Precious to the statesman are the moments he can snatch for the common
pleasures which are strewed over the earth--meant, apparently, for the
perpetual enjoyment of all its inhabitants. The child gathers flowers
in the meadow, or runs up and down a green bank, or looks for birds'
nests every spring day. The boy and girl hear the lark in the field and
the linnet in the wood, as a matter of course: they walk beside the
growing corn, and pass beneath the rookery, and feel nothing of its
being a privilege. The sailor beholds the stars every bright night of
the year, and is familiar with the thousand hues of the changing sea.
The soldier on his march sees the sun rise and set on mountain and
valley, plain and forest. The citizen, pent up in the centre of a
wide-built town, has his hour for play with his little ones, his
evenings for his wife and his friends. But for the statesman, none of
these are the pleasures of every day. Week after week, month after
month, he can have no eyes for the freshness of nature, no leisure for
small affairs, or for talk about things which cannot be called affairs
at all. He may gaze at pictures on his walls, and hear music from the
drawing-room, in the brief intervals of his labours; and he may now and
then be taken by surprise by a glimpse of the cool bright stars, or by
the waving of the boughs of some neighbouring tree. He may be beguiled
by the grace or the freak of some little child, or struck: by some
wandering flower scent in the streets, or some effect of sunlight on the
evening cloud. But with these few and rare exceptions, he loses sight
of the natural earth, and of its free intercourses, for weeks and months
together; and precious in proportion--precious beyond its utmost
anticipation--are his hours of holiday when at length they come. He
gazes at the crescent moon hanging above the woods, and at the long
morning shadows on the dewy grass, as if they would vanish before his
eyes. He is intoxicated with the gurgle of the brook upon the stones,
when he seeks the trout stream with his line and basket. The whirring
of the wild bird's wing upon the moor, the bursting of the chase from
cover, the creaking of the harvest wain--the song of the vine-dressers--
the laugh of the olive-gatherers--in every land where these sounds are
heard, they make a child once more of the statesman who may for once
have come forth to hear them. Sweeter still is the leisure hour with
children in the garden or the meadow, and the quiet stroll with wife or
sister in the evening, or the gay excursion during a whole day of
liberty. If Sunday evenings are sweet to the labourer whose toils
involve but little action of mind, how precious are his rarer holidays
to the state labourer, after the wear and tear of toil like his--after
his daily experience of intense thought, of anxiety, and fear! In the
path of such should spring the freshest grass, and on their heads should
fall the softest of the moonlight, and the balmiest of the airs of
heaven, if natural rewards are in any proportion to their purchase money
of toil.
The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were those
which he could spend with his wife and children, away from observing
eyes and listening ears. He was never long pent up in the city, or
detained by affairs within the walls of his palace. His business lay
abroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, on
horseback, throughout every part of the island. Admirable as were his
laws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents of
every description, there was no security for the working of his system
so good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people. The same
love which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort at
home. There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eager
to catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasures
was unwitnessed intercourse with his family.
At length, when Hedouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud from
another--when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain--it seemed to be
time for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, to
enjoy a little of it himself. He allowed his children, therefore, to
fix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round the
little island of Gonaives, which was a beautiful object from the windows
of the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.
The excursion had answered completely. General Vincent, leaving the
south of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived to
enjoy his honours in the presence of L'Ouverture and his family. Madame
Dessalines had come over from Saint Marc. As Afra was of the party,
Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a few
hours. Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paul
himself. He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he was
sent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him;
and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duck
and drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where he
was, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport. It was a day too soon
gone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed at
Pongaudin, at ten o'clock. The moon was high, the gardens looked
lovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloys
of the shrubbery.
"I want to know what you think," exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture, as they
emerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay,
clear and strong--"I want to ask you"--and as she spoke, she looked
round to see that no one was at hand--"whether you do not think that
General Vincent loves Aimee."
"I think he does. I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it."
"And are not you glad?"
"That partly depends on whether Aimee loves him. I doubt whether
Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the
matter as you are."
"Aimee is not one who will ever show herself too ready--Aimee is very
quiet--"
"Well, but, is she ready in her heart? Does she care about Vincent?"
