The Colonel's Dream

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  _Six_

  The colonel spent a delightful evening in the company of his friends.The supper was typically Southern, and the cook evidently a good one.There was smothered chicken, light biscuit, fresh eggs, poundcake andtea. The tablecloth and napkins were of fine linen. That they weresoft and smooth the colonel noticed, but he did not observe closelyenough to see that they had been carefully darned in many places. Thesilver spoons were of fine, old-fashioned patterns, worn very thin--sothin that even the colonel was struck by their fragility. Howcharming, he thought, to prefer the simple dignity of the past to thevulgar ostentation of a more modern time. He had once dined off agolden dinner service, at the table of a multi-millionaire, and hadnot enjoyed the meal half so much. The dining-room looked out upon thegarden and the perfume of lilac and violet stole in through the openwindows. A soft-footed, shapely, well-trained negro maid, in whitecap and apron, waited deftly upon the table; a woman of seriouscountenance--so serious that the colonel wondered if she were apresent-day type of her race, and if the responsibilities of freedomhad robbed her people of their traditional light-heartedness andgaiety.

  After supper they sat out upon the piazza. The lights within wereturned down low, so that the moths and other insects might not beattracted. Sweet odours from the garden filled the air. Through theelms the stars, brighter than in more northern latitudes, looked outfrom a sky of darker blue; so bright were they that the colonel,looking around for the moon, was surprised to find that luminaryinvisible. On the green background of the foliage the fireflies glowedand flickered. There was no strident steam whistle from factory ortrain to assault the ear, no rumble of passing cabs or street cars.Far away, in some distant part of the straggling town, a sweet-tonedbell sounded the hour of an evening church service.

  "To see you is a breath from the past, Henry," said Mrs. Treadwell."You are a fine, strong man now, but I can see you as you were, theday you went away to the war, in your new gray uniform, on your finegray horse, at the head of your company. You were going to take Peterwith you, but he had got his feet poisoned with poison ivy, andcouldn't walk, and your father gave you another boy, and Peter criedlike a baby at being left behind. I can remember how proud you were,and how proud your father was, when he gave you his sword--yourgrandfather's sword, and told you never to draw it or sheath it,except in honour; and how, when you were gone, the old gentleman shuthimself up for two whole days and would speak to no one. He was gladand sorry--glad to send you to fight for your country, and sorry tosee you go--for you were his only boy."

  The colonel thrilled with love and regret. His father had loved him,he knew very well, and he had not visited his tomb for twenty-fiveyears. How far away it seemed too, the time when he had thought ofthe Confederacy as his country! And the sword, his grandfather'ssword, had been for years stored away in a dark closet. His father hadkept it displayed upon the drawing-room wall, over the table on whichthe family Bible had rested.

  Mrs. Treadwell was silent for a moment.

  "Times have changed since then, Henry. We have lost a great deal,although we still have enough--yes, we have plenty to live upon, andto hold up our heads among the best."

  Miss Laura and Graciella, behind the colonel's back, exchanged meaningglances. How well they knew how little they had to live upon!

  "That is quite evident," said the colonel, glancing through the windowat the tasteful interior, "and I am glad to see that you have fared sowell. My father lost everything."

  "We were more fortunate," said Mrs. Treadwell. "We were obliged to letBelleview go when Major Treadwell died--there were debts to be paid,and we were robbed as well--but we have several rentable properties intown, and an estate in the country which brings us in an income. Butthings are not quite what they used to be!"

  Mrs. Treadwell sighed, and nodded. Miss Laura sat in silence--apensive silence. She, too, remembered the time gone by, but unlike hermother's life, her own had only begun as the good times were ending.Her mother, in her youth, had seen something of the world. Thedaughter of a wealthy planter, she had spent her summers at Saratoga,had visited New York and Philadelphia and New Orleans, and had taken avoyage to Europe. Graciella was young and beautiful. Her prince mightcome, might be here even now, if this grand gentleman should chance tothrow the handkerchief. But she, Laura, had passed her youth in atransition period; the pleasures neither of memory nor of hope hadbeen hers--except such memories as came of duty well performed, andsuch hopes as had no root in anything earthly or corruptible.

