The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West
Page 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
A LOUISIAN LANDSCAPE.
Life in the chamber of an invalid--who cares to listen to its details?They can interest no one--scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a dailyroutine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections--a monotony,broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the beingI loved. At such moments I was no longer _ennuye_; my spirit escapedfrom its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemedan Elysium.
Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes' duration, while theintervals between them were hours--long hours--so long, I fancied themdays. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion.Neither ever came alone!
There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. Myconversation was with the _Creole_, my thoughts dwelt upon the_Quadroon_. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquetterestrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the worldcould not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent butexpressive language.
Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given bystealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fearthat their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by theQuadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by theCreole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamtthat they might awaken jealousy--I thought not of such a thing. Eugeniewas sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm toneof voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shockoccasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced acomplete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of hermind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her.From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was notthe less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of thestatue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of astill rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and,strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rathergratified me!
How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Did _she_ loveme? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fondeagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; butnot a word dare I exchange with _her_, although my heart was longing toyield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betrayme. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn anddespise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!
I understood this feeling well--this black crime of her nation. Whatwas it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities whichI at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? Butunder that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes ofLove, rank loses its fictitious charm--titles seem trivial things. Forme, Beauty wears the crown.
So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if thewhole world had known of my love--not a straw for its scorn. But therewere other considerations--the courtesy due to hospitality--tofriendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but stillgraver nature--the promptings of _prudence_. The situation in which Iwas placed was most peculiar, and I knew it. I knew that my passion,even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. Talk of making love toa young miss closely watched by governess or guardian--a ward inChancery--an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but "child's play"to break through the _entourage_ that surrounds one of such. Toscribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with thebold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!
My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely tobe a rugged one.
Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours ofmy convalescence passed pleasantly enough. Everything was furnished methat could contribute to my comfort or recovery. Ices, deliciousdrinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me.For my dishes I was indebted to the skill of Scipio's helpmate, Chloe,and through her I became acquainted with the Creole delicacies of"gumbo", "fish chowder," fricasseed frogs, hot "waffles," stewedtomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisiana _cuisine_. From thehands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of "roasted 'possum,"and went even so far as to taste a "'coon steak,"--but only once, and Iregarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples abouteating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part ofone at a single sitting!
By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs oflife upon a Louisiana plantation. "Ole Zip" was my instructor, as hecontinued to be my constant attendant. When Scipio's talk tired me, Ihad recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,)filled the little book-case in my apartment. I found among them nearlyevery work that related to Louisiana--a proof of rare judgment on thepart of whoever had made the collection. Among others, I read thegraceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz. In theformer I could not help remarking that want of _vraisemblance_ which, inmy opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever beabsent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes notknown to him by actual observation.
With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childishexaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. This remarkapplies, without exception, to all the old writers on Americansubjects--whether English, Spanish, or French--the chroniclers oftwo-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough toswallow both horse and rider! Indeed, it is difficult to conceive howthese old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but itmust be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced "toaudit their accounts."
More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures andmelancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering thatAmerican writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the bravechevalier--surely the most picturesque passage in their early history--the story and the scene equally inviting.
"The scene! Ah! lovely indeed!"
With such an exclamation did I hail it, when, for the first time, I satat my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.
The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; andseated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautifulFrench curtains thrown back, I commanded an extended view of thecountry.
A gorgeous picture it presented. The pencil of the painter couldscarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring.
My window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow floodbefore my face, its ripples glittering like gold. On its farther shoreI can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of thesugar-cane, easily distinguished from the tobacco-plant, of darker hue.Upon the bank of the river, and nearly opposite, stands a noble mansion,something in the style of an Italian villa, with green Venetians andverandah. It is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whosefrondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance. Nomountains meet the view--there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; butthe tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of thesky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.
On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consistsprincipally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besancon.Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species oftrees that form the shrubbery. I observe the _Magnolia_, with largewhite wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giant _nympha_ ofGuiana. Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead areseen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowersthemselves.
Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her inbeauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovelyexotic, a native of Orient climes--though here long naturalised. Itslarge doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green,--for both shadesare observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging inaxillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellowch
erry-like fruits--some of which are already formed,--all point out itsspecies. It is one of the _meliaceae_, or honey-trees,--the"Indian-lilac," or "Pride of China" (_Melia azedarach_). Thenomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicatesthe estimation in which it is held. "Tree of Pre-eminence," lays thepoetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; "Tree of Paradise" (_Arborde Paraiso_), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. Suchare its titles.
Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. Among theformer I behold the "catalpa," with its silvery bark and trumpet-shapedblossoms; the "Osage orange," with its dark shining leaves; and the redmulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits.Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (_Psidiumpyriferum_), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; thetamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles ofpale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy--"thequeen who carries her crown upon her bosom"--and the legendary butflowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising asa standard to the height of thirty feet.
Scarcely exotic are the _yuccas_, with their spherical heads of sharpradiating blades; scarcely exotic the _cactacea_, of varied forms--forspecies of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among theflora of a not far-distant region.
The scene before my window is not one of still life. Over the shrubberyI can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside ofthese runs the Levee road. Although the foliage hinders me from a fullview of the road itself, I see at intervals the people passing along it.In the dress of the Creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and thehats are usually palmetto, or "grass," or the costlier Panama, withbroad sun-protecting brims. Now and then a negro gallops past, turbanedlike a Turk; for the chequered Madras "toque" has much the appearance ofthe Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. Nowand then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies intheir gossamer summer-dresses. I hear their clear ringing laughter; andI know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. The travellersupon the road--the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting theirchorus songs--occasionally a boat booming past on the river--morefrequently a flat silently floating downward--a "keel," or a raft withits red-shirted crew--are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.
Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around mywindow. The mock-bird (_Turdus polyglotta_) pipes from the top of thetallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (_Turdus migratorius_),half intoxicated with the berries of the _melia_, rivals him in hissweet song. The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold redcardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lowershrubbery.
Now and then I catch a glimpse of the "ruby-throat," coming and goinglike the sparkle of a gem. Its favourite haunt is among the red andscentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossomsof the _bignonia_.
Such was the view from the window of my chamber. I thought I neverbeheld so fair a scene. Perhaps I was not looking upon it with animpartial eye. The love-light was in my glance, and that may haveimparted to it a portion of its _couleur de rose_. I could not lookupon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alonewas wanted to make the picture perfect.