The Grandissimes
Page 43
CHAPTER XLII
AN INHERITANCE OF WRONG
"I tell you," Doctor Keene used to say, "that old woman's a thinker."His allusion was to Clemence, the _marchande des calas_. Her mentalactivity was evinced not more in the cunning aptness of her songs thanin the droll wisdom of her sayings. Not the melody only, but the oftenaudacious, epigrammatic philosophy of her tongue as well, sold her_calas_ and gingercakes.
But in one direction her wisdom proved scant. She presumed too much onher insignificance. She was a "study," the gossiping circle atFrowenfeld's used to say; and any observant hearer of her odd aphorismscould see that she herself had made a life-study of herself and herconditions; but she little thought that others--some with wits and somewith none--young hare-brained Grandissimes, Mandarins and the like--weresilently, and for her most unluckily, charging their memories with herknowing speeches; and that of every one of those speeches she wouldultimately have to give account.
Doctor Keene, in the old days of his health, used to enjoy an occasionalskirmish with her. Once, in the course of chaffering over the price of_calas_, he enounced an old current conviction which is not withoutholders even to this day; for we may still hear it said by those whowill not be decoyed down from the mountain fastnesses of the oldSouthern doctrines, that their slaves were "the happiest people underthe sun." Clemence had made bold to deny this with argumentativeindignation, and was courteously informed in retort that she hadpromulgated a falsehood of magnitude.
"W'y, Mawse Chawlie," she replied, "does you s'pose one po' nigga kintell a big lie? No, sah! But w'en de whole people tell w'at ain' so--ifdey know it, aw if dey don' know it--den dat _is_ a big lie!" And shelaughed to contortion.
"What is that you say?" he demanded, with mock ferocity. "You chargewhite people with lying?"
"Oh, sakes, Mawse Chawlie, no! De people don't mek up dat ah; de debblepass it on 'em. Don' you know de debble ah de grett cyount'-feiteh?Ev'y piece o' money he mek he tek an' put some debblemen' on de underside, an' one o' his pootiess lies on top; an' 'e gilt dat lie, and 'erub dat lie on 'is elbow, an' 'e shine dat lie, an' 'e put 'is besslicks on dat lie; entel ev'ybody say: 'Oh, how pooty!' An' dey tek itfo' good money, yass--and pass it! Dey b'lieb it!"
"Oh," said some one at Doctor Keene's side, disposed to quiz, "youniggers don't know when you are happy."
"Dass so, Mawse--_c'est vrai, oui_!" she answered quickly: "we donno nomo'n white folks!"
The laugh was against him.
"Mawse Chawlie," she said again, "w'a's dis I yeh 'bout dat Eu'opecountry? 's dat true de niggas is all free in Eu'ope!"
Doctor Keene replied that something like that was true.
"Well, now, Mawse Chawlie, I gwan t' ass you a riddle. If dat is _so_,den fo' w'y I yeh folks bragg'n 'bout de 'stayt o' s'iety in Eu'ope'?"
The mincing drollery with which she used this fine phrase broughtanother peal of laughter. Nobody tried to guess.
"I gwan tell you," said the _marchande_; "'t is becyaze dey got a 'fixedwuckin' class.'" She sputtered and giggled with the general ha, ha. "Oh,ole Clemence kin talk proctah, yass!"
She made a gesture for attention.
"D' y' ebber yeh w'at de cya'ge-hoss say w'en 'e see de cyaht-hoss tu'nloose in de sem pawstu'e wid he, an' knowed dat some'ow de cyaht gottehbe haul'? W'y 'e jiz snawt an' kick up 'is heel'"--she suited the actionto the word--"an' tah' roun' de fiel' an' prance up to de fence an' say:'Whoopy! shoo! shoo! dis yeh country gittin' _too_ free!'"
"Oh," she resumed, as soon as she could be heard, "white folks is werrykine. Dey wants us to b'lieb we happy--dey _wants to b'lieb_ we is. W'y,you know, dey 'bleeged to b'lieb it--fo' dey own cyumfut. 'Tis de semweh wid de preache's; dey buil' we ow own sep'ate meet'n-houses; deyb'liebs us lak it de bess, an' dey _knows_ dey lak it de bess."
The laugh at this was mostly her own. It is not a laughable sight to seethe comfortable fractions of Christian communities everywhere striving,with sincere, pious, well-meant, criminal benevolence, to make theirpoor brethren contented with the ditch. Nor does it become so to seethese efforts meet, or seem to meet, some degree of success. Happily mancannot so place his brother that his misery will continue unmitigated.You may dwarf a man to the mere stump of what he ought to be, and yet hewill put out green leaves. "Free from care," we benignly observe of thedwarfed classes of society; but we forget, or have never thought, what acrime we commit when we rob men and women of their cares.
To Clemence the order of society was nothing. No upheaval could reach tothe depth to which she was sunk. It is true, she was one of thepopulation. She had certain affections toward people and places; butthey were not of a consuming sort.
