for “_mon déjeuner_” every morning, long before it was time for anybody’s
breakfast. I think the bond of friendship that existed between _le vieux_
Lafiton and Dr. Doussan must have been that they came from the same
province in France. Most nights, Sundays as well, “_mon voisin_,” as the
doctor called him, came for a game at cards. Long after my supper was
served on a tray, and I was safely tucked into bed, madame presided at
a banquet of gumbo, _jumbalaya_ and salad, with their beloved Bordeaux,
which was spread for the old gentlemen. Lafiton had straggling locks of
white hair, falling over the collar of his great coat, reminding me of
the picture of Little Nell’s grandfather, and the home of the Lafitons
carried out the simile, for it was as melancholy and cheerless as any
“Old Curiosity Shop” could be. There were two bright, capable girls in
it, though, who never knew or saw anything better than the rickety old
house, way up on stilts, that they lived in. There they stitched and
darned and mended and patched all day (Creole women are not lazy), and
managed to make a creditable appearance for an afternoon promenade on the
levee.
The two grown sons caught driftwood and fish, and when they tired
of that exertion made crawfish nets. (_En parenthèse_, when I had a
fifteenth birthday, Pete, the long-legged one, gave me a finger ring he
had made of the tooth of a shell comb.) They did not own a skiff, much
less a horse or _voiture_. For ever so long I thought Mme. Lafiton had
chronic toothache, or some trouble in her jaws, for she always wore a
handkerchief over her head, tied under the chin, and also a look of
discomfort. In time I discovered that style of headdress, and that
troubled smile, were peculiarly her own, and did not signify anything in
particular.
We had other neighbors less picturesque than those I have mentioned.
Madame had a cousin living quite near, who had, as had all Creole women
in those days, a great flock of children. The Dubroca family seemed to
be fairly well-to-do. Mr. Dubroca was sugar-maker for a nearby planter.
Madame and her daughter Alzire were thrifty, hospitable and kindly. The
sons, as they grew up, were sent to schools and colleges. Madame was a
sister of Mrs. (Judge) Eustis of New Orleans, both being daughters of
Valèrie Allain, a planter of means, whose property when divided among his
children did not amount to much for each.
That brings me to the Favrot family. Judge Favrot was a prominent
citizen of the parish, and his son, a law student when I knew him, was
much above the average. I scarce should mention this family that I saw
almost daily and knew so well in connection with the obscure Creoles of
the simpler life that I met and knew quite as intimately. The judge, and
his son, were violinists. It was no unusual thing for him to play dance
music for us, accommodating old gentleman that he was! We always had to
adjourn to Lafiton’s to “trip the light fantastic,” for there was a great
barn of a room, with bare floor, and no furniture to mention, which they
called _le salon_.
Mme. Doussan often visited friends, by rowboat, on the opposite side of
the river. She felt the responsibility of the care of the young girls,
so strangely placed in her hands, so she never embarked on her frequent
visits by boat or _voiture_ without the company of one she might have
esteemed an incumbrance if I had not already been received into the holy
of holies of her loving heart.
There were two families of Choppins we saw frequently. The daughter of
one, quite a child then, became at a later date wife of Dauphin. The
eldest son of the other Choppin family, a youth of less than twenty, was
already studying medicine in the office of a country town doctor. We saw
much of him, the bright, attractive fellow! as he used to row himself
over to the impromptu dances in the Lafiton salon. Later his ambition
carried him to Paris, and later still he returned, a distinguished
physician and surgeon, to New Orleans. He was a devoted citizen also.
None who heard his impassioned address, and his rendering in thrilling
tones the inspiring “_Aux Armes! Citoyens_” of the Marseillaise from the
steps of Clay’s monument, on Canal street, at the beginning of the war,
ever forgot it.
Madame and I often visited other families in Baton Rouge, the Bonnecazes,
Lanoues, Huguets and so on. As I remember, all lived over or in the
rear of their shops. Very many families lived over shops in those
days, not always over their own shops either. John Winthrop, a scion
of the Massachusetts John Winthrop, and his aristocratic family lived
over Symes’ lace store, on Royal street in New Orleans. There was a
shoemaker’s establishment on the ground floor of the Miltenberger
residence. My father’s family lived over an exchange broker’s office on
Canal Street. In 1842, when a mob raided, or threatened to raid, banks
and exchange brokers’ offices, the strong box of the firm in our basement
was conveyed to my mother for safekeeping. But this was in New Orleans,
and I see I am wandering from my Creole friends on the coast, where I
delighted to visit with _ma chère madame_.
