A ROMANCE OF THE REPUBLIC
BY
L. MARIA CHILD
1867
TO
THE FATHER AND MOTHER OF
COL. R.G. SHAW,
THE EARLY AND EVER-FAITHFUL FRIENDS OF FREEDOM AND EQUAL RIGHTS,
THIS VOLUME
IS MOST RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY
INSCRIBED
BY
THE AUTHOR.
PART FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
"What are you going to do with yourself this evening, Alfred?" said Mr.
Royal to his companion, as they issued from his counting-house in New
Orleans. "Perhaps I ought to apologize for not calling you Mr. King,
considering the shortness of our acquaintance; but your father and I
were like brothers in our youth, and you resemble him so much, I can
hardly realize that you are not he himself, and I still a young man.
It used to be a joke with us that we must be cousins, since he was a
King and I was of the Royal family. So excuse me if I say to you, as
I used to say to him. What are you going to do with yourself, Cousin
Alfred?"
"I thank you for the friendly familiarity," rejoined the young man.
"It is pleasant to know that I remind you so strongly of my good
father. My most earnest wish is to resemble him in character as much
as I am said to resemble him in person. I have formed no plans for the
evening. I was just about to ask you what there was best worth seeing
or hearing in the Crescent City."
"If I should tell you I thought there was nothing better worth seeing
than my daughters, you would perhaps excuse a father's partiality,"
rejoined Mr. Royal.
"Your daughters!" exclaimed his companion, in a tone of surprise. "I
never heard that you were married."
A shadow of embarrassment passed over the merchant's face, as he
replied, "Their mother was a Spanish lady,--a stranger here,--and she
formed no acquaintance. She was a woman of a great heart and of rare
beauty. Nothing can ever make up her loss to me; but all the joy that
remains in life is centred in the daughters she has left me. I should
like to introduce them to you; and that is a compliment I never before
paid to any young man. My home is in the outskirts of the city; and
when we have dined at the hotel, according to my daily habit, I will
send off a few letters, and then, if you like to go there with me, I
will call a carriage."
"Thank you," replied the young man; "unless it is your own custom to
ride, I should prefer to walk. I like the exercise, and it will give a
better opportunity to observe the city, which is so different from our
Northern towns that it has for me the attractions of a foreign land."
In compliance with this wish, Mr. Royal took him through the principal
streets, pointing out the public buildings, and now and then stopping
to smile at some placard or sign which presented an odd jumble of
French and English. When they came to the suburbs of the city, the
aspect of things became charmingly rural. Houses were scattered here
and there among trees and gardens. Mr. Royal pointed out one of them,
nestled in flowers and half encircled by an orange-grove, and said,
"That is my home. When I first came here, the place where it stands
was a field of sugar-canes; but the city is fast stretching itself
into the suburbs."
They approached the dwelling; and in answer to the bell, the door was
opened by a comely young negress, with a turban of bright colors
on her head and golden hoops in her ears. Before the gentlemen had
disposed of their hats and canes, a light little figure bounded from
one of the rooms, clapping her hands, and exclaiming, "Ah, Papasito!"
Then, seeing a stranger with him, she suddenly stood still, with a
pretty look of blushing surprise.
"Never mind, Mignonne," said her father, fondly patting her head.
"This is Alfred Royal King, from Boston; my namesake, and the son of
a dear old friend of mine. I have invited him to see you dance. Mr.
King, this is my Floracita."
The fairy dotted a courtesy, quickly and gracefully as a butterfly
touching a flower, and then darted back into the room she had left.
There they were met by a taller young lady, who was introduced as "My
daughter Rosabella." Her beauty was superlative and peculiar. Her
complexion was like a glowing reflection upon ivory from gold in the
sunshine. Her large brown eyes were deeply fringed, and lambent with
interior light. Lustrous dark brown hair shaded her forehead in little
waves, slight as the rippling of water touched by an insect's wing. It
was arranged at the back of her head in circling braids, over which
fell clusters of ringlets, with moss-rose-buds nestling among them.
Her full, red lips were beautifully shaped, and wore a mingled
expression of dignity and sweetness. The line from ear to chin was
that perfect oval which artists love, and the carriage of her head was
like one born to a kingdom.
Floracita, though strikingly handsome, was of a model less superb than
her elder sister. She was a charming little brunette, with laughter
always lurking in ambush within her sparkling black eyes, a mouth like
"Cupid's bow carved in coral," and dimples in her cheeks, that well
deserved their French name, _berceaux d'amour_.