"I do not know that she does quite, yet--though I think she likes him
very much, too. But surely she will love him--she must love him--so
much as he loves her--and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is,
in every way!"
"You think it so."
"Why, do not you? Consider how many years we have known him, and what
confidence you had in him when you sent him with our dear boys to Paris!
And now he has done great things in the south. He comes, covered with
glory, to ask us for our Aimee. What could be more flattering?"
"It was our child's future happiness that I was thinking of, when I
seemed to doubt. Vincent is full of good qualities; but he is so wholly
French that--"
"Not so French as Monsieur Pascal, who was born, brought up, and
employed at Paris; and you are pleased that he should marry Afra."
"Vincent is more French than Pascal, though he is a black. He is
devoted to Bonaparte--"
"What of that?" said Madame L'Ouverture, after a pause. "He is devoted
to you also. And are you not yourself devoted to France and to
Bonaparte? Do we not pray together for him every day of our lives?"
"Remember, Margot, to pray for him every day, as long as you live, if I
am separated from you by death or otherwise. Pray that such a blessing
may rest upon him as that he may be wise to see his duty, and strong to
do it. If he injures us, pray that he may be forgiven."
"I will," replied Margot, in a low voice; "but--"
She was lost in considering what this might mean.
"As for Vincent," resumed Toussaint, "my doubt is whether, with his
views and tastes, he ought to ally himself with a doomed man."
"Vincent is ambitious, my dear husband; and, even if he did not love our
child as he does, he might be anxious to ally himself with one so
powerful--so full of honours--with so very great a man as you. I would
not speak exactly so if we were not alone: but it is very true, now that
the Central Assembly has declared you supreme in the colony. Consider
what Vincent must think of that! And he has travelled so much in the
island, that he must have seen how you deserve all that is said of you.
He has seen how all the runaways have come down from the mountains, and
the pirates in from the reefs and the coves; and how they are all
honestly cultivating the fields, and fishing in the bays. He has seen
how rich the whole island is growing; and how contented, and
industrious, and honest, the people are, in this short time. He has
seen that all this is your work: and he may well be ambitious to be your
son-in-law."
"Unless he has the foresight to perceive, with all this, that I am a
doomed man."
"I thought you said so--I thought I heard that word before," said
Margot, in a trembling voice; "but I could not believe it."
Toussaint knew by her tone that some vague idea of evil agency--some
almost forgotten superstition was crossing her imagination: and he
hastened to explain.
"Do not imagine," said he, solemnly, "do not for a moment suppose that
God is not on our side--that He will for a moment forsake us. But it is
not always His pleasure that His servants should prosper, though their
good work prospers in the end. I firmly trust and believe that our
Father will not permit us to be made slaves again; but it may be His
will that I and others should fall in defending our freedom."
"But the wars are at an end. Your battles are all over, my love."
"How can we be sure of that, when Bonaparte has yet to learn what the
Assembly has done? Hedouville is on the way home, eager to report of
the blacks, while he is ignorant of their minds, and prejudiced about
their conduct. Monsieur Papalier and other planters are at Paris, at
the ear of Bonaparte, while his ear is already so quickened by jealousy,
that it takes in the lightest whisper against me and my race. How can
we say that my battles are over, love, when every new success and honour
makes this man, who ought to be my brother, yet more my foe?"
"Oh, write to him! Write to him, and tell him how you would have him be
a brother to you!"
"Have I not written twice, and had no reply but neglect? I wrote to him
to announce the earliest prospect of entire peace. I wrote again, to
explain my intercourse with his agent Roume, and requested his sanction
of what I had done. There has been no reply."
"Then write again. Write this very night!"
"I wrote yesterday, to inform him fully concerning the new constitution
framed by the Assembly. I told him that it should be put in force
provisionally, till the pleasure of his government is made known."
"Oh, then, that must bring an answer."
Toussaint was silent.
"He must send some sort of answer to that," pursued Margot. "What
answer do you think it will be?"
"You remember the great eagle that I shot, when we lived under the
mountains, Margot? Do you remember how the kids played in the pasture,
with the shadow of that huge eagle floating above them?"
Margot, trembling, pressed closer to her husband's side.