Twice during that lovely six months’ episode of my life, escorted by the
doctor, we boarded the fascinating _Belle Creole_ and made longer flights
and longer visits to relatives of madame living beyond a voiture’s
possibilities. Once it was to spend a few days with the Valcour Aimes at
their incomparable home; at another time we had two never-to-be-forgotten
days at Sosthène Allain’s, where I met two sweet girls of my own age.
Then and there began a friendship that continued through our young
ladyhood. We were three inseparable companions until three weddings
sent us (as is the nature of things) on divergent paths. Celeste went
to Paris, so remote then that she was practically lost to us. I do not
suppose a single one of those who made those six months of my girlhood
so happy is living to-day. Some have left no descendants; I do not know
who has or who has not, but I pay this tribute to the Creole simple life,
that seems in the retrospect almost ideal, and no episode of my checkered
life is sweeter to recall.
Dr. Doussan was a botanist. His garden was the mecca of all lovers of
plant life. I imagine it was excelled only by the noted grounds of the
Valcour Aimes. Fruit and vegetables were sent daily in a skiff to the
town market. _Ma chère madame_, in her black silk _blouse volante_ and
her cap, with stiff, fluted frill tied under the chin, often let me
help her make the formal little bouquets for the market, the dear old
stiff bouquets, flat as a plate and nestling in a frill of lace paper!
The doctor spent hours in his cabinet with his botanical treasures.
Daily I was summoned to read to him his _Paris Journal_, and to write a
composition. No teacher could have been more painstaking; no scholar more
appreciative.
Early in 1847 a nephew of the doctor’s arrived from France, a dapper,
Frenchified youth of eighteen. The Doussans were childless, but they
had adopted a young girl. At the time of which I write she was about my
age, and was being educated at Sacré Cœur Convent. She was home only for
Easter vacation. No one told me, no one even hinted it, but I intuitively
understood that a _mariage de convenance_ was planned for the dapper
young Frenchman and the pretty blonde girl, and the visit was meant to
introduce Marie to her _prétendu_; they seemed to accept the arrangement
complacently, but I was most interested in watching the proceedings, and,
to say the least, much entertained.
It was fully fifty years after these events when Doussan _neveu_
and I met again, two old gray-haired folks. When the first frost of
astonishment melted, and we could recognize each other, we had a grand
time recalling places and people. How we laughed over the remembrance of
the antics of the doctor’s pet monkey; and, oh yes! the voluble Lafiton
parrot! For a brief hour we lived again the halcyon days of fifteen and
eighteen. The following year Doussan passed away—severing for me the last
living link that bound me to the simple Creole life, on the borders of
which I had such a happy girlhood.
XXV
A VISIT TO VALCOUR AIME PLANTATION
_La Belle Creole!_ That name will bring a smile, mayhap a tear, to your
grandmother, so many sweet reminiscences of her young girlhood may be
associated with the little coast packet that carried her a-visiting from
New Orleans to plantation homes in “the days that were,” those leisurely
days when there were no rail cars tearing and crashing over the land,
no express companies to forward packages, no common carriers of any
sort. A boat like _La Belle Creole_ was a necessity. On her trips she
stopped at every little town and country post office, like Brusle landing
and Lobdell’s store; answered every signal and every hail, shuttling
across the river, back and forth, touching here for a keg of _sirop de
batterie_, a hamper of oranges; touching at the very next plantation to
take in somebody’s carpetbag or put ashore somebody’s darky, Capt. Ure
always at his post on deck to expedite every move. _La Belle Creole_ was
not a freight boat, but a passenger packet, par excellence. There were
boats galore to handle freight, but only one _Belle Creole_! “Steamboat
ahoy!” We slow up, a gentleman rushes down from his plantation house,
followed by a darky, carpetbag in hand. A plank is quickly run out,
touching the shore, steadied by deckhands; passenger rushes aboard, has
a handshake with Capt. Ure, and away we go to perhaps another hail. In
the cabin the scene is like that of an “afternoon tea,” an “at home,”
a “reception,” whatever you will, for everybody knows everybody, and
everybody shakes hands with everybody, and thus the newcomer is welcomed
to the social atmosphere of a circle of Creole friends. “_Comment ça
va?_” “_Aye! quel chance! c’est toi_,” are heard on every side, for some
of these people rarely meet except in transit. And so, we sail along;
the simple little craft is glorified by the magnetic influence of its
passengers.