These radiant visions of beauty took Alfred King so much by
surprise, that he was for a moment confused. But he soon recovered
self-possession, and, after the usual salutations, took a seat offered
him near a window overlooking the garden. While the commonplaces of
conversation were interchanged, he could not but notice the floral
appearance of the room. The ample white lace curtains were surmounted
by festoons of artificial roses, caught up by a bird of paradise. On
the ceiling was an exquisitely painted garland, from the centre
of which hung a tasteful basket of natural flowers, with delicate
vine-tresses drooping over its edge. The walls were papered with
bright arabesques of flowers, interspersed with birds and butterflies.
In one corner a statuette of Flora looked down upon a geranium covered
with a profusion of rich blossoms. In the opposite corner, ivy was
trained to form a dark background for Canova's "Dancer in Repose,"
over whose arm was thrown a wreath of interwoven vines and
orange-blossoms. On brackets and tables were a variety of natural
flowers in vases of Sevres china, whereon the best artists of France
had painted flowers in all manner of graceful combinations. The
ottomans were embroidered with flowers. Rosabella's white muslin dress
was trailed all over with delicately tinted roses, and the lace around
the corsage was fastened in front with a mosaic basket of flowers.
Floracita's black curls fell over her shoulders mixed with crimson
fuchsias, and on each of her little slippers was embroidered a
bouquet.
"This is the Temple of Flora," said Alfred, turning to his host.
"Flowers everywhere! Natural flowers, artificial flowers, painted
flowers, embroidered flowers, and human flowers excelling them
all,"--glancing at the young ladies as he spoke.
Mr. Royal sighed, and in an absent sort of way answered, "Yes, yes."
Then, starting up, he said abruptly, "Excuse me a moment; I wish to
give the servants some directions."
Floracita, who was cutting leaves from the geranium, observed his
quick movement, and, as he left the room, she turned toward their
visitor and said, in a childlike, confidential sort of way: "Our dear
Mamita used to call this room the Temple of Flora. She had a great
passion for flowers. She chose the paper, she made the garlands for
the curtains, she embroidered the ottomans, and painted that table so
prettily. Papasito likes to have things remain as she arranged them,
but sometimes they make him sad; for the angels took Mamita away from
us two years ago."
"Even the names she gave you are flowery," said Alfred, with an
expression of mingled sympathy and admiration.
"Yes; and we had a great many flowery pet-names beside," replied she.
"My name is Flora, but when she was very loving with me she called me
her Floracita, her little flower; and Papasito always calls me so now.
Sometimes Mamita called me _Pensée Vivace_."
"In English we call that bright little flower Jump-up-and-kiss-me,"
rejoined Alfred, smiling as he looked down upon the lively little
fairy.
She returned the smile with an arch glance, that seemed to say, "I
sha'n't do it, though." And away she skipped to meet her father, whose
returning steps were heard.
"You see I spoil her," said he, as she led him into the room with a
half-dancing step. "But how can I help it?"
Before there was time to respond to this question, the negress with
the bright turban announced that tea was ready.
"Yes, Tulipa? we will come," said Floracita.
"Is _she_ a flower too?" asked Alfred.
"Yes, she's a flower, too," answered Floracita, with a merry little
laugh. "We named her so because she always wears a red and yellow
turban; but we call her Tulee, for short."
While they were partaking of refreshments, she and her father were
perpetually exchanging badinage, which, childish as it was, served to
enliven the repast. But when she began to throw oranges for him to
catch, a reproving glance from her dignified sister reminded her of
the presence of company.
"Let her do as she likes, Rosa dear," said her father. "She is used to
being my little plaything, and I can't spare her to be a woman yet."
"I consider it a compliment to forget that I am a stranger," said Mr.
King. "For my own part, I forgot it entirely before I had been in the
house ten minutes."
Rosabella thanked him with a quiet smile and a slight inclination of
her head. Floracita, notwithstanding this encouragement, paused in her
merriment; and Mr. Royal began to talk over reminiscences connected
with Alfred's father. When they rose from table, he said, "Come here,
Mignonne! We won't be afraid of the Boston gentleman, will we?"
Floracita sprang to his side. He passed his arm fondly round her, and,
waiting for his guest and his elder daughter to precede them, they
returned to the room they had left. They had scarcely entered it, when
Floracita darted to the window, and, peering forth into the twilight,
she looked back roguishly at her sister, and began to sing:--
"Un petit blanc, que j'aime,
En ces lieux est venu.
