WAS IT HONORÉ GRANDISSIME?
A Creole gentleman, on horseback one morning with some practical object
in view,--drainage, possibly,--had got what he sought,--the evidence of
his own eyes on certain points,--and now moved quietly across some old
fields toward the town, where more absorbing interests awaited him in
the Rue Toulouse; for this Creole gentleman was a merchant, and because
he would presently find himself among the appointments and restraints of
the counting-room, he heartily gave himself up, for the moment, to the
surrounding influences of nature.
It was late in November; but the air was mild and the grass and foliage
green and dewy. Wild flowers bloomed plentifully and in all directions;
the bushes were hung, and often covered, with vines of sprightly green,
sprinkled thickly with smart-looking little worthless berries, whose
sparkling complacency the combined contempt of man, beast and bird
could not dim. The call of the field-lark came continually out of the
grass, where now and then could be seen his yellow breast; the orchard
oriole was executing his fantasias in every tree; a covey of partridges
ran across the path close under the horse's feet, and stopped to look
back almost within reach of the riding-whip; clouds of starlings, in
their odd, irresolute way, rose from the high bulrushes and settled
again, without discernible cause; little wandering companies of sparrows
undulated from hedge to hedge; a great rabbit-hawk sat alone in the top
of a lofty pecan-tree; that petted rowdy, the mocking-bird, dropped down
into the path to offer fight to the horse, and, failing in that, flew up
again and drove a crow into ignominious retirement beyond the plain;
from a place of flags and reeds a white crane shot upward, turned, and
then, with the slow and stately beat peculiar to her wing, sped away
until, against the tallest cypress of the distant forest, she became a
tiny white speck on its black, and suddenly disappeared, like one
flake of snow.
The scene was altogether such as to fill any hearty soul with impulses
of genial friendliness and gentle candor; such a scene as will sometimes
prepare a man of the world, upon the least direct incentive, to throw
open the windows of his private thought with a freedom which the
atmosphere of no counting-room or drawing-room tends to induce.
The young merchant--he was young--felt this. Moreover, the matter of
business which had brought him out had responded to his inquiring eye
with a somewhat golden radiance; and your true man of business--he who
has reached that elevated pitch of serene, good-natured reserve which is
of the high art of his calling--is never so generous with his
pennyworths of thought as when newly in possession of some little secret
worth many pounds.
By and by the behavior of the horse indicated the near presence of a
stranger; and the next moment the rider drew rein under an immense
live-oak where there was a bit of paling about some graves, and
raised his hat.
"Good-morning, sir." But for the silent r's, his pronunciation was
exact, yet evidently an acquired one. While he spoke his salutation in
English, he was thinking in French: "Without doubt, this rather
oversized, bareheaded, interrupted-looking convalescent who stands
before me, wondering how I should know in what language to address him,
is Joseph Frowenfeld, of whom Doctor Keene has had so much to say to me.
A good face--unsophisticated, but intelligent, mettlesome and honest. He
will make his mark; it will probably be a white one; I will subscribe to
the adventure.
"You will excuse me, sir?" he asked after a pause, dismounting, and
noticing, as he did so, that Frowenfeld's knees showed recent contact
with the turf; "I have, myself, some interest in two of these graves,
sir, as I suppose--you will pardon my freedom--you have in the
other four."
He approached the old but newly whitened paling, which encircled the
tree's trunk as well as the six graves about it. There was in his face
and manner a sort of impersonal human kindness, well calculated to
engage a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread of
gratuitous benevolence or pity.
"Yes, sir," said the convalescent, and ceased; but the other leaned
against the palings in an attitude of attention, and he felt induced to
add: "I have buried here my father, mother, and two sisters,"--he had
expected to continue in an unemotional tone; but a deep respiration
usurped the place of speech. He stooped quickly to pick up his hat, and,
as he rose again and looked into his listener's face, the respectful,
unobtrusive sympathy there expressed went directly to his heart.
"Victims of the fever," said the Creole with great gravity. "How did
that happen?"
As Frowenfeld, after a moment's hesitation, began to speak, the stranger
let go the bridle of his horse and sat down upon the turf. Joseph
appreciated the courtesy and sat down, too; and thus the ice was broken.
The immigrant told his story; he was young--often younger than his
years--and his listener several years his senior; but the Creole, true
to his blood, was able at any time to make himself as young as need be,
and possessed the rare magic of drawing one's confidence without seeming
to do more than merely pay attention. It followed that the story was
told in full detail, including grateful acknowledgment of the goodness
of an unknown friend, who had granted this burial-place on condition
that he should not be sought out for the purpose of thanking him.
So a considerable time passed by, in which acquaintance grew with
delightful rapidity.
"What will you do now?" asked the stranger, when a short silence had
followed the conclusion of the story.
"I hardly know. I am taken somewhat by surprise. I have not chosen a
definite course in life--as yet. I have been a general student, but have
not prepared myself for any profession; I am not sure what I shall be."
A certain energy in the immigrant's face half redeemed this childlike
speech. Yet the Creole's lips, as he opened them to reply, betrayed
amusement; so he hastened to say:
"I appreciate your position, Mr. Frowenfeld,--excuse me, I believe you
said that was your father's name. And yet,"--the shadow of an amused
smile lurked another instant about a corner of his mouth,--"if you would
understand me kindly I would say, take care--"
What little blood the convalescent had rushed violently to his face, and
the Creole added:
"I do not insinuate you would willingly be idle. I think I know what you
want. You want to make up your mind _now_ what you will _do_, and at
your leisure what you will _be_; eh? To be, it seems to me," he said in
summing up,--"that to be is not so necessary as to do, eh? or am
I wrong?"
