The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures)

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  So he turned his face to the window as Sarah came to close the curtains, to determine her reaction before making an appearance. He possessed this talent in the highest grade. His sharp eyes determined in an instant that he had not come in vain, and that if he did not have much to hope for, he at least had something.

  Despite his long beard, Sarah recognized him at once—how could she have forgotten his eyes? Those glowing eyes that Cleveland the peddler had mistaken for lightning bugs buzzing through the high grass of the prairie. She recognized Lajos on the basis of these eyes, even though his face was extremely altered, unrecognizable.

  Can a girl ever forget the eyes that first enchanted her with the dream of love?

  As Sarah fell back from the window like a lovesick lily and rushed into her father’s arms, the agitated hound leaped through the window, shards of which fell, tinkling. The animal landed on the Hungarian, throwing him to the ground with its momentum.

  A dreadful cry of pain, mingled with the dog’s howling, came to the ears of the farmer and his child.

  “Father, father, stay where you are!” Sarah begged, when she saw him arise with the intention of rushing outside.

  “Father … Lajos!”

  “La—jos? …”

  Sarah hung on her father’s coat as he finally rushed to the door and called the hound by name.

  The dog ceased to howl at once when he heard his master’s voice, but he continued to pin the person’s breast and neck on the ground with his paws, almost taking the breath out of him.

  Watson was calm once more when he grabbed the hound by the collar and pulled him away from the Hungarian.

  “What’s this all about, Lajos? And at this late hour? Don’t you know you should stay away from here?”

  Sarah stood trembling beside her father, still holding onto his coat.

  Lajos had already arisen, and he said with icy calm: “Mr. Watson, I am very sorry to have caused you unnecessary distress—if you had come a moment later, your Nero would have killed me—perhaps he wanted the duty of avenger—if I’m correct, that’s the same spot where old Carr breathed his last.”

  “Quit that talk!” Watson declared in an earnest tone, as he helped the Hungarian to his feet.

  “Come into our warm parlor and tell me what brought you here at this late hour—can I help you somehow? I will do for you whatever is in my powers—but first swear solemnly never to return here! If you ever dare set foot on this farm, I will hand you over to the courts without mercy …”

  The Hungarian promised this, shaking the farmer’s hand in a pathetic manner.

  As they entered the parlor, the father and daughter remained standing in shock.

  Lajos genuinely made for a hair-raising sight.

  The hound had ripped wads of hair from his head, and they lay scattered over his shoulder and neck. Blood stood in thick, feverish drops on the scar, which the hound had reopened over his cheek, and the tip of his beard was tinged red. His clothes were ripped and ragged, and the skin on his frozen hands was torn in several places.

  The farmer did not know at first how he should act.

  Sarah sat in her father’s rocking chair and hid her face in the folds of her dress.

  It is surprising that Mr. Watson’s workmen had not been roused from bed by the hound’s howling. Probably, despite the deep snow and bitter cold, they had rushed to the daughters of neighboring farmers to tender their devotions.

  There is no other way to explain it.

  “You cannot go in this condition,” Watson began again, “go into this cabinet here and wash the blood from your face. I’ll give you a pair of trousers and a white blanket coat. If this clothing will not suffice, you can exchange it for something better when you get to St. Louis. If I had more money here I would give you more.” He said this as he handed the Hungarian two bills, each worth twenty dollars—“Then lay yourself down to sleep and stay until I wake you.”

  The Hungarian had not expected such accommodation. He now saw that he had not misjudged the farmer’s good nature.

  That night Sarah did not close her eyes. The image of Lajos was continually in front of her soul.

  Before day came, Watson woke the Hungarian and told him to leave the farm. When Lajos shook the farmer’s hand in farewell, one question was on his lips, though no word was expressed.

  “Where is Sarah?” he seemed to ask.

  The very next day, a more decently clothed Lajos was lodged in a cabin of the Sultana, making its scheduled trip to New Orleans.

  • • •

  As winter turned to spring and the whole of nature once more sprouted and bloomed, Watson sent his little daughter to Russel’s farm to gather herself far from the scene of the sad events, so that she could mend her heart in communication with Russel’s happy, enthusiastic daughters.

