PARALYSIS
As we have said, the story of Bras-Coupé was told that day three times:
to the Grandissime beauties once, to Frowenfeld twice. The fair
Grandissimes all agreed, at the close; that it was pitiful. Specially,
that it was a great pity to have hamstrung Bras-Coupé, a man who even in
his cursing had made an exception in favor of the ladies. True, they
could suggest no alternative; it was undeniable that he had deserved his
fate; still, it seemed a pity. They dispersed, retired and went to sleep
confirmed in this sentiment. In Frowenfeld the story stirred
deeper feelings.
On this same day, while it was still early morning, Honoré Grandissime,
f.m.c., with more than even his wonted slowness of step and propriety of
rich attire, had reappeared in the shop of the rue Royale. He did not
need to say he desired another private interview. Frowenfeld ushered him
silently and at once into his rear room, offered him a chair (which he
accepted), and sat down before him.
In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that Frowenfeld had
been three times to the dwelling of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he further
intimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ had
applied for admission--had been refused. He had laid open his heart to
the apothecary's eyes--"It may have been unwisely--"
Frowenfeld interrupted him; Palmyre had been ill for several days;
Doctor Keene--who, Mr. Grandissime probably knew, was her physician--
The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to explain that Doctor Keene,
while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take the
care of this one case until he could himself resume it. So there, in a
word, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had not, been admitted
to her presence.
As obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, a
load of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as this
explanation was concluded. Yet he only sat in meditation before his
tenant, who regarded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of his
energetic impulses, he suddenly said:
"Mr. Grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments,
leisure and wealth; why" (clenchings his fists and frowning),
"why do you not give yourself--your
time--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of the
downtrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels you
to rank yourself?"
The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, and
when he did, it was slowly and dejectedly.
"He canno' be," he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood,
he added: "He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause." He went on from
this with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, with
a plaintiveness that seemed to Frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasons
why the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast his
life, would never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced to the
meanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement was
this: that that people was not a people. Their cause--was in Africa.
They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here the
struggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war.
"You speak of them in the third person," said Frowenfeld.
"Ah ham nod a slev."
"Are you certain of that?" asked the tenant.
His landlord looked at him.
"It seems to me," said Frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the free
quadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. Your men, for a little
property, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselves
be shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham
freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattens
them into the dirt like grass under a slab. I would rather be a runaway
in the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. As your class
stands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--you
are--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning to
philanthropists!"
The free man of color slowly arose.
"I trust you know," said Frowenfeld, "that I say nothing in offence."
"Havery word is tru'," replied the sad man.
"Mr. Grandissime," said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again
into his seat, "I know you are a broken-hearted man."
The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up.
"And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of
patient and sustained self-sacrifice. You have only those things to lose
which grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. Give
yourself to your people--to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan,
under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common."
The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered:
"Ah cannod be one Toussaint l'Ouverture. Ah cannod trah to be. Hiv I
trah, I h-only s'all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupé."
"You entirely misunderstand me," said Frowenfeld in quick response. "I
have no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. I believe
that to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife and
the way of peace. I can imagine a man in your place, going about among
his people, stirring up their minds to a noble discontent, laying out
his means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case might
seem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, their
training in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the prouder
caste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevail
with them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all his
cunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great and
petty--"
The quadroon motioned "enough." There was a heat in his eyes which
Frowenfeld had never seen before.
"M'sieu'," he said, "waid till Agricola Fusilier ees keel."
"Do you mean 'dies'?"
"No," insisted the quadroon; "listen." And with slow, painstaking phrase
this man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste)
told--as Frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said "listen"--such
part of the story of Bras-Coupé as showed how he came by his deadly
hatred of Agricola.
"Tale me," said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, "w'y deen
Bras Coupé mague dad curze on Agricola Fusilier? Becoze Agricola ees one
sorcier! Elz 'e bin dade sinz long tamm."
The speaker's gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be,
would have brought the event to pass.
As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid a
hand upon his visitor's arm.
"Is there no one who can make peace between you?"
The landlord shook his head.
"'Tis impossib'. We don' wand."
"I mean," insisted Frowenfeld, "Is there no man who can stand between
you and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?"
The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, but
each knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possible
peacemaker, was Honoré Grandissime.
"Should the opportunity offer," continued Joseph, "may I speak a word
for you myself?"
The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, and
departed repeating again:
"'Tis impossib'. We don' wand."
"Palsied," murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,--"like
all of them."
Frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day having
passed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tell
his good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissime
mansion. As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, the
fairer Honoré called him out into the moonlight.
"Withered," the student was saying audibly to himself, "not in the
shadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man."
"Who is withered?" pleasantly demanded Honoré. The apothecary started
slightly.
"Did I speak? How do you do, sir? I meant the free quadroons."
"Including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?"
"Yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of Bras-Coupé."
M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh sound
entirely genuine.
"Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld," said the Creole, "Get your
greatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; I will tell you the
same story."
It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return.
Just before they reached it, Honoré stopped under the huge street-lamp,
whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on the
ground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was a tall, unfinished
building at his back.
"Mr Frowenfeld,"--he struck the stone with his cane,--"this stone is
Bras-Coupé--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools."
He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a man
of Frowenfeld's quiet mind.
As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hear
his companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it could
be--for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man as
he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chill
and dangerous hours. "What does he want with me?" The thought was so
natural that it was no miracle the Creole read it.
"Well," said he, smiling and taking an attitude, "you are a great man
for causes, Mr. Frowenfeld; but me, I am for results, ha, ha! You may
ponder the philosophy of Bras-Coupé in your study, but _I_ have got to
get rid of his results, me. You know them."
"You tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace," said
Frowenfeld.
"Yes--yes--that is his results; but good night, Mr. Frowenfeld."
"Good night, sir."