M. Champomier is on board. Everybody knows _le vieux_ Champomier. He
mingles with all, conspicuously carries his memorandum book and pencil,
and we all know he is “on business bent,” getting from any and every
available source statistics of the year’s crop of sugar. Whether he
acted for a corporation, or it was his individual enterprise, I never
knew, but he visited the planters, traveled up and down and all around
the sugar region, and in the spring compiled and computed and published
in a small, paper-covered book (price $5) the name and address of
every planter and the amount of sugar made on each individual estate.
“Champomier’s report” was considered as authentic as need be for the
planter to know what his neighbor’s crop actually amounted to, and the
city merchant to adjust his mortgages and loans on a safe basis.
It was after midnight when the plank was thrown out to touch the levee
of the Valcour Aime plantation; midnight in late March, 1847. Deckhands
steadied the wabbling plank till three persons and their little baggage
were safely landed ashore. A tram (as it is called to-day) was awaiting
the doctor, Tante Lise and myself, then a girl of fifteen. Darkies with
torches preceded and followed us to the house, not so far away, only a
short walk, but Tante Lise must not be permitted to walk at that hour
of the night. The tram was nothing more than a flat car, fitted for the
occasion with seats, on a short railroad leading to the sugar refinery,
which I believe was the first in the state. A dusky housekeeper received
us at the house. Not knowing at what hour we might appear, the family had
retired. _Belle Creole_, as may be supposed, had no fixed schedule of
arrivals or departures. Fires were already alight in our rooms, affording
a cheery welcome. Before we were ready for bed basins of hot water were
brought for the inevitable foot bath of the Creole. Something warm to
drink, a _tisane_ probably—I remember I thought it might be ambrosia,
fit for the gods, it was so deliciously refreshing. Then I was tenderly
tucked into bed, and told to “_dormez bien_,” which I straightway
proceeded to do.
The sun was already proclaiming a bright spring day when I inhaled
the odor, and opened my eyes to a full-blown rose on my pillow; and
gracious, how good! a steaming cup of _café au lait_. On our descent to
the breakfast room we received an effusive and cordial greeting from M.
and Mme. Valcour, and their daughter Félicie, a girl of my own age. The
air was redolent of the delicious odor of roses, the windows open to the
floor upon the garden, the floor of the room not one step higher than the
garden walks. The Valcour Aime house was a two-story structure. The long,
main building faced, of course, the roadway and the river; there was a
long L at each end, running back, thus forming three sides of a square
court. A broad and partly jalousied balcony extended entirely around the
three sides of the building, fronting the court. This balcony afforded
the entrances to a seemingly endless series of living and sleeping rooms,
the whole house being, so to say, one room deep only. The first floor,
flush with the ground, was entirely paved with square blocks of stone or
brick. There were to be found the small and the grand dining rooms, the
master’s office and den and the various and sundry domestic departments.
The salon opened on the second floor balcony. The paved court below
was protected by the deep balconies and an awning. The assemblage of
all the family and the favorite resort of their multitudinous guests,
madame’s basket, mademoiselle’s embroidery frame, the box of cigars, the
comfortable lounging chairs, were to be found in that entrancing court.
M. Valcour, tall and graceful, was at that time in the prime of life, and
was my (romantic) ideal of a French marquis; Mme. Valcour, inclined to
_embonpoint_ and vivacious, kissed me and called me “_ma petite_,” though
I was quite her height. But the charm of my visit to that incomparable
mansion, the like of which is not to be found on the Mississippi River
to-day, was the daughter, Félicie, who at once took me under her wing and
entertained me as only a well-bred young girl can. She showed me all over
the premises, opening door after door, that I could see how adequate the
accommodations for the guests who frequently filled the house; into the
salon that I might see and listen to the chimes of the gilt clock Gabie
had sent from Paris. Gabriel Aime, the only son, was then in Europe.