As for us, our feelings, our sentiments, affections, etc., are fine andkeen, delicate and many; what we call refined. Why? Because we get themas we get our old swords and gems and laces--from our grandsires,mothers, and all. Refined they are--after centuries of refining. But thefeelings handed down to Clemence had come through ages of Africansavagery; through fires that do not refine, but that blunt and blast andblacken and char; starvation, gluttony, drunkenness, thirst, drowning,nakedness, dirt, fetichism, debauchery, slaughter, pestilence and therest--she was their heiress; they left her the cinders of humanfeelings. She remembered her mother. They had been separated in herchildhood, in Virginia when it was a province. She remembered, withpride, the price her mother had brought at auction, and remarked, as anadditional interesting item, that she had never seen or heard of hersince. She had had children, assorted colors--had one with her now, theblack boy that brought the basil to Joseph; the others were here andthere, some in the Grandissime households or field-gangs, some elsewherewithin occasional sight, some dead, some not accounted for.Husbands--like the Samaritan woman's. We know she was a constant singerand laugher.
And so on that day, when Honore Grandissime had advised theGovernor-General of Louisiana to be very careful to avoid demonstrationof any sort if he wished to avert a street war in his little capital,Clemence went up one street and down another, singing her song andlaughing her professional merry laugh. How could it be otherwise? Letevents take any possible turn, how could it make any difference toClemence? What could she hope to gain? What could she fear to lose? Shesold some of her goods to Casa Calvo's Spanish guard and sang them aSpanish song; some to Claiborne's soldiers and sang them Yankee Doodlewith unclean words of her own inspiration, which evoked true soldiers'laughter; some to a priest at his window, exchanging with him a piouscomment or two upon the wickedness of the times generally and theirAmericain Protestant-poisoned community in particular; and (after goinghome to dinner and coming out newly furnished) she sold some more of herwares to the excited groups of Creoles to which we have had occasion toallude, and from whom, insensible as she was to ribaldry, she was gladto escape. The day now drawing to a close, she turned her steps towardher wonted crouching-place, the willow avenue on the levee, near thePlace d'Armes. But she had hardly defined this decision clearly in hermind, and had but just turned out of the rue St. Louis, when her songattracted an ear in a second-story room under whose window she waspassing. As usual, it was fitted to the passing event:
"_Apportez moi mo' sabre, Ba boum, ba boum, boum, boum_."
"Run, fetch that girl here," said Dr. Keene to the slave woman who hadjust entered his room with a pitcher of water.
"Well, old eavesdropper," he said, as Clemence came, "what is thescandal to-day?"
Clemence laughed.
"You know, Mawse Chawlie, I dunno noth'n' 'tall 'bout nobody. I'se anigga w'at mine my own business."
"Sit down there on that stool, and tell me what is going on outside."
"I d' no noth'n' 'bout no goin's on; got no time fo' sit down, me; gotsell my cakes. I don't goin' git mix' in wid no white folks's doin's."
"Hush, you old hypocrite; I will buy all your cakes. Put them out thereon the table."
The invalid, sitting up in bed, drew a purse from behind his pillow andtossed her a large price. She tittered, courtesied
and receivedthe money.
"Well, well, Mawse Chawlie, 'f you ain' de funni'st gen'leman I knows,to be sho!"
"Have you seen Joseph Frowenfeld to-day?" he asked.
"He, he, he! W'at I got do wid Mawse Frowenfel'? I goes on de off sideo' sich folks--folks w'at cann' 'have deyself no bette'n dat--he, he,he! At de same time I did happen, jis chancin' by accident, to see 'im."
"How is he?"
Dr. Keene made plain by his manner that any sensational account wouldreceive his instantaneous contempt, and she answered within bounds.
"Well, now, tellin' the simple trufe, he ain' much hurt."
The doctor turned slowly and cautiously in bed.
"Have you seen Honore Grandissime?"
"W'y--das funny you ass me dat. I jis now see 'im dis werry minnit."
"Where?"
"Jis gwine into de house wah dat laydy live w'at 'e runned over dat ahtime."
"Now, you old hag," cried the sick man, his weak, husky voice tremblingwith passion, "you know you're telling me a lie."
"No, Mawse Chawlie," she protested with a coward's frown, "I swah Itellin' you de God's trufe!"
"Hand me my clothes off that chair."
"Oh! but, Mawse Chawlie--"
The little doctor cursed her. She did as she was bid, and made as if toleave the room.
"Don't you go away."
"But Mawse Chawlie, you' undress'--he, he!"
She was really abashed and half frightened.
"I know that; and you have got to help me put my clothes on."
"You gwan kill yo'se'f, Mawse Chawlie," she said, handling a garment.
"Hold your black tongue."
She dressed him hastily, and he went down the stairs of hislodging-house and out into the street. Clemence went in search ofher master.