A SPLENDID FAILURE
If it is easy to discover why there was no special embassy sent by
this government to Turkey for the purpose of inviting the
distinguished patriot Kossuth to visit America, (that matter being
concluded in rather less formal fashion after the return home of
the Hungarian committee of inquiry--a ship of our navy being
despatched to carry him to our shores) it with equal ease may be
understood why the Countess St. Auban after this remained
unmolested. A quaking administration, bent only on keeping
political matters in perfect balance, and on quenching promptly, as
best it might, any incipient blaze of anti-slavery zeal which might
break out from its smoldering, dared make no further move against
her. She was now too much in the public eye to be safe even in
suppression, and so was left to pursue her own way for a time; this
the more readily, of course, because she was doing nothing either
illegal or reprehensible. Indeed, as has been said, she was only
carrying out in private way a pet measure of Mr. Fillmore himself,
one which he had only with difficulty been persuaded to eliminate
from his first presidential message--that of purchasing the slaves
and deporting them from our shores. The government at Washington
perforce looked on, shivering, dreading lest this thing might fail,
dreading also lest it might not fail. It was a day of compromise,
of cowardice, of politics played as politics; a day of that
political unwisdom which always is dangerous--the fear of riding
straight, the ignorance of the saving quality of honest courage.
Wherefore, matters went on thus, fit foundation now building for
that divided and ill-ordered house of this republic, whose
purification could only be found in the cleansing catastrophe of
fire so soon to come.
As to the unfortunate work in which this warm-hearted enthusiast
thus impulsively engaged, small comment need be made, since its
failure so soon was to become apparent to the popular mind. The
Countess St. Auban was not the first to look to colonization and
deportation as the solution of the negro problem in America. But
as the Colonization Society for more than a decade had failed to
accomplish results, so did she in her turn fail. In a work which
continued through all that spring and summer, she drew again and
again upon her own private fortune. Carlisle and Kammerer had
charge of the details, but she herself was the driving force of the
enterprise. While they were abroad lecturing and asking
contributions to their cause--taking with them the slave girl Lily
as an example of what slavery had done--she remained at Washington.
They actually did arrange for the deportation of a ship-load of
blacks to Hayti, another ship-load to Liberia. A colony of blacks
whose freedom had been purchased was established in Tennessee,
others were planned for yet other localities. It was part of her
intent to establish nuclei of freed blacks in different portions of
the southern section.
In all this work Lily, late servant of Josephine St. Auban, assumed
a certain prominence, this being given to her not wholly with
wisdom. Although but little negro blood remained in her veins,
this former slave had not risen above the life that had surrounded
her. Ignorant, emotional, at times working herself into a frenzy
of religious zeal, she was farthest of all from being a sober judge
or a fair-minded agent for the views of others. Yet in time her
two guardians, Carlisle and Kammerer, unwisely allowed her more and
more liberty. She was even, in times of great hurry, furnished
funds to go upon trips of investigation for herself, as one best
fitted to judge of the conditions of her people. As to these
details, Josephine St. Auban knew little. There was enough to
occupy her mind at the center of these affairs, where labors grew
rapidly and quite beyond her original plan.
As is always the case in such hopeless enterprises, the expenses
multiplied beyond belief. True, contributions came meagerly from
the North, here and there some abolitionist appearing who would do
something besides write and preach. In all, more than a half
million dollars was spent before the end of the year 1851. Then,
swiftly and without warning, there came the end.
One morning, almost a year after her return to Washington,
Josephine St. Auban sat in her apartments, looking at a long
document inscribed in a fine, foreign hand. It was the report of
the agent of her estates in Prance and Hungary. As she read it the
lines blurred before her eyes. It demanded an effort even of her
superb courage fairly to face and meet the meaning. In fact, it
was this: The revolution of Louis Napoleon of 1851 had resulted in
the confiscation of many estates in France, all her own included.
As though by concert among the monarchies of Europe, the heavy hand
of confiscation fell, in this nation and in that. The thrones of
the Old World are not supported by revolutionists; nor are
revolutionists supported by the occupants of thrones. Her
Hungarian lands had followed those which she had owned in France.
The rents of her estates no longer could be collected. Her
revenues were absolutely gone. Moreover, she herself was an exile.
[Illustration: She herself was an exile.]
Thus, then, had her high-blown hopes come to an end. It was proof
of the splendid courage of the woman that she shed not a tear. Not
a lash trembled as presently she turned to despatch a message for
her lieutenant, Carlisle, to come to her. The latter was absent at
some western point, but within two days he appeared in Washington
and presently made his call, as yet ignorant of what were his
employer's wishes.
He himself began eagerly, the fanatic fire still in his eye, on
details of the work so near to his soul. "My dear Countess," he
exclaimed, even as he grasped her hands, "we're doing splendidly.
We'll have the whole Mississippi Valley in an uproar before long.
All the lower Ohio is unsettled. Missouri, Illinois, Indiana are
muttering as loudly as New England. I hear that Lily has led away
a whole neighborhood over in Missouri. A few months more like
this, and we'll have this whole country in a turmoil. It's bound
to win--the country's bound to come to its senses--if we keep on."
"But we can not keep on, my dear Sir," she said to him slowly.
"That is why I have sent for you."
"How do you mean? What's wrong? Can not keep on--end our work?
You're jesting!"
"No, it is the truth. Kossuth is in Turkey. Shall I join him
there? Where shall I go? I'm an exile from France. I dare not
return to Hungary."