"You saw to-day," he continued, "that troop of gay dolphins, in the
smooth sea beyond the island. You saw the shark, with its glaring eyes,
opening its monstrous jaws, as it rose near the pretty creatures, and
hovered about them."
"But you shot the eagle," cried Margot; "and Denis wounded the shark."
"Heaven only knows how it may end with us," said Toussaint; "but we have
the shadow of Bonaparte's jealousy over us, and danger all about us.
The greater our prosperity, the more certain is it to bring all France
down upon us."
"Oh, can Bonaparte be so cruel?"
"I do not blame him for this our danger; and any future woe must all go
to the account of our former slavery. We negroes are ignorant, and have
been made loose, deceitful, and idle, by slavery. The whites have been
made tyrannical and unjust, by being masters. They believe us now
ambitious, rebellious, and revengeful, because it would be no wonder if
we were so. All this injustice comes of our former slavery. God forbid
that I should be unjust too, and lay the blame where it is not due! For
nothing done or feared in Saint Domingo do I blame Bonaparte."
"Then you think--Oh! say you think there is no danger for Placide and
Isaac. Bonaparte is so kind to them! Surely Placide and Isaac can be
in no danger!"
"There is no fear for their present safety, my love."
Toussaint would not for the world have told of his frequent daily
thought and nightly dream, as to what might be the fate of these
hostages, deliberately sent to France, and deliberately left there now.
He would not subject himself to entreaties respecting their return which
he dared not listen to, now that their recall would most certainly
excite suspicions of the fidelity of the blacks. Not to save his
children would L'Ouverture do an act to excite or confirm any distrust
of his people.
"Bonaparte is kind to them, as you say, Margot. And if Vincent should
win our Aimee, that will be another security for the lads; for no one
doubts his attachment to France."
"I hope Vincent will win her. But when will you send for the boys?
They have been gone very long. When will you send?"
"As soon as affairs will allow. Do not urge me, Margot. I think of it
day and night."
"Then there is some danger. You would not speak so if there were not.
Oh! my husband! marry Vincent to Aimee! You say that will be a
security."
"We must not forget Aimee herself, my love. If she should hereafter
find her heart torn between her lover and her parents--if the hour
should come for every one here to choose between Bonaparte and me, and
Vincent should still adore the First of the Whites, what will become of
the child of the First of the Blacks? Ought not her parents to have
foreseen such a struggle?"
"Alas! what is to become of us all, Toussaint?"
"Perhaps Genifrede is the happiest of our children, Margot. She looks
anxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heart
will be at rest."
"It never will," said. Margot, mournfully. "I think there is some evil
influence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear. She
still fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing. She enjoys nothing,
except when Moyse is by her side."
"Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.--I was proud
of him, Margot, last week, at Cap. I know his military talents, from
the day when we used to call the boy General Moyse. I saw by his eye,
when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered those
old days on the north shore. Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents in
that direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of another
kind. You know what a passionate lover he is."
"Yes, indeed. Never did I see such a lover!"
"Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation of
the hour, whatever it may be."
"Do you mean that he forgets Genifrede, when he is away from her?"
"I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him in
his work. I'm sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him about
home, which made him very happy. If I were to see him failing, as we
once feared he would--if I saw him yielding to his passions--to the
prejudices and passions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be,
`You forget Genifrede.' Moyse has yet much to learn--and much to
overcome; yet I look upon Genifrede as perhaps the most favoured of our
children. It is so great a thing to be so beloved!"
"It is indeed the greatest thing." Margot stopped, as a turn in the
walk brought them in view of the house. The long ranges of verandah
stood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of the
neighbouring trees. Every window of the large white mansion gave out a
stream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery shining of the
moon. "This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married,
Toussaint. Yet I was quite happy and contented. It is indeed the
greatest thing to be loved."
"And have you not that greatest thing here too? Do I not love you, my
Margot?"
"Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then--in
that single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against the
wall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before the
door. But, Toussaint, look at the difference now! Look at this
beautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces--and think of our
palace at Port-au-Prince--and think of the girls as they look at church,
or in the boat to-day--and how the country is up, rejoicing, wherever
you go--and how the Assembly consider you--think of all that has
happened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda! It is so fine--so
wonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that can
happen. I am sure the blessing of God is upon you, my husband; and you
shall not make me afraid."
