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 daily
routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections--a monotony,
broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being
I loved. At such moments I was no longer _ennuye_; my spirit escaped
from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed
an Elysium.
Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes' duration, while the
intervals between them were hours--long hours--so long, I fancied them
days. 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. My
conversation was with the _Creole_, my thoughts dwelt upon the
_Quadroon_. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette
restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world
could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but
expressive language.
Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by
stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear
that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the
Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the
Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt
that they might awaken jealousy--I thought not of such a thing. Eugenie
was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone
of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock
occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a
complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her
mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her.
From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not
the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the
statue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a
still rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and,
strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather
gratified me!
How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Did _she_ love
me? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond
eagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but
not a word dare I exchange with _her_, although my heart was longing to
yield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betray
me. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and
despise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!
I understood this feeling well--this black crime of her nation. What
was it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which
I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? But
under that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes of
Love, rank loses its fictitious charm--titles seem trivial things. For
me, Beauty wears the crown.
So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the
whole world had known of my love--not a straw for its scorn. But there
were other considerations--the courtesy due to hospitality--to
friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still
graver nature--the promptings of _prudence_. The situation in which I
was 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 to
a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian--a ward in
Chancery--an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but "child's play"
to break through the _entourage_ that surrounds one of such. To
scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the
bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!
My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to
be a rugged one.
Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of
my convalescence passed pleasantly enough. Everything was furnished me
that could contribute to my comfort or recovery. Ices, delicious
drinks, 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," stewed
tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisiana _cuisine_. From the
hands 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 I
regarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples about
eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of
one at a single sitting!
By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of
life upon a Louisiana plantation. "Ole Zip" was my instructor, as he
continued to be my constant attendant. When Scipio's talk tired me, I
had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,)
filled the little book-case in my apartment. I found among them nearly
every work that related to Louisiana--a proof of rare judgment on the
part of whoever had made the collection. Among others, I read the
graceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz. In the
former I could not help remarking that want of _vraisemblance_ which, in
my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be
absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not
known to him by actual observation.
With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish
exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. This remark
applies, without exception, to all the old writers on American
subjects--whether English, Spanish, or French--the chroniclers of
two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to
swallow both horse and rider! Indeed, it is difficult to conceive how
these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it
must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced "to
audit their accounts."
More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures and
melancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering that
American writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave
chevalier--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 sat
at my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.
The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; and
seated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautiful
French curtains thrown back, I commanded an extended view of the
country.
A gorgeous picture it presented. The pencil of the painter could
scarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring.
My window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow flood
before my face, its ripples glittering like gold. On its farther shore
I can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of the
sugar-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 and
verandah. It is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whose
frondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance. No
mountains meet the view--there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; but
the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the
sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.
On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists
principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besancon.
Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of
trees that form the shrubbery. I observe the _Magnolia_, with large
white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giant _nympha_ of
Guiana. Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are
seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers
themselves.
Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in
beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely
exotic, a native of Orient climes--though here long naturalised. Its
large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green,--for both shades
are observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging in
axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow
cherry-like fruits--some of which are already formed,--all point out its
species. It is one of the _meliaceae_, or honey-trees,--the
"Indian-lilac," or "Pride of China" (_Melia azedarach_). The
nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates
the estimation in which it is held. "Tree of Pre-eminence," lays the
poetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; "Tree of Paradise" (_Arbor
de Paraiso_), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. Such
are its titles.
Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. Among the
former I behold the "catalpa," with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped
blossoms; the "Osage orange," with its dark shining leaves; and the red
mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits.
Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (_Psidium
pyriferum_), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; the
tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of
pale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy--"the
queen who carries her crown upon her bosom"--and the legendary but
flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as
a standard to the height of thirty feet.
Scarcely exotic are the _yuccas_, with their spherical heads of sharp
radiating blades; scarcely exotic the _cactacea_, of varied forms--for
species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the
flora of a not far-distant region.
The scene before my window is not one of still life. Over the shrubbery
I can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of
these runs the Levee road. Although the foliage hinders me from a full
view 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 the
hats are usually palmetto, or "grass," or the costlier Panama, with
broad sun-protecting brims. Now and then a negro gallops past, turbaned
like a Turk; for the chequered Madras "toque" has much the appearance of
the Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. Now
and then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies in
their gossamer summer-dresses. I hear their clear ringing laughter; and
I know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. The travellers
upon the road--the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their
chorus songs--occasionally a boat booming past on the river--more
frequently a flat silently floating downward--a "keel," or a raft with
its red-shirted crew--are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.
Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my
window. The mock-bird (_Turdus polyglotta_) pipes from the top of the
tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (_Turdus migratorius_),
half intoxicated with the berries of the _melia_, rivals him in his
sweet song. The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red
cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower
shrubbery.
Now and then I catch a glimpse of the "ruby-throat," coming and going
like the sparkle of a gem. Its favourite haunt is among the red and
scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms
of the _bignonia_.
Such was the view from the window of my chamber. I thought I never
beheld so fair a scene. Perhaps I was not looking upon it with an
impartial eye. The love-light was in my glance, and that may have
imparted to it a portion of its _couleur de rose_. I could not look
upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone
was wanted to make the picture perfect.