  Graciella was not in a reflective mood, and took up the burden of theconversation where her grandmother had dropped it. Her thoughts werenot of the past, but of the future. She asked many eager questions ofNew York. Was it true that ladies at the Waldorf-Astoria always wentto dinner in low-cut bodices with short sleeves, and was evening dressalways required at the theatre? Did the old Knickerbocker familiesrecognise the Vanderbilts? Were the Rockefellers anything at allsocially? Did he know Ward McAllister, at that period the Beau Brummelof the metropolitan smart set? Was Fifth Avenue losing itspre-eminence? On what days of the week was the Art Museum free to thepublic? What was the fare to New York, and the best quarter of thecity in which to inquire for a quiet, select boarding house where aSouthern lady of refinement and good family might stay at a reasonableprice, and meet some nice people? And would he recommend stenographyor magazine work, and which did he consider preferable, as a careerwhich such a young lady might follow without injury to her socialstanding?

  The colonel, with some amusement, answered these artless inquiries asbest he could; they came as a refreshing foil to the sweet butmelancholy memories of the past. They were interesting, too, from thisvery pretty but very ignorant little girl in this backward littleSouthern town. She was a flash of sunlight through a soft gray cloud;a vigorous shoot from an old moss-covered stump--she was life, younglife, the vital principle, breaking through the cumbering envelope,and asserting its right to reach the sun.

  After a while a couple of very young ladies, friends of Graciella,dropped in. They were introduced to the colonel, who found that he hadknown their fathers, or their mothers, or their grandfathers, or theirgrandmothers, and that many of them were more or less distantlyrelated. A little later a couple of young men, friends of Graciella'sfriends--also very young, and very self-conscious--made theirappearance, and were duly introduced, in person and by pedigree. Theconversation languished for a moment, and then one of the young ladiessaid something about music, and one of the young men remarked that hehad brought over a new song. Graciella begged the colonel to excusethem, and led the way to the parlour, followed by her young friends.

  Mrs. Treadwell had fallen asleep, and was leaning comfortably back inher armchair. Miss Laura excused herself, brought a veil, and laid itsoftly across her mother's face.

  "The night air is not damp," she said, "and it is pleasanter for herhere than in the house. She won't mind the music; she is accustomed toit."

  Graciella went to the piano and with great boldness of touch struckthe bizarre opening chords and then launched into the grotesque wordsof the latest New York "coon song," one of the first and worst of itskind, and the other young people joined in the chorus.

  It was the first discordant note. At home, the colonel subscribed tothe opera, and enjoyed the music. A plantation song of the olden time,as he remembered it, borne upon the evening air, when sung by thetired slaves at the end of their day of toil, would have beenpleasing, with its simple melody, its plaintive minor strains, itsnotes of vague longing; but to the colonel's senses there was to-nightno music in this hackneyed popular favourite. In a metropolitan musichall, gaudily bedecked and brilliantly lighted, it would have beentolerable from the lips of a black-face comedian. But in this quietplace, upon this quiet night, and in the colonel's mood, it seemedlike profanation. The song of the coloured girl, who had dreamt thatshe dwelt in marble halls, and the rest, had been less incongruous; ithad at least breathed aspiration.

  Mrs. Treadwell was still dozing in her arm
chair. The colonel,beckoning Miss Laura to follow him, moved to the farther end of thepiazza, where they might not hear the singers and the song.

  "It is delightful here, Laura. I seem to have renewed my youth. Iyield myself a willing victim to the charm of the old place, the oldways, the old friends."

  "You see our best side, Henry. Night has a kindly hand, that coversour defects, and the starlight throws a glamour over everything. Yousee us through a haze of tender memories. When you have been here aweek, the town will seem dull, and narrow, and sluggish. You will findus ignorant and backward, worshipping our old idols, and setting up nonew ones; our young men leaving us, and none coming in to take theirplace. Had you, and men like you, remained with us, we might havehoped for better things."

  "And perhaps not, Laura. Environment controls the making of men. Somerise above it, the majority do not. We might have followed in thewell-worn rut. But let us not spoil this delightful evening byspeaking of anything sad or gloomy. This is your daily life; to me itis like a scene from a play, over which one sighs to see the curtainfall--all enchantment, all light, all happiness."

