—they are Ethiopians, blacker than the storm clouds that chase one another around the head of Atlas, more beautiful than the children of Ophir and the Ivory Coast. These columns are men and women. What had been acanthus leaves has become woolly hair, the snails have become nourishing breasts, and the eggs and staves have become male generative organs, the inexhaustible sources of future power and greatness.

  This image belongs to the future; the present sees only the Atchafalaya Bank. Not everyone knows of Hiram and his confederates. Only Abigail, Sarah, old Cato, and the two little children; the two women and Cato are good-natured and grateful. They can never forget their benefactor, who freed them and cared for them to the end of their lives—but that is not enough. They lack the holy feeling for revenge, which has never arisen in them. Why should we alone be favored? Why had he, the benefactor of their race, sent Diana Robert? She watches over the two little ones, educating them in his sense. That can be seen inside the Atchafalaya Bank. To the eye of a superficial observer, however, the “allies” look like totally ordinary nigger folk—they do not see the gigantic columns with their threatening capitals.

  (The company was extremely bored by this first image, since they saw only the picture and not the meaning of the symbol. The Hungarian even made a bad joke about it.)