"I would have none be afraid while God reigns, Margot. May you ever say
that you will not fear! The blessing of God may be on us now, love; but
it was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda. When I
lay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many things
I used to think of to say to you when I came home!"
"And so did I, as I kneeled at my washing by the brook-side, and you
were driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home in
the evening. How much there was to say at the end of those days!"
"It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to what
we are. We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gathering
plantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in these
shrubberies. We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in this
mansion, or in our palace. It is not for our own sakes that we have
been so raised."
"It is pleasant for our children."
"It is. And it is good for our race. It is to make us their servants.
Oh! Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart,
remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it would
not matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now. It is
because we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state are
necessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humble
us."
"I am sure you are not fond of show and state. You eat and drink, and
wait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the only
fine dress you like to wear. I am sure you had rather have no court."
"Very true. I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake of
the negroes who need it. To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we must
make sacrifices--perhaps some which you may little dream of, while
looking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children,
worshipped as they are. We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice into
all our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sake
of the blacks. The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrow
then!"
"I wish not to be proud," said Margot, trembling--"I pray that I may not
be proud; but it is difficult--Hark! there is a footstep! Let us turn
into this alley."
"Nay," said Toussaint; "it is Monsieur Pascal. No doubt I am wanted."
"For ever wanted!" exclaimed Margot. "No peace!"
"It was not so at Breda," said Toussaint, smiling. "I was just speaking
of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon
will shine.--News, Monsieur Pascal?"
"News from Cap," replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. "Bad
news! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost."
"There is light enough," said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight
fell upon the page.
While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L'Ouverture that messengers
had brought news of a quarrel at Cap--a quarrel between the races,
unhappily, about Hedouville's proclamation again;--a quarrel in which
several whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whites
were crying out for vengeance.
"No peace, as you say, Margot," observed Toussaint, when he had run over
the letters. "See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people
require! The curse of slavery is still upon us."
"How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?"
"I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing," said Toussaint
gloomily. "Monsieur Pascal--"
"Your horses are coming round," said Pascal, "and I shall be there
almost as soon as you."
"Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to
follow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Genifrede. Farewell!"
As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw
Genifrede standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found her
cold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that
she might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might be
able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once more
he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.
Again and again Aimee looked timidly forth, to see if she might venture
to approach her sister. Once Madame L'Ouverture went to her, and once
Therese; but she would say nothing but "Leave me!" From her they went
to Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject their
consolations. The night wore on wearily and drearily. When the moon
set, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, Madame
L'Ouverture went once more to Genifrede, determined to take her to her
own chamber, and win her to open her heart. But Genifrede was not
there, nor in her chamber. The mother's terror was great, till a
cultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L'Ouverture had gone a journey,
on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her. Denis's bed
was indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables. They
had fled to Moyse, no doubt. The hope was that they might fall in with
Father Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back.
There was another road, however: and by this road Therese declared that
she would follow.
"Yes, yes--go!" exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture. "She will heed you, if
any one. She thinks you understand her. She says--"
"She loves me," said Therese, sighing, "because--I hardly know--but
Heaven forgive me, if it be as she says!"
"She says you hate the whites," declared Aimee. "If it be so, may
indeed Heaven forgive you! Moyse hates the whites: and you see how
wretched we are!"
"Aimee, do not be hard. We are made to love--my heart inclines to all
who are about me:--but if there are some--if one cannot--Oh, Aimee, do
not be hard!"
"It is those who hate who are hard," said Aimee, whose tears fell fast,
in sympathy with Afra's. "Is it not so, Afra?"
"Well, I will go," said Therese, gently. "One kiss, Aimee, for
Genifrede's sake!"
"For your own," said Aimee, tenderly embracing her. "Bring back poor
Genifrede! Tell her we will devote ourselves to her."
"Bring back my child," said Margot. "Be sure you tell her that there
may be good news yet. Moyse may have explanations to give;--he may do
great things yet."
These words renewed Afra's weeping, in the midst of which Therese
hastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to their
chambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.