  But even while he spoke of light, a shadow loomed up beside them. Thecoloured woman who had waited at the table came around the house fromthe back yard and stood by the piazza railing.

  "Miss Laura!" she called, softly and appealingly. "Kin you come hyuh aminute?"

  "What is it, Catherine?"

  "Kin I speak just a word to you, ma'am? It's somethin'partic'lar--mighty partic'lar, ma'am."

  "Excuse me a minute, Henry," said Miss Laura, rising with evidentreluctance.

  She stepped down from the piazza, and walked beside the woman down oneof the garden paths. The colonel, as he sat there smoking--with MissLaura's permission he had lighted a cigar--could see the light stuffof the lady's gown against the green background, though she waswalking in the shadow of the elms. From the murmur which came to him,he gathered that the black woman was pleading earnestly, passionately,and he could hear Miss Laura's regretful voice, as she closed theinterview:

  "I am sorry, Catherine, but it is simply impossible. I would if Icould, but I cannot."

  The woman came back first, and as she passed by an open window, thelight fell upon her face, which showed signs of deep distress,hardening already into resignation or despair. She was probably introuble of some sort, and her mistress had not been able, doubtlessfor some good reason, to help her out. This suspicion was borne out bythe fact that when Miss Laura came back to him, she too seemedtroubled. But since she did not speak of the matter, the colonel gaveno sign of his own thoughts.

  "You have said nothing of yourself, Laura," he said, wishing to diverther mind from anything unpleasant. "Tell me something of your ownlife--it could only be a cheerful theme, for you have means andleisure, and a perfect environment. Tell me of your occupations, yourhopes, your aspirations."

  "There is little enough to tell, Henry," she returned, with a suddencourage, "but that little shall be the truth. You will find it out, ifyou stay long in town, and I would rather you learned it from our lipsthan from others less friendly. My mother is--my mother--a dear, sweetwoman to whom I have devoted my life! But we are not well off, Henry.Our parlour carpet has been down for twenty-five years; surely youmust have recognised the pattern! The house has not been painted forthe same length of time; it is of heart pine, and we train the flowersand vines to cover it as much as may be, and there are many otherslike it, so it is not conspicuous. Our rentable property is threeramshackle cabins on the alley at the rear of the lot, for which weget four dollars a month each, when we can collect it. Our countryestate is a few acres of poor land, which we rent on shares, and fromwhich we get a few bushels of corn, an occasional load of firewood,and a few barrels of potatoes. As for my own life, I husband our smallresources; I keep the house, and wait on mother, as I have done sinceshe became helpless, ten years ago. I look after Graciella. I teach inthe Sunday School, and I give to those less fortunate such help as thepoor can give the poor."

  "How did you come to lose Belleview?" asked the colonel, after apause. "I had understood Major Treadwell to be one of the few peoplearound here who weathered the storm of war and emerged financiallysound."

  "He did; and he remained so--until he met Mr. Fetters, who had mademoney out of the war while all the rest were losing. Father despisedthe slavetrader's son, but admired his ability to get along. Fettersmade his acquaintance, flattered him, told him glowing stories ofwealth to be made by speculating in cotton and turpentine. Father wasnot a business man, but he listened. Fetters lent him money, andfather lent Fetters money, and they had transactions back and forth,and jointly. Father lost and gained and we had no inkling that he hadsuffered greatly, until, at his sudden death, Fetters foreclosed amortgage he held upon Belleview. Mother has always believed there wassomething wrong about the transaction, and that father was notindebted to Fetters in any such sum as Fetters claimed. But we couldfind no papers and we had no proof, and Fetters took the plantationfor his debt. He changed its name to Sycamore; he wanted a post-officethere, and there were too many Belleviews."

  "Does he own it still?"

  "Yes, and runs it--with convict labour! The thought makes me shudder!We were rich when he was poor; we are poor and he is rich. But wetrust in God, who has never deserted the widow and the fatherless. ByHis mercy we have lived and, as mother says, held up our heads, notin pride or haughtiness, but in self-respect, for we cannot forgetwhat we were."