Sweet Félicie never tired of talking of Gabie and showing me the pretty
trifles from abroad (so far away then) he had sent home from time to
time. She sent for the key, and opened the door of Gabie’s room, that I
might see how he had left it, and, “Mamma won’t have a thing changed; she
wants him to find his gun and boots and cap just where he left them.”
Girl-like, she confided to me that she would be a young lady when Gabie
came, and they would have a house in the city and a box at the opera, for
Gabie loved music.
By this time a number of the Roman family arrived. M. Valcour’s oldest
daughter had married Gov. Roman’s son, and a flock of Roman grandchildren
came with their parents to welcome the doctor and Tante Lise, and
incidentally the young girl with them. The Valcours and Romans were
closely related, independent of the marriage of their children. Both
families being related to Tante Lise also, there was a great reunion and
rejoicing when the tante made her annual visit. The governess, a New
England woman, was accorded a holiday, in which Félicie participated.
Years after, perhaps as many as forty years, I met and renewed
acquaintance with that governess in her New England town. Only recently
she passed away, having outlived, I understand, all the little pupils who
clustered around “Dear Miss Goddard.”
Félicie and I, with a whole escort of followers, explored the spacious
grounds, considered the finest in Louisiana. There was a miniature river,
meandering in and out and around the beautifully kept parterres, the tiny
banks of which were an unbroken mass of blooming violets. A long-legged
man might have been able to step across this tiny stream, but it was
spanned at intervals by bridges of various designs, some rustic, some
stone, but all furnished with parapets, so one would not tumble in and
drown, as a little Roman remarked. If it had not been before Perry’s
expedition to Japan, at any rate before his report was printed and
circulated, one might have supposed M. Valcour received his inspiration
in landscape gardening from the queer little Eastern people. There were
summer houses draped with strange, foreign-looking vines; a pagoda on a
mound, the entrance of which was reached by a flight of steps. It was
an octagonal building, with stained-glass windows, and it struck my
inexperienced eye as a very wonderful and surprising bit of architecture.
Further on was—a mountain! covered from base to top with beds of
blooming violets. A narrow, winding path led to the summit, from which
a comprehensive view was obtained of the extensive grounds, bounded by a
series of conservatories. It was enchanting. There I saw for the first
time the magnolia frascati, at that date a real rarity.
Another day, doctor, Tante Lise, Félicie and I were rowed in a skiff
across the river to Sacré Cœur Convent to see tante’s adopted daughter,
Marie. I recall spending the day there, the kindly nuns showing the
little heretic all through the building, and being rowed back to the
plantation at sunset.
Next morning the _Belle Creole_ was due, and our visit to fairyland was
drawing to a close. The call, “_la Vapeur_,” rushed us to the landing
in the tram, the “whole pack in full cry” of the Roman children running
by the side and calling adieu to dear Tante Lise. We gingerly walked
the plank, in single file. The boat backed out to get her leeway, and
once more for a moment we were in full view of the house. Two figures
fluttered handkerchiefs from the balcony, Mme. Valcour and Félicie waving
a last adieu—alas! a last. On entering the cabin, behold the ubiquitous
M. Champomier, with his everlasting book and pencil. As he greeted the
doctor I heard (in French, of course), “Can you tell me the exact amount
of——?” I fled, and at the rear end of the boat I had one more last
glimpse of Valcour Aime’s plantation. Alas! the last.
A month later I was on a clipper ship, the _Silas Holmes_, bound for a
New England school. That Yankee, _Silas Holmes_, was a transport during
the war, and like many a war relic has long been out of commission, if
not out of existence. And the dainty _Belle Creole_, gone too! like
thousands of Belles Creoles of her day and date.
Dear Félicie married Alfred Roman, adding another link of relationship to
the Roman and Valcour Aime families, and the adored and only son, Gabriel
Aime, died (I think Tante Lise wrote me) abroad.
I should like to know. No, I do not want to know. I already know too many
wrecked homes and vanished fortunes and broken hearts. I want always to
think of the Valcour Aime home and its charming hospitality, as I saw it
and knew it, and loved it more than sixty years ago, when I waved a last
adieu—alas! a last.