"You--I'll--I'll not believe it! What do you mean?"
"I am ruined financially, that's all. My funds are at an end. My
estates are gone! My agent tells me he can send me no more money.
How much do you think," she said, with a little _moue_, "we can do
in the way of deporting blacks out of my earnings--well, say as
teacher of music, or of French?"
"I'll not believe it--you--why, you've been used to riches,
luxuries, all your life! And I--why, I've helped impoverish you!
I've been spending your money. A ship-load of blacks, against you?
My God! I'd have cut my hand off rather."
She showed him the correspondence, proof of all that she had said,
and he read with a face haggard in unhappiness.'
"There' There!" she said. "You've not heard me make any outcry
yet, have you? Why should you, then? I have seen men lay down
their lives for a principle, a belief. You will see that again.
Should not a woman lay down her money?
"But as to that," she went on lightly, "why, there are many things
one might do. I might make a rich alliance, don't you think?"
He suddenly stiffened and straightened, and looked her full in the
eye, a slow flush coming across his face.
"I couldn't have said it any time before this," said he. "It has
been in my heart all along, but I didn't dare--not then. Yes, a
rich alliance if you liked, I do not doubt. There's a poor one
waiting for you, any time you like. You know that. You must have
seen it, a thousand times--"
She advanced to him easily and held out both her hands. "Now,
now!" she said. "Don't begin that. You'll only hurt us both. My
lieutenant, visionary as myself! Ah, we've failed."
"But everybody will blame you--you will have no place to go--it
will be horrible--you don't begin to know what it means. Of
course, we have made mistakes."
"Then let's not make the worst mistake of all," she said.
"But we could do so much--"
She turned upon him suddenly, pale, excited. "Do not!" she cried.
"Do not use those words! It seems to me that that is what all men
think and say. 'How much we could do--together!' Do not say that
to me."
At this he sobered. "Then there is some one else?" he said slowly.
"You've heard some one else use those words? I couldn't blame him.
Well, I wish him happiness. And I wish you happiness, too. I had
no right to presume."
"Happiness!--what is that?" she said slowly. "I've been trying to
find it all my life. My God! How crooked were all the mismated
planets at my birth! I haven't been happy myself. I do not think
that I've added one iota to the happiness of any one else, I've
just failed, that's all. And I've tried so hard--to do something,
something for the world! Oh, can a woman--can she, ever?" For
once shaken, she dropped her face an instant in her hands, he
standing by, mute, and suffering much as herself at seeing her thus
suffer.
"But now," she continued after a time, "--I want to ask you whether
I've been ungenerous or vindictive with you--"
"Vindictive? You? Never! But why should you be?"
"Captain," she said easily, "my lieutenant, my friend, let me
say--I will not be specific--I will not mention names or dates; but
do you think, if you were a woman, you could ever marry a man who
once, behind your back, with not even eagerness to incite him, but
coolly, deliberately--had played a game of cards for--you?"
He stiffened as though shot. "I know. But you misunderstand. I
did not play for you. I played to relieve a situation--because I
thought you wished--because it seemed the solution of a situation
hard for both of us. I thought--"
"Solution!" She blazed up now, tigerlike, and her words came
through set lips. "I'd never have told you I knew, if you hadn't
said what you have. But--a solution--a plan--a compromise! You
ought to have played for me! You ought to have played for me; and
you ought to have won--have won!"
[Illustration: You ought to have played for me!]
He stood before a woman new to him, one so different from the
grateful and gracious enthusiast he had met all these months that
he could not comprehend the change, could not at once adjust his
confused senses. So miserable was he that suddenly, with one of
her swift changes, she smiled at him, even through her sudden
tears. "No! No!" she exclaimed. "See! Look here!"
She handed him a little sheet of crumpled note paper, inscribed in
a cramped hand, showed him the inscription--"Jeanne Fournier."
"You don't know who that is?" she asked him.
"No, I don't know."
"Why, yes, you do. My maid--my French maid--don't you remember?
She married Hector, the cooper, at St. Genevieve. Now, see, Jeanne
is writing to me again. Don't you see, there's a baby, and it is
named for me--who has none. Good-by, that money!"--she kissed hand
to the air--"Good-by, that idea, that dream of mine! That's of no
consequence. In fact, nothing is of consequence. See, this is the
baby of Jeanne! She has asked me to come. Why, then, should I
delay?"
Whether it were tears or smiles which he saw upon her face Carlisle
never could determine. Whether it were physical unrest or mental
emotion, he did not know, but certainly it was that the letter of
the agent remained upon the table untouched between them while
Josephine St. Auban pressed to her lips the letter from Jeanne, her
maid.
"Why, I have not failed at all!" said she. "Have I not cared for
and brought up this Jeanne, and is there not a baby of Jeanne, a
baby whom she has named for me?"
Carlisle, mute and unnoticed, indeed, as he felt almost forgotten,
was relieved when there came a knock at the door. A messenger
bearing a card entered. She turned toward him gravely, and he
could only read dismissal now. Mute and unhappy, he hurried from
the room. He did not, however, pass from the stage of activity he
had chosen. He later fought for his convictions, and saw
accomplished, before, with so many other brave men, he fell upon
the field of battle--accomplished at vast cost of blood and
tears--that work which he had been inspired to undertake in a more
futile form.
"You may say to this gentleman that I shall join him presently, in
the parlor at the right of the stair," said Josephine St. Auban
after a moment to the messenger.