  The news he received about his daughter from time to time did not fill him with fresh hope.

  Sarah also went about at Russel’s farm in sorrow and silence, and her friends’ games had no appeal for her.

  She preferred to spend her time in the greenhouse, stroking the limp petals of the camellias and gardenias, or binding them to stakes. She concentrated particularly on two flowers, standing in bright-green glazed pots with narrow, brazen hoops. They were the cornflower, which grows wild in the Old World, and the goose-blossom, which is used as a decorative plant here and which no flower-garden or greenhouse can do without.

  Why was Sarah so fascinated with these flowers?

  In them wasn’t she doing homage to the homeland of the man who still held her heart in thrall?

  Chapter 5

  UNEXPECTED

  We find ourselves back in New Orleans.

  On a corner of Chartres Street sat two men in one of the most elegant coffeehouses of the city, playing domino à la poudre.

  This variation of traditional dominos is regularly played only in a few clubs whose premises a stranger may enter only under the strictest conditions. Three persons must participate in the play, one of them always being a lady, which makes up the characteristic difference of this variety of game. At the beginning of each round, the lady has the right to set the first piece. If it happens that the lady gets the double-white piece at the outset and plays it, then she forfeits playing any further, the others have to choose new pieces, and the game goes on with two players. The one who wins the game wins the exclusive favor of the lady—for a few hours anyway. This game is occasionally played without the presence of the lady; in this case the double-white will override an equal number of points and the losing party has to lead the other into the arms of an attractive lady. But the finer details of this gallant game do not belong here, since our Mysteries are also destined for the boudoir of the fair sex, which has always preferred to solve these riddles itself and not allow the cover of secrecy to be lifted by a strangers hand. Coquettes and spinster’s will have a hard time finding what they want in the Mysteries, nor will orientally lusty bloomers, since in New Orleans, as in all the parishes of Louisiana, the fair sex is forbidden to wear pants—except in the case of the wives of editors of German newspapers.9

  Our two men were playing this time not for a lady but for money, which was basically a great deal wiser. The sum for which they were playing appears not to have been small, seen from the fact that the losing party bit his lip in rage as he demanded in a low voice opportunity to recoup, while the other gathered his winnings. But when the luckier of the two declined to comply with this request, in view of the fact that even if he won he could get no more—his opponent having lost everything he had—the loser pounded with his fist on the stone surface of the table so that domino pieces fell to the floor on both sides. He then abandoned himself to a torrent of rage.

  Let’s take a closer look around this coffeehouse, filled with people from the furthest lands.

  In one corner sits a tall, gaunt man leafing absent-mindedly through the journals piled there. He sweeps his eye over the room only now and then, concentrating on t
he two players. He is clothed in an extremely strange manner. A long, narrow mantle of a dark color, closed to the chin by means of a high-standing collar, almost touches the ground and enshrouds the thin figure. Beneath the small collars, which bend a bit together at the neck, one can see a red lining. The sleeves reach halfway over the hands, almost covering them completely. On top of this, the mantle is buttoned in front down its entire length.

  His narrow face, dominated by a disproportionately broad and high forehead, is yellow and pale, and his cheeks so fallen in that one could place a flat hand across them. His nose, which bends strongly outward in the middle, turns in so much at the end that it almost touches his fine, nearly invisible lips. Above his eyes, which are totally enclosed by green glasses with side-glass, there is a pair of bushy eyebrows of uncanny length. Above his forehead, from one ear to the other, runs the blue-red stripe of a scar, inadequately covered by gray hair combed across it. This head must once have fallen under an Indian’s scalping knife, for this is the classic scalping line, rising upward from the temples. In any case, this man escaped this execution through some fortunate intervention. He had long attracted the attention of those around him. Curiosity drove many to try to start a conversation with him, all in vain. The most they could get out of him was “yes” or “no” in such a repellent tone that everyone lost the desire to bother him further with their words. So he sat two hours with his cup of mocha, like a silent senator who knows how to play his Trappist role to the hilt. If he had not answered his curious interrogators with “yes” or “no,” it would have been easy to think that he was dumb or indeed a disciple of a Trappist order, which would have accounted for his strange garb.

