ILLUSTRATING THE TRACTIVE POWER OF BASIL
On the twenty-fourth day of December, 1803, at two o'clock, P.M., the
thermometer standing at 79, hygrometer 17, barometer 29.880, sky partly
clouded, wind west, light, the apothecary of the rue Royale, now
something more than a month established in his calling, might have been
seen standing behind his counter and beginning to show embarrassment in
the presence of a lady, who, since she had got her prescription filled
and had paid for it, ought in the conventional course of things to have
hurried out, followed by the pathetically ugly black woman who tarried
at the door as her attendant; for to be in an apothecary's shop at all
was unconventional. She was heavily veiled; but the sparkle of her eyes,
which no multiplication of veils could quite extinguish, her symmetrical
and well-fitted figure, just escaping smallness, her grace of movement,
and a soft, joyous voice, had several days before led Frowenfeld to the
confident conclusion that she was young and beautiful.
For this was now the third time she had come to buy; and, though the
purchases were unaccountably trivial, the purchaser seemed not so. On
the two previous occasions she had been accompanied by a slender girl,
somewhat taller than she, veiled also, of graver movement, a bearing
that seemed to Joseph almost too regal, and a discernible unwillingness
to enter or tarry. There seemed a certain family resemblance between her
voice and that of the other, which proclaimed them--he incautiously
assumed--sisters. This time, as we see, the smaller, and probably elder,
came alone.
She still held in her hand the small silver which Frowenfeld had given
her in change, and sighed after the laugh they had just enjoyed together
over a slip in her English. A very grateful sip of sweet the laugh was
to the all but friendless apothecary, and the embarrassment that rushed
in after it may have arisen in part from a conscious casting about in
his mind for something--anything--that might prolong her stay an
instant. He opened his lips to speak; but she was quicker than he, and
said, in a stealthy way that seemed oddly unnecessary:
"You 'ave some basilic?"
She accompanied her words with a little peeping movement, directing his
attention, through the open door, to his box of basil, on the floor in
the rear room.
Frowenfeld stepped back to it, cut half the bunch and returned, with the
bold intention of making her a present of it; but as he hastened back to
the spot he had left, he was astonished to see the lady disappearing
from his farthest front door, followed by her negress.
"Did she change her mind, or did she misunderstand me?" he asked
himself; and, in the hope that she might return for the basil, he put it
in water in his back room.
The day being, as the figures have already shown, an unusually mild one,
even for a Louisiana December, and the finger of the clock drawing by
and by toward the last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of Frowenfeld's
townsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing, some sitting,
about his front door, and all discussing the popular topics of the day.
For it might have been anticipated that, in a city where so very little
English was spoken and no newspaper published except that beneficiary
of eighty subscribers, the "Moniteur de la Louisiane," the apothecary's
shop in the rue Royale would be the rendezvous for a select company of
English-speaking gentlemen, with a smart majority of physicians.
The Cession had become an accomplished fact. With due drum-beatings and
act-reading, flag-raising, cannonading and galloping of aides-de-camp,
Nouvelle Orléans had become New Orleans, and Louisiane was Louisiana.
This afternoon, the first week of American jurisdiction was only
something over half gone, and the main topic of public debate was still
the Cession. Was it genuine? and, if so, would it stand?
"Mark my words," said one, "the British flag will be floating over this
town within ninety days!" and he went on whittling the back of
his chair.
From this main question, the conversation branched out to the subject of
land titles. Would that great majority of Spanish titles, derived from
the concessions of post-commandants and others of minor authority,
hold good?
"I suppose you know what ---- thinks about it?"
"No."
"Well, he has quietly purchased the grant made by Carondelet to the
Marquis of ----, thirty thousand acres, and now says the grant is two
hundred _and_ thirty thousand. That is one style of men Governor
Claiborne is going to have on his hands. The town will presently be as
full of them as my pocket is of tobacco crumbs,--every one of them with
a Spanish grant as long as Clark's ropewalk and made up since the rumor
of the Cession."
"I hear that some of Honoré Grandissime's titles are likely to turn out
bad,--some of the old Brahmin properties and some of the
Mandarin lands."
"Fudge!" said Dr. Keene.
There was also the subject of rotation in office. Would this provisional
governor-general himself be able to stand fast? Had not a man better
temporize a while, and see what Ex-Governor-general Casa Calvo and
Trudeau were going to do? Would not men who sacrificed old prejudices,
braved the popular contumely, and came forward and gave in their
allegiance to the President's appointee, have to take the chances of
losing their official positions at last? Men like Camille Brahmin, for
instance, or Charlie Mandarin: suppose Spain or France should get the
province back, then where would they be?
"One of the things I pity most in this vain world," drawled Doctor
Keene, "is a hive of patriots who don't know where to swarm."