Oui! oui! c'est lui même!
C'est lui! je l'ai vue!
Petit blanc! mon bon frère!
Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!"
The progress of her song was checked by the entrance of a gentleman,
who was introduced to Alfred as Mr. Fitzgerald from Savannah. His
handsome person reminded one of an Italian tenor singer, and his
manner was a graceful mixture of _hauteur_ and insinuating courtesy.
After a brief interchange of salutations, he said to Floracita,
"I heard some notes of a lively little French tune, that went so
trippingly I should be delighted to hear more of it."
Floracita had accidentally overheard some half-whispered words which
Mr. Fitzgerald had addressed to her sister, during his last visit,
and, thinking she had discovered an important secret, she was disposed
to use her power mischievously. Without waiting for a repetition of
his request, she sang:--
"Petit blanc, mon bon frère!
Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!
Il n'y a rien sur la terre
De si joli que vous."
While she was singing, she darted roguish glances at her sister, whose
cheeks glowed like the sun-ripened side of a golden apricot. Her
father touched her shoulder, and said in a tone of annoyance, "Don't
sing that foolish song, Mignonne!" She turned to him quickly with a
look of surprise; for she was accustomed only to endearments from him.
In answer to her look, he added, in a gentler tone, "You know I told
you I wanted my friend to see you dance. Select one of your prettiest,
_ma petite_, and Rosabella will play it for you."
Mr. Fitzgerald assiduously placed the music-stool, and bent over the
portfolio while Miss Royal searched for the music. A servant lighted
the candelabra and drew the curtains. Alfred, glancing at Mr. Royal,
saw he was watching the pair who were busy at the portfolio, and that
the expression of his countenance was troubled. His eyes, however,
soon had pleasanter occupation; for as soon as Rosa touched the piano,
Floracita began to float round the room in a succession of graceful
whirls, as if the music had taken her up and was waltzing her along.
As she passed the marble Dancing Girl, she seized the wreath that was
thrown over its arm, and as she went circling round, it seemed as
if the tune had become a visible spirit, and that the garland was a
floating accompaniment to its graceful motions. Sometimes it was held
aloft by the right hand, sometimes by the left; sometimes it was
a whirling semicircle behind her; and sometimes it rested on her
shoulders, mingling its white orange buds and blossoms with her shower
of black curls and crimson fuchsias. Now it was twined round her head
in a flowery crown, and then it gracefully unwound itself, as if it
were a thing alive. Ever and anon the little dancer poised herself for
an instant on the point of one fairy foot, her cheeks glowing with
exercise and dimpling with smiles, as she met her father's delighted
gaze. Every attitude seemed spontaneous in its prettiness, as if the
music had made it without her choice. At last she danced toward her
father, and sank, with a wave-like motion, on the ottoman at his feet.
He patted the glossy head that nestled lovingly on his knee, and
drawing a long breath, as if oppressed with happiness, he murmured,
"Ah, Mignonne!"
The floating fairy vision had given such exquisite pleasure, that all
had been absorbed in watching its variations. Now they looked at
each other and smiled. "You would make Taglioni jealous," said Mr.
Fitzgerald, addressing the little dancer; and Mr. King silently
thanked her with a very expressive glance.
As Rosabella retired from the piano, she busied herself with
rearranging a bouquet she had taken from one of the vases. When Mr.
Fitzgerald stationed himself at her side, she lowered her eyes with a
perceptibly deepening color. On her peculiar complexion a blush showed
like a roseate cloud in a golden atmosphere. As Alfred gazed on the
long, dark, silky fringes resting on those warmly tinted cheeks, he
thought he had never seen any human creature so superbly handsome.
"Nothing but music can satisfy us after such dancing," said Mr.
Fitzgerald. She looked up to him with a smile; and Alfred thought the
rising of those dark eyelashes surpassed their downcast expression, as
the glory of morning sunshine excels the veiled beauty of starlight.
"Shall I accompany you while you sing, 'How brightly breaks the
morning'?" asked she.
"That always sings itself into my heart, whenever you raise your eyes
to mine," replied he, in a low tone, as he handed her to the piano.
Together they sang that popular melody, bright and joyful as sunrise
on a world of blossoms. Then came a Tyrolese song, with a double
voice, sounding like echoes from the mountains. This was followed
by some tender, complaining Russian melodies, novelties which Mr.