"No, sir," replied Joseph, still red, "I was feeling that just now. I
will do the first thing that offers; I can dig."
The Creole shrugged and pouted.
"And be called a _dos brile_--a 'burnt-back.'"
"But"--began the immigrant, with overmuch warmth.
The other interrupted him, shaking his head slowly and smiling as he
spoke.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, it is of no use to talk; you may hold in contempt the
Creole scorn of toil--just as I do, myself, but in theory, my-de'-seh,
not too much in practice. You cannot afford to be _entirely_ different
from the community in which you live; is that not so?"
"A friend of mine," said Frowenfeld, "has told me I must 'compromise.'"
"You must get acclimated," responded the Creole; "not in body only, that
you have done; but in mind--in taste--in conversation--and in
convictions too, yes, ha, ha! They all do it--all who come. They hold
out a little while--a very little; then they open their stores on
Sunday, they import cargoes of Africans, they bribe the officials, they
smuggle goods, they have colored housekeepers. My-de'-seh, the water
must expect to take the shape of the bucket; eh?"
"One need not be water!" said the immigrant.
"Ah!" said the Creole, with another amiable shrug, and a wave of his
hand; "certainly you do not suppose that is my advice--that those things
have my approval."
Must we repeat already that Frowenfeld was abnormally young? "Why have
they not your condemnation?" cried he with an earnestness that made the
Creole's horse drop the grass from his teeth and wheel half around.
The answer came slowly and gently.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, my habit is to buy cheap and sell at a profit. My
condemnation? My-de'-seh, there is no sa-a-ale for it! it spoils the
sale of other goods my-de'-seh. It is not to condemn that you want; you
want to suc-_ceed_. Ha, ha, ha! you see I am a merchant, eh? My-de'-seh,
can _you_ afford not to succeed?"
The speaker had grown very much in earnest in the course of these few
words, and as he asked the closing question, arose, arranged his horse's
bridle and, with his elbow in the saddle, leaned his handsome head on
his equally beautiful hand. His whole appearance was a dazzling
contradiction of the notion that a Creole is a person of mixed blood.
"I think I can!" replied the convalescent, with much spirit, rising with
more haste than was good, and staggering a moment.
The horseman laughed outright.
"Your principle is the best, I cannot dispute that; but whether you can
act it out--reformers do not make money, you know." He examined his
saddle-girth and began to tighten it. "One can condemn--too
cautiously--by a kind of--elevated cowardice (I have that fault); but
one can also condemn too rashly; I remember when I did so. One of the
occupants of those two graves you see yonder side by side--I think might
have lived longer if I had not spoken so rashly for his rights. Did you
ever hear of Bras-Coupé, Mr. Frowenfeld?"
"I have heard only the name."
"Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld, _there_ was a bold man's chance to denounce wrong
and oppression! Why, that negro's death changed the whole channel of my
convictions."
The speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with frowning earnestness;
he dropped it and smiled at himself.
"Do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned Philadelphia
'_negrophiles_'; I am a merchant, my-de'-seh, a good subject of His
Catholic Majesty, a Creole of the Creoles, and so forth, and so
forth. Come!"
He slapped the saddle.
To have seen and heard them a little later as they moved toward the
city, the Creole walking before the horse, and Frowenfeld sitting in the
saddle, you might have supposed them old acquaintances. Yet the
immigrant was wondering who his companion might be. He had not
introduced himself--seemed to think that even an immigrant might know
his name without asking. Was it Honoré Grandissime? Joseph was tempted
to guess so; but the initials inscribed on the silver-mounted pommel of
the fine old Spanish saddle did not bear out that conjecture.
The stranger talked freely. The sun's rays seemed to set all the
sweetness in him a-working, and his pleasant worldly wisdom foamed up
and out like fermenting honey.
By and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane where the path turned
alternately to right and left among some wild acacias. The Creole waved
his hand toward one of them and said:
"Now, Mr. Frowenfeld, you see? one man walks where he sees another's
track; that is what makes a path; but you want a man, instead of passing
around this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands and
pull it up by the roots."
"But a man armed with the truth is far from being barehanded," replied
the convalescent, and they went on, more and more interested at every
step,--one in this very raw imported material for an excellent man, the
other in so striking an exponent of a unique land and people.
They came at length to the crossing of two streets, and the Creole,
pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon the bridle.
Frowenfeld dismounted.
"Do we part here?" asked the Creole. "Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I hope to
meet you soon again."
"Indeed, I thank you, sir," said Joseph, "and I hope we shall,
although--"
The Creole paused with a foot in the stirrup and interrupted him with a
playful gesture; then as the horse stirred, he mounted and drew in
the rein.
"I know; you want to say you cannot accept my philosophy and I cannot
appreciate yours; but I appreciate it more than you think, my-de'-seh."
The convalescent's smile showed much fatigue.
The Creole extended his hand; the immigrant seized it, wished to ask his
name, but did not; and the next moment he was gone.
The convalescent walked meditatively toward his quarters, with a faint
feeling of having been found asleep on duty and awakened by a passing
stranger. It was an unpleasant feeling, and he caught himself more than
once shaking his head. He stopped, at length, and looked back; but the
Creole was long since out of sight. The mortified self-accuser little
knew how very similar a feeling that vanished person was carrying away
with him. He turned and resumed his walk, wondering who Monsieur might
be, and a little impatient with himself that he had not asked.
"It is Honoré Grandissime; it must be he!" he said.
Yet see how soon he felt obliged to change his mind.