The apothecary was drawn into the discussion--at least he thought he
was. Inexperience is apt to think that Truth will be knocked down and
murdered unless she comes to the rescue. Somehow, Frowenfeld's really
excellent arguments seemed to give out more heat than light. They were
merciless; their principles were not only lofty to dizziness, but
precipitous, and their heights unoccupied, and--to the common
sight--unattainable. In consequence, they provoked hostility and even
resentment. With the kindest, the most honest, and even the most modest,
intentions, he found himself--to his bewilderment and surprise--sniffed
at by the ungenerous, frowned upon by the impatient, and smiled down by
the good-natured in a manner that brought sudden blushes of exasperation
to his face, and often made him ashamed to find himself going over these
sham battles again in much savageness of spirit, when alone with his
books; or, in moments of weakness, casting about for such unworthy
weapons as irony and satire. In the present debate, he had just provoked
a sneer that made his blood leap and his friends laugh, when Doctor
Keene, suddenly rising and beckoning across the street, exclaimed:
"Oh! Agricole! Agricole! _venez ici_; we want you."
A murmur of vexed protest arose from two or three.
"He's coming," said the whittler, who had also beckoned.
"Good evening, Citizen Fusilier," said Doctor Keene. "Citizen Fusilier,
allow me to present my friend, Professor Frowenfeld--yes, you are a
professor--yes, you are. He is one of your sort, Citizen Fusilier, a man
of thorough scientific education. I believe on my soul, sir, he knows
nearly as much as you do!"
The person who confronted the apothecary was a large, heavily built, but
well-molded and vigorous man, of whom one might say that he was adorned
with old age. His brow was dark, and furrowed partly by time and partly
by a persistent, ostentatious frown. His eyes were large, black and
bold, and the gray locks above them curled short and harsh like the
front of a bull. His nose was fine and strong, and if there was any
deficiency in mouth or chin, it was hidden by a beard that swept down
over his broad breast like the beard of a prophet. In his dress, which
was noticeably soiled, the fashions of three decades were hinted at; he
seemed to have donned whatever he thought his friends would most have
liked him to leave off.
"Professor," said the old man, extending something like the paw of a
lion, and giving Frowenfeld plenty of time to become thoroughly awed,
"this is a pleasure as magnificent as unexpected! A scientific man?--in
Louisiana?" He looked around upon the doctors as upon a
graduating class.
"Professor, I am rejoiced!" He paused again, shaking the apothecary's
hand with great ceremony. "I do assure you, sir, I dislike to relinquish
your grasp. Do me the honor to allow me to become your friend! I
congratulate my downtrodden country on the acquisition of such a
citizen! I hope, sir,--at least I might have hoped, had not Louisiana
just passed into the hands of the most clap-trap government in the
universe, notwithstanding it pretends to be a republic,--I might have
hoped that you had come among us to fasten the lie direct upon a late
author, who writes of us that 'the air of this region is deadly to
the Muses.'"
"He didn't say that?" asked one of the debaters, with pretended
indignation.
"He did, sir, after eating our bread!"
"And sucking our sugar-cane, too, no doubt!" said the wag; but the old
man took no notice.
Frowenfeld, naturally, was not anxious to reply, and was greatly
relieved to be touched on the elbow by a child with a picayune in one
hand and a tumbler in the other. He escaped behind the counter and
gladly remained there.
"Citizen Fusilier," asked one of the gossips, "what has the new
government to do with the health of the Muses?"
"It introduces the English tongue," said the old man, scowling.
"Oh, well," replied the questioner, "the Creoles will soon learn the
language."
"English is not a language, sir; it is a jargon! And when this young
simpleton, Claiborne, attempts to cram it down the public windpipe in
the courts, as I understand he intends, he will fail! Hah! sir, I know
men in this city who would rather eat a dog than speak English! I speak
it, but I also speak Choctaw."
"The new land titles will be in English."
"They will spurn his rotten titles. And if he attempts to invalidate
their old ones, why, let him do it! Napoleon Buonaparte" (Italian
pronounciation) "will make good every arpent within the next two years.
_Think so?_ I know it! _How?_ H-I perceive it! H-I hope the yellow fever
may spare you to witness it."
A sullen grunt from the circle showed the "citizen" that he had presumed
too much upon the license commonly accorded his advanced age, and by way
of a diversion he looked around for Frowenfeld to pour new flatteries
upon. But Joseph, behind his counter, unaware of either the offense or
the resentment, was blushing with pleasure before a visitor who had
entered by the side door farthest from the company.
"Gentlemen," said Agricola, "h-my dear friends, you must not expect an
old Creole to like anything in comparison with _la belle langue_."
"Which language do you call _la belle?_" asked Doctor Keene, with
pretended simplicity.
The old man bent upon him a look of unspeakable contempt, which nobody
noticed. The gossips were one by one stealing a glance toward that which
ever was, is and must be an irresistible lodestone to the eyes of all
the sons of Adam, to wit, a chaste and graceful complement of--skirts.
Then in a lower tone they resumed their desultory conversation.
It was the seeker after basil who stood before the counter, holding in
her hand, with her purse, the heavy veil whose folds had before
concealed her features.