Charbonneau - Winfred Blevins

by Winfred Blevins

  Then, in early May, she had a houseguest for five days--a Dutch mathematician she said she’d known for many years. She introduced him at her Sunday salon, and people said he was celebrated. He was a man of perhaps forty-five with a severe face and a hawklike nose, the kind of face that has seen and been through too much. Baptiste disliked him. At the salon Baptiste whispered to Sophie that he wanted to come over late that night. "Not until Henryk leaves," she said simply, "on Tuesday." Baptiste left the house in a pique.

  He could not believe he was jealous. He would not believe it. But he did wonder whether they were lovers. She told him nothing of her other involvements, would never speak of them, he knew. He supposed he was jealous.

  On Tuesday night, though, everything seemed the same. From then on he felt when he was with her as he always had, and nothing else mattered. When he was not with her, when he saw her at the theatre with someone else or watched her talking with a man at her salons, he felt a kind of helpless rage. It was as though he had two separate sets of feelings, unrelated. But he would catch himself walking down a street on an errand, inexplicably angry without knowing why.

  One night in bed he said to her bluntly "Let’s marry." She waited, but he said nothing more.

  "Don’t spoil it," she said.

  He started to answer, but she put her hand over his mouth and then kissed him. Later that night, for the first time he could remember, lovemaking was painful and left him edgy.

  JUNE 2: Baptiste’s diary: "A note from Paul today requesting my company for dinner and mentioning a proposed trip to England for some weeks--he is related to the Royal House there in some way, a puzzle I have never been able to unravel. It is an invitation which leaves Sternenstein little choice, as there is something of the well-loved slave in his position. I will miss Sophie--if indeed Sophie and I are still lovers by then; I sometimes wonder what future we have."

  JUNE 5: "Prince Paul presented me with a most handsome gift, another birthday present which he said had been some time in the making: a harmonica of teak, mahogany, and silver, with Jean-Baptiste Charbonneau engraved in florid script on the silver. The new ones were introduced in Vienna only three years ago; mine has a button which changes the key of the instrument and thereby augments the tonal possibilities. I was highly gratified. I played for him some American and French-Canadian folk tunes, and we talked of old times in America. I do think of it sometimes. We’re off to England in three weeks."

  JUNE 9: "Le sauvage naïf seems to be spending less time courting Sophie, which is probably just as well. Today I drank the afternoon away with Karlheinz in a Schenke and drank the evening away in the company of high-class whores. Karlheinz loves to dally with them even when he doesn’t feel like bedding; tonight their presence spurred him to one of his finest mock-philosophical orations, this time in the style of Descartes. He and Sternenstein drink too much, but in that particular company we are still favored."

  JUNE 14: "An accomplishment: Le sauvage naïf today gained an earnest compliment from Herr Kapellmeister for his application to his musical studies. I have the rudiments of harmony, and demonstrated today that I can harmonize certain hymns, songs of the common people, and drinking songs. I now try my hand at small compositions--rounds, canons, short songs. What a surprise I would be to General Clark, to Coco, and to the awful Mme. Berthold."

  JUNE 22: "This afternoon Sophie and I went walking to the river to see the steamboat. Standing on the high bank, I asked her again to marry me. She said no; the answer seemed quick, firm, light. She smiled slightly when she said it, and I thought looked a little sad; then she took my hand. On the way back we stopped at a cottage to talk with an old man who was working in his garden. He gave us a short lecture on the plants--their roots, their tubers, their sproutings, their leaves, their pollen--far more than I ever wanted to know about plants. He seemed completely absorbed with the fact that they struggle to live and thrive, and that, with his help, they succeed. As we moved on, Sophie pronounced herself touched. A moment later she put her head on my shoulder and her arm around me and said seriously, 'Baptiste, this is everything there is. This happiness. This now. Take it, and don’t look for possession.’ That, I suppose, is all the answer I shall have to my proposal. I feel on the edge of bitterness."

  JUNE 26: "What do you think, wise reader? Is Sophie playing le sauvage naïf for a fool? Does she not mean for us to play like healthy young animals while we are in the flower of life so that she, when a little faded in bloom, can marry some fellow who is rich, respectable, titled, and white? Or have you known this already for many pages?"

  JUNE 28: "Sophie invited me to the house today, took me most tenderly, lovingly, and later passionately to bed, and then told me it was the last time. What else is there to say? The Prince and I leave for England day after next."

  Sissinghurst Castle

  August 7, 1825

  Mlle. Coco Berthold

  Main Street

  St. Louis

  State of Missouri

  United States of America

  My dear Coco--

  I beg your forgiveness for having been so long delinquent in writing to you; I am, you may be sure, ashamed not to have sent you a letter these eighteen months when I promised periodic accounts of my adventures.

  I am now some four weeks in England, and at present am a guest with the Prince in his castle in Kent. I well know you and your family have no great love for the English, and I have learned to have none as well: They are tedious. The days in England are an endless procession of gray skies and muggy heat. The best one can say of the people is that they are careful, measured, and dignified. They have neither dash nor style, no sense of fun; but cut all their feelings in half. Never fascinated, they are only curious; never outraged, they are merely miffed; never exultant--merely gratified. Do you remember the impertinent fun and gay times we used to have? They would think it unseemly. It is precisely the sort of country to have led the fight against Napoleon and to have driven Lord Byron into exile, and perhaps to an untimely death.