Fitzgerald had brought on a preceding visit. Feeling they were too
much engrossed with each other, she said politely, "Mr. King has not
yet chosen any music."
"The moon becomes visible through the curtains," replied he. "Perhaps
you will salute her with 'Casta Diva.'"
"That is a favorite with us," she replied. "Either Flora or I sing it
almost every moonlight night."
She sang it in very pure Italian. Then turning round on the
music-stool she looked at her father, and said, "Now, _Papasito
querido_, what shall I sing for you?"
"You know, dear, what I always love to hear," answered he.
With gentle touch, she drew from the keys a plaintive prelude, which
soon modulated itself into "The Light of other Days." She played and
sang it with so much feeling, that it seemed the voice of memory
floating with softened sadness over the far-off waters of the past.
The tune was familiar to Alfred, but it had never sung itself into his
heart, as now. "I felt as I did in Italy, listening to a vesper-bell
sounding from a distance in the stillness of twilight," said he,
turning toward his host.
"All who hear Rosabella sing notice a bell in her voice," rejoined her
father.
"Undoubtedly it is the voice of a belle," said Mr. Fitzgerald.
Her father, without appearing to notice the commonplace pun, went on
to say, "You don't know, Mr. King, what tricks she can play with her
voice. I call her a musical ventriloquist. If you want to hear the
bell to perfection, ask her to sing 'Toll the bell for lovely Nell.'"
"Do give me that pleasure," said Alfred, persuasively.
She sang the pathetic melody, and with voice and piano imitated to
perfection the slow tolling of a silver-toned bell. After a short
pause, during which she trifled with the keys, while some general
remarks were passing, she turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, who was leaning on
the piano, and said, "What shall I sing for _you_?" It was a simple
question, but it pierced the heart of Alfred King with a strange new
pain. What would he not have given for such a soft expression in those
glorious eyes when she looked at _him_!
"Since you are in a ventriloqual mood," answered Mr. Fitzgerald,
"I should like to hear again what you played the last time I was
here,--Agatha's Moonlight Prayer, from _Der Freyschütz_."
She smiled, and with voice and instrument produced the indescribably
dreamy effect of the two flutes. It was the very moonlight of sound.
"This is perfectly magical," murmured Alfred. He spoke in a low,
almost reverential tone; for the spell of moonlight was on him, and
the clear, soft voice of the singer, the novelty of her peculiar
beauty, and the surpassing gracefulness of her motions, as she swayed
gently to the music of the tones she produced, inspired him with a
feeling of poetic deference. Through the partially open window came
the lulling sound of a little trickling fountain in the garden, and
the air was redolent of jasmine and orange-blossoms. On the pier-table
was a little sleeping Cupid, from whose torch rose the fragrant
incense of a nearly extinguished _pastille_. The pervasive spirit of
beauty in the room, manifested in forms, colors, tones, and motions,
affected the soul as perfume did the senses. The visitors felt they
had stayed too long, and yet they lingered. Alfred examined the
reclining Cupid, and praised the gracefulness of its outline.
"Cupid could never sleep here, nor would the flame of his torch ever
go out," said Mr. Fitzgerald; "but it is time _we_ were going out."
The young gentlemen exchanged parting salutations with their host and
his daughters, and moved toward the door. But Mr. Fitzgerald paused on
the threshold to say, "Please play us out with Mozart's 'Good Night.'"
"As organists play worshippers out of the church," added Mr. King.
Rosabella bowed compliance, and, as they crossed the outer threshold,
they heard the most musical of voices singing Mozart's beautiful
little melody, "Buona Notte, amato bene." The young men lingered near
the piazza till the last sounds floated away, and then they walked
forth in the moonlight,--Fitzgerald repeating the air in a subdued
whistle.
His first exclamation was, "Isn't that girl a Rose Royal?"
"She is, indeed," replied Mr. King; "and the younger sister is also
extremely fascinating."
"Yes, I thought you seemed to think so," rejoined his companion.
"Which do you prefer?"
Shy of revealing his thoughts to a stranger, Mr. King replied that
each of the sisters was so perfect in her way, the other would be
wronged by preference.
"Yes, they are both rare gems of beauty," rejoined Fitzgerald. "If I
were the Grand Bashaw, I would have them both in my harem."
The levity of the remark jarred on the feelings of his companion, who
answered, in a grave, and somewhat cold tone, "I saw nothing in the
manners of the young ladies to suggest such a disposition of them."