XXVI
THE OLD PLANTATION LIFE
It is almost a half century since the old plantation days. Only those
who number threescore years and ten have a personal remembrance of the
cares, duties and pleasures of the old plantation life. Only those who
bore the cares, discharged the duties and prepared the way for the
pleasures really understand the life that died and was buried fifty
years ago. People who know so much about that fanatic John Brown and
the fantastic “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” are asking what one fought and bled
for (did he bleed?) and what the other was written for. Some of those
inquiring souls are over fifty years old, and what is more, their fathers
were slave owners. The few of us tottering around who can tell of the old
plantation life are threescore years and ten, and if we do not hasten
to tell the story it may never be told. It is well to leave a record of
a life that has passed beyond resurrection, a glorified record it may
appear, for as we stand beside the bier of a loved and lifelong friend,
we recall only his virtues. So as I look back on the old plantation life
only the comforts and pleasures troop before me. It had its duties, but
they were not onerous; its cares, but they were not burdensome, nor were
its pleasures excessive. What we planned and accomplished for our slaves
afforded us more satisfaction than any man of the present day can feel
for his grand stables of hunters and roadsters and racers, that absorb
his time and means....
Booker Washington, in that very interesting volume, “Up from Slavery,”
tells of his early life when his mother (he never knew his father, and
thinks he was a white man) was the slave of a well-to-do Virginia farmer,
and the slave quarters had dirt floors. That may have been in the clay
hills of Virginia, but I never saw a cabin, unless it was a pig pen, with
a dirt floor. I am no apologist for slavery; the whites suffered more
from its demoralizing influence than the blacks, but we were born to it,
grew up with it, lived with it, and it was our daily life. We did well by
it; no people could have done better. It is past now. When I tell of my
own home it is to tell of the plantation homes of everybody I knew. We
did not differ or vary to any extent in our modes of life and management.
[Illustration: ARLINGTON PLANTATION ON THE MISSISSIPPI.]
Slaves were comfortably housed. Their cabins were elevated above the
ground, two rooms in each building, a chimney between, a porch in front
and windows on two sides. The slaves were well fed and well clothed in
osnaburgs and linseys cut and made in the sewing room of the “big house.”
Though the hook worm theory was not at that time exploited they were
well shod. There were drones; I guess there were hook worms too, but we
did not know it. The old and infirm had light tasks. Men pottered around
the woodpile, or tended the cows on their promenades over the levee, and
the women sewed a little and quarreled, as idly disposed old folks will,
among themselves (we who visit almshouses now know how that is) or fussed
with the frolicking children. I never saw in those days a negro with
spectacles, or one who seemed to need them.
There was an infirmary for the sick, and a day nursery for the babies,
under the charge of a granny, a well-ventilated room with a spacious
fireplace, where pots and kettles were always on hand, mush and herb teas
always on tap; there the babies were deposited in cribs all day while the
mothers were at work in the fields. No woman went to work until her child
was a month old. A large diary folio record was kept by the overseer of
all the incidents of the plantation; when a woman was confined, when she
was sent again to the field, who was ill in the hospital, if doctor was
summoned, what part of the canefield was being cultivated day by day,
when sugar-making began, when finished, what the yield of the various
“cuts,” how many hogsheads and barrels of molasses shipped and by what
boats; all these items and ever so many more were recorded. A doctor was
employed at $600 per annum. He came only in extreme cases. Headaches
and stomach aches, earaches, toothaches and backaches, all these minor
ills came under the care of the overseer and “Gunn’s Domestic Medicine,”
a formidable volume of instruction. The lady, the “mistis” of the big
house, made frequent visits to the quarter lot, saw that things were kept
tidy and ministered to the sick.
We did not have “made-over” dishes, cold meats nor stale bread on our
tables; little darkies were sent by the half sick and aged for “left
overs.” Children were not bottlefed or spoonfed; they consumed pot liquor
and mush and molasses as soon as they were weaned. Corn, cowpeas and
turnips were cultivated for the slaves, and when there was an overplus
of garden vegetables it was sent to the quarter kitchen. Their meat
was pickled pork—it was called “clear sides”—shipped from Kentucky or
Missouri. All their cooking was done by two cooks in a big kitchen, but
every cabin had a fireplace, with a pot or skillet, of course, for we
all know how the darky dotes on little messes of her own doing. All the
doors had locks, and the women went to the field with the key hung around
their necks.