  They understand so bold and heroic a figure as Napoleon not at all. Of the English only Byron has caught him on the proper scale--do you know the verses? "Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones,/ Whose table earth--whose dice were human bones. "

  Paul spends his time here either consulting with professors of natural history or having leisurely chats with his various royal relations. I have been bored, but have used the time to grasp something of English history: I am fascinated by Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Scott, but don’t understand the reverence for Elizabeth, and I find Cromwell quite distasteful. Byron interests me ever more; Don Juan seems a masterwork, and I am posting you a copy when I post this letter. In it are two of my favorite couplets:

  Society is now one polish ’d horde,

  Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

  Oh, you lords of ladies intellectual,

  I know your wives hen peck you all.

  The words apply to the English most aptly.

  In Stuttgart I did attend Württemberg University; though I confess that I did not apply myself to the Roman history, Latin, military theory, & etc., I have, however, labored assiduously at my musical studies: I have been playing the musical compositions of Mozart and Beethoven (Germany’s most celebrated living composer) at the pianoforte, which to me is much superior in sound and expressive range to the harpsichord; I have also composed a song or two, and look forward to testing their worth against your discriminating judgment if I may be allowed to play and sing them for you in the future.

  It has been my privilege to be in the company of some of the luminous figures of the two countries in which I have been living: King William of Württemberg, naturally, as I lived in the castle, and the Queen and Queen Mother; here in England, most of the royal family, though that was a mere presentation out of courtesy and I did not speak much with them. I have made some friends in Stuttgart, including a fellow student and a young woman several years o
ur senior. She fascinates all who know her: Manners being less restrictive here, she dresses and comports herself in somewhat masculine style, and is not retreating and obsequious in the way women are taught to be. She is now engaged in writing a satiric novel, normally the province of a man. As she counts among her acquaintance many of the principal artists and intellectuals of Württemberg, and indeed of Europe, so I have been privileged to meet them as well. Romanticisme, as it was named by the brilliant Mme. de Stael, is all the rage in Europe; it is sure to have its foolish aspects, but I believe that it is a powerful force and liberating, and one day it will change all of the Western world; even in St. Louis it will make people more nearly free men than they are, and I look forward to that day.

  I have spoken enough of myself for now, and eagerly await your response. I hope (and believe) that this letter finds you well. Is your family prospering? Are you engaged or married (do not be coy with me, good friend)? Please send all the news posthaste. I am, mademoiselle

  Yrs. respectfully

  Jean-Baptiste Charbonneau

  Stuttgart, September 30, 1825

  General Wm Clark, Superintendent

  Bureau of Indian Affairs

  St. Louis

  State of Missouri

  United States of America

  Sir:

  I have just received your letter on return from a journey to England; my most humble apologies for my failure to send you an account of myself and my activities long since.

  I matriculated at Württemberg University, the university of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a year ago, and have made some progress in my studies, especially my musical studies, of which I am very fond. You have often recalled to me that you named me "Dancing Boy" when I was but an infant on the great Expedition; perhaps you then perceived my predilection for music, which now evinces itself so strongly.

  In England this summer, where Prince Paul was kind enough to present me to the royal family, I witnessed an event that may be of considerable interest to you: The British opened the first locomotive-powered railway line, between Stockton and Darlington. This railway employs cars that run on tracks, as in the coal mines; but rather than being drawn by mules or horses, they are pulled by a Locomotive, an engine car that is powered by steam. In this manner the cars may be moved much more rapidly than before; and the British carry passengers on this railway. It is much anticipated here that before the lapse of many years the railway will become a principal mode of transportation for people and goods through all of Europe. The drawback, which does not apply to the steamboat, is the necessity of putting down metal tracks on which the cars may run; but the railway may go anywhere. This invention may become of importance to U.S. commerce, and I imagine that you will be interested to hear of it, if the newspapers have not heretofore carried the news.

  The main gratification of my eighteen months here is the numerous friends whom I have made, both in intellectual and artistic circles and in society. I do not find my blood a hindrance here; perhaps it is an advantage, in that many people of consequence wish to meet me, at least for curiosity, which I confess can be loathsome. Society is not strict in Europe, however, and men of color seem to be regarded as men. I was even able to initiate an affiaire of the heart with a prominent young woman; alas, it has come to naught, but I do not believe its termination had to do with my race. Therefore I see opportunity here from which ignorant prejudice bars me in St. Louis.

  I regret, then, that I must answer your question about my possible return to the U.S. negatively for the present. My feeling at this time is that, as long as Prince Paul wishes me to reside as his guest in Stuttgart or his companion in his travels, I will stay on here and try to discover a place for myself in the world.