"Excuse me," said Fitzgerald, laughing. "I forgot you were from the
land of Puritans. I meant no indignity to the young ladies, I assure
you. But when one amuses himself with imagining the impossible, it is
not worth while to be scrupulous about details. I am _not_ the Grand
Bashaw; and when I pronounced them fit for his harem, I merely meant
a compliment to their superlative beauty. That Floracita is a
mischievous little sprite. Did you ever see anything more roguish than
her expression while she was singing 'Petit blanc, mon bon frère'?"
"That mercurial little song excited my curiosity," replied Alfred.
"Pray what is its origin?"
"I think it likely it came from the French West Indies," said
Fitzgerald. "It seems to be the love-song of a young negress,
addressed to a white lover. Floracita may have learned it from her
mother, who was half French, half Spanish. You doubtless observed
the foreign sprinkling in their talk. They told me they never spoke
English with their mother. Those who have seen her describe her as a
wonderful creature, who danced like Taglioni and sang like Malibran,
and was more beautiful than her daughter Rosabella. But the last part
of the story is incredible. If she were half as handsome, no wonder
Mr. Royal idolized her, as they say he did."
"Did he marry her in the French Islands?" inquired Alfred.
"They were not married," answered Fitzgerald. "Of course not, for she
was a quadroon. But here are my lodgings, and I must bid you good
night."
These careless parting words produced great disturbance in the spirit
of Alfred King. He had heard of those quadroon connections, as one
hears of foreign customs, without any realizing sense of their
consequences. That his father's friend should be a partner in such an
alliance, and that these two graceful and accomplished girls should by
that circumstance be excluded from the society they would so greatly
ornament, surprised and bewildered him. He recalled that tinge in
Rosa's complexion, not golden, but like a faint, luminous reflection
of gold, and that slight waviness in the glossy hair, which seemed
to him so becoming. He could not make these peculiarities seem less
beautiful to his imagination, now that he knew them as signs of
her connection with a proscribed race. And that bewitching little
Floracita, emerging into womanhood, with the auroral light of
childhood still floating round her, she seemed like a beautiful
Italian child, whose proper place was among fountains and statues
and pictured forms of art. The skill of no Parisian _coiffeur_ could
produce a result so pleasing as the profusion of raven hair, that
_would_ roll itself into ringlets. Octoroons! He repeated the word
to himself, but it did not disenchant him. It was merely something
foreign and new to his experience, like Spanish or Italian beauty. Yet
he felt painfully the false position in which they were placed by the
unreasoning prejudice of society.
Though he had had a fatiguing day, when he entered his chamber he felt
no inclination to sleep. As he slowly paced up and down the room, he
thought to himself, "My good mother shares the prejudice. How could
I introduce them to _her_?" Then, as if impatient with himself, he
murmured, in a vexed tone, "Why should I _think_ of introducing them
to my mother? A few hours ago I didn't know of their existence."
He threw himself on the bed and tried to sleep; but memory was
too busy with the scene of enchantment he had recently left. A
catalpa-tree threw its shadow on the moon-lighted curtain. He began to
count the wavering leaves, in hopes the monotonous occupation would
induce slumber. After a while he forgot to count; and as his spirit
hovered between the inner and the outer world, Floracita seemed to be
dancing on the leaf shadows in manifold graceful evolutions. Then he
was watching a little trickling fountain, and the falling drops were
tones of "The Light of other Days." Anon he was wandering among
flowers in the moonlight, and from afar some one was heard singing
"Casta Diva." The memory of that voice,
"While slept the limbs and senses all,
Made everything seem musical."
Again and again the panorama of the preceding evening revolved through
the halls of memory with every variety of fantastic change. A light
laugh broke in upon the scenes of enchantment, with the words, "Of
course not, for she was a quadroon." Then the plaintive melody of
"Toll the bell" resounded in his ears; not afar off, but loud and
clear, as if the singer were in the room. He woke with a start, and
heard the vibrations of a cathedral bell subsiding into silence. It
had struck but twice, but in his spiritual ear the sounds had been
modulated through many tones. "Even thus strangely," thought he, "has
that rich, sonorous voice struck into the dream of my life,"
Again he saw those large, lustrous eyes lowering their long-fringed
veils under the ardent gaze of Gerald Fitzgerald. Again he thought of
his mother, and sighed. At last a dreamless sleep stole over him, and
both pleasure and pain were buried in deep oblivion.