  "Nor what you are, Laura, for you are wonderful," said the colonel,not unwilling to lighten a situation that bordered on intensity. "Youshould have married and had children. The South needs such mothers asyou would have made. Unless the men of Clarendon have lost theirdiscernment, unless chivalry has vanished and the fire died out of theSouthern blood, it has not been for lack of opportunity that your nameremains unchanged."

  Miss Laura's cheek flushed unseen in the shadow of the porch.

  "Ah, Henry, that would be telling! But to marry me, one must havemarried the family, for I could not have left them--they have had onlyme. I have not been unhappy. I do not know that I would have had mylife different."

  Graciella and her friends had finished their song, the piano hadceased to sound, and the visitors were taking their leave. Graciellawent with them to the gate, where they stood laughing and talking. Thecolonel looked at his watch by the light of the open door.

  "It is not late," he said. "If my memory is true, you too played thepiano when you--when I was young."

  "It is the same piano, Henry, and, like our life here, somewhat thinand weak of tone. But if you think it would give you pleasure, I willplay--as well as I know how."

  She readjusted the veil, which had slipped from her mother's face, andthey went into the parlour. From a pile of time-stained music sheselected a sheet and seated herself at the piano. The colonel stood ather elbow. She had a pretty back, he thought, and a still youthfulturn of the head, and still plentiful, glossy brown hair. Her handswere white, slender and well kept, though he saw on the side of theforefinger of her left hand the telltale marks of the needle.

  The piece was an arrangement of the well-known air from the opera of_Maritana_:

  _"Scenes that are brightest, May charm awhile, Hearts which are lightest And eyes that smile. Yet o'er them above us, Though nature beam, With none to love us, How sad they seem!"_

  Under her sympathetic touch a gentle stream of melody flowed from theold-time piano, scarcely stronger toned in its decrepitude, than thespinet of a former century. A few moments before, under Graciella'svigorous hands, it had seemed to protest at the dissonances it hadbeen compelled to emit; now it seemed to breathe the notes of the oldopera with an almost human love and tenderness. It, too, mused thecolonel, had lived and loved and was recalling the memories of abrighter past.

  The music died into silence. Mrs. Treadwell was awake.

  "Laura!" she called.

  Miss Treadwell went to the door.

&
nbsp; "I must have been nodding for a minute. I hope Colonel French did notobserve it--it would scarcely seem polite. He hasn't gone yet?"

  "No, mother, he is in the parlour."

  "I must be going," said the colonel, who came to the door. "I hadalmost forgotten Phil, and it is long past his bedtime."

  Miss Laura went to wake up Phil, who had fallen asleep after supper.He was still rubbing his eyes when the lady led him out.

  "Wake up, Phil," said the colonel. "It's time to be going. Tell theladies good night."

  Graciella came running up the walk.

  "Why, Colonel French," she cried, "you are not going already? I madethe others leave early so that I might talk to you."

  "My dear young lady," smiled the colonel, "I have already risen to go,and if I stayed longer I might wear out my welcome, and Phil wouldsurely go to sleep again. But I will come another time--I shall stayin town several days."

  "Yes, _do_ come, if you _must_ go," rejoined Graciella with emphasis."I want to hear more about the North, and about New York societyand--oh, everything! Good night, Philip. _Good_ night, ColonelFrench."

  "Beware of the steps, Henry," said Miss Laura, "the bottom stone isloose."

  They heard his footsteps in the quiet street, and Phil's light patterbeside him.

  "He's a lovely man, isn't he, Aunt Laura?" said Graciella.

  "He is a gentleman," replied her aunt, with a pensive look at heryoung niece.

  "Of the old school," piped Mrs. Treadwell.

  "And Philip is a sweet child," said Miss Laura.

  "A chip of the old block," added Mrs. Treadwell. "I remember----"

  "Yes, mother, you can tell me when I've shut up the house,"interrupted Miss Laura. "Put out the lamps, Graciella--there's notmuch oil--and when you go to bed hang up your gown carefully, for ittakes me nearly half an hour to iron it."

  "And you are right good to do it! Good night, dear Aunt Laura! Goodnight, grandma!"

  Mr. French had left the hotel at noon that day as free as air, and heslept well that night, with no sense of the forces that were toconstrain his life. And yet the events of the day had started thegrowth of a dozen tendrils, which were destined to grow, and reachout, and seize and hold him with ties that do not break.