  I remain deeply grateful to you, the single person most responsible for my being given opportunities seldom afforded to members of my race. I look forward to hearing from you, sir, about the welfare of your family and yourself and the news of the city where I passed twelve significant years. Your humble and obed’t. svt.,

  Jean--Baptiste Charbonneau

  Fez, August 30, 1826

  Karlheinz von Sternberg

  Württemberg University

  Stuttgart

  Württemberg

  My Dear friend:

  Your Stemenstein has some leisure just now here in Fez; the Prince is busily engaged in final preparations for our caravan to the interior. I know nothing of the real North Africa as yet; we have not approached the Atlas Mountains nor the Sahara Desert, neither have we met with the primitive tribesmen who inhabit those places. I am but slightly acquainted with this city, the capital of the Sultanate, but am more acquainted than I would wish to be with the Moorish city of Tangier. However, I must write you now or not at all for some months, as the interior is quite beyond reach of postal services.

  Tangier is a city twice conquered. Centuries ago, the native Berber people held sway in this country; but Moorish sultans took dominion from them. These Sultans still rule, and the vast majority of the people are Moors, Berbers making up an oppressed class. (I have not yet made the acquaintance of anyone of mixed blood, to discover the fate of half-breeds in this land!) Effectively, however, the French have great influence here; for what small commerce there is, the French govern; there is report of approaching French rule.

  One cannot imagine that it matters who governs here and who is governed; the people are desperately poor and ill, and Tangier is the most repugnant city it has been my ill luck to visit. Beggars line the streets endlessly, sitting against the walls, seldom if ever moving, and ignored by everyone. They sometimes seem to be shadows or spirits instead of people. When they do move, to cry out for a small coin, they plead their case by pulling back their robes to show the most grotesque sores and deformities. Some have no noses, others neither mouths nor hands nor feet; leprosy has maimed them. Many are missing hands that were chopped off in punishment for theft; many have syphilitic sores; I have see one old man with a scrotum swollen to the size of his head, and swinging between his knees. Altogether this place is a phantasmagoria of the grotesque, far more bizarre and gruesome than the pale imaginings of our Gothic novelists. Removed from the land on which they must have once sustained themselves, gathered into cities that yet have not the employment that European cities offer, these wretches live in the worst of two worlds. The North American Indian, regarded as "backward," has a life that makes sustenance, responsibility for oneself; and dignity possible. These backward people have no hint of the worthiness of their own persons.

  They do gravitate toward a certain way out: Hashish, when they can get it; delirium from their illnesses also provides a kind of relief. In either case many live in lotus land, and are said to fade into death scarcely noting a change. Also their near neighbors often do not heed their departure from life--not until they smell the bodies. Surely the tribesmen of the interior, hunters and goatherds, cannot be so abject as the dwellers of Tangier.

  Day after tomorrow we set out, if all goes according to plan. Paul and I will be mounted on dromedaries, light, fleet camels bred especially for riding; with us will be several of the Moors, an interpreter, a guide, plus drovers; and we shall have some camels and burros as pack animals. Perhaps it will be like many expeditions I have made on the Great Plains of the American States. I anticipate with great eagerness seeing you next winter, and sharing a bottle of a vintage that will help me to forget the local potions.

  Yours ever in friendship,

  le sauvage naïf

  SEPTEMBER 20 (Baptiste’s diary): "We have been riding for some days now on high plateaus of grassland, with mountains sometimes visible to the southwest. It is an odd country, and has a strange effect on the mind. One moves as though through an illusion of time. Every morning the sun rises, a sun identical to yesterday’s in a cloudless sky over a featureless plain; every noon it stands overhead and scorches even the shadows away, raising waves of heat that blur the horizons; every evening it sets behind high mountains to the west. During
the day we pass a few words, mostly the same ones; Paul notes in his journal that the vegetation is the same; we take three meals and a noon rest; the camels and burros plod so many steps forward. Yet nothing at all has changed. We might be on some vast treadmill, creating the illusion of movement in a landscape that moves by without any shift in its character, an endless repetition of the same hills, ravines, and far-stretching grass; a sort of cosmic joke."

  ABOUT OCTOBER 1: "Still no change. I have been bored with this arid land; I have been awed, perhaps even frightened by it; I have been intrigued with it: It is a place where men are made to feel that they count for little, a place too mammoth for human beings."

  ABOUT OCTOBER 5: "Gradually, grassland has been transformed into the greater aridity of high desert. We are moving down an immense, high, flat valley flanked by mountains running parallel on each side, the ones on the south edging the great Sahara itself The terrain has shifted from the gray of parched grass and shrub to the red, tawny, and yellow of desert earth and rock. Grass grows in occasional clumps, like camel droppings, at random. The mountains on either side jut straight up; looking at them, Sternenstein tried to feel the gargantuan force of their lift toward the sky; he failed but the idea excited him.

  They have a kind of poetry, these mountains, a poetry utterly unlike anything in books. Its rhythm is the hard, firm rhythm of rock itself, drawing lines against the sky; its feeling is austere, harsh, serenely distant, enigmatically itself I hesitate to put more words to it. In the last two hours before the sun fades, the red and yellow rock radiates a violent glow of pink, as though it, and not the sun, were the source of that rose light. It makes one marvel."