  Despite intervention by the host, one of the players had given himself over to the most dreadful curses. His opponent looked at him quite coldbloodedly and mockingly, only spurring him to more. The entire coffeehouse was enthralled by the progress of this scene, and bystanders encouraged the host to let the two continue so long as they did not endanger the other guests by physical demonstrations.

  The old man in the black mantle suddenly pulled back his chair, which had hitherto seemed as if it had been nailed to the floor, drew a coonskin cap out of his pocket—the sort of cap Rocky Mountain hunters wear—placed it on his virtually bald head, rose, and advanced on the players with measured step.

  All eyes were directed at him, the mysterious one, who had not participated in any way until now. All faces were tense, for the decision that was registered in his expression appeared to announce a new catastrophe for the two players.

  As the old man neared the player who had lost, he spoke to him with an accented English that betrayed the Frenchman. “Permit me, sir, that I mix in your affairs and seek to encourage your opponent quickly to accept your request for the opportunity to recoup—and you, sir,” he turned to the other, “will certainly not refuse me the fulfillment of the desire just expressed, since I am convinced that you are a ‘gentleman and well know the point d’honneur in gambling. It appears that you have completely plundered this man through the favor of Fortuna, and since you have probably set no time limit on your game, it is only just that you reopen it by risking what you have just won.”

  “Yes indeed, yes indeed, it is only just,” was repeated by all mouths.

  It is remarkable how much power some persons exercise over their environment. A single word spoken at the right moment, even their mere appearance, often leads to efforts, deeds, and decisions that otherwise would never have happened. And so it was here. The very persons who had been silent observers a short time ago or who had amused themselves over the two in feeble, fruitless small talk, now became partisans for the unlucky player and pressed to the table to support the modest and yet proud request of the mysterious man.

  It is not surprising that, in a place where so many hundreds of persons enter and leave, a great sum of money is gambled despite a legal prohibition. Gambling in coffeehouses and inns is certainly forbidden, but no one pays any attention to it. How many laws are trodden underfoot here? How many police officers participate themselves! Much is forbidden, but much is also tolerated. This makes New Orleans the freest city in the United States. Though our gamblers avoid the use of noisy clinking coins by passing banknotes back and forth, no one would object if ringing gold coins were indeed tossed from one side to another. It is extremely rare for anyone to be stopped by the police. Exceptions are made only for notorious delinquents and vagabonds. Yet, despite this moral decadence, New Orleans possesses a decency that modulates the scale of the crime. It possesses a frivolity, a naivité, that disarms censoriousness. People do not even bother to operate behind closed doors because of the ban on gambling. They prefer to be found in the open. We do not wish to sing New Orleans’ praises on this matter but simply to mention it against the straightlaced and the hypocritical sinners of eastern and western cities, to whom New Orleans is nothing less than the Sodom and Gomorrah of the United States, richly deserving of a nice brimstone shower.

  The man who had earlier refused to play now took up the game again at the stated risk, cowed by the general applause of the bystanders and the decisive request, or rather demand, of the old man. Several guests pulled up their chairs and virtually besieged the table. A grandiose game at a green table could not have excited more interest than the one at this marble table where just two men sat opposite each other playing dominos. The old man stood close behind his man and appeared to watch him very closely. The game began. After only a few turns the game was won by the same player. “Domino!” cried the fortunate one, standing up from his chair and throwing out his breast, “I win again! And now, sir,” he said after a pause, turning to the old man, “You have shown yourself quite helpful to my comrade—now you be so good as to help me get the money coming to me, for he doesn’t have a cent in his pocket. There was not more than a hundred dollars in play! You see, sir,” and he drew a handful of bills from his hat. “Everything in good Louisiana State Notes!” The bystanders were amazed, for they had had no idea the play had been for such high sums. Only the old man appeared unsurprised. He responded immediately:

  “Do you trust your luck so little that you won’t try it again? I will not impose a third time if Fortuna smiles on you once more. I am good for the demand you are making of your opponent.”

  The fortunate player was astonished at this repeated imposition by the old man—since he doubted the IOU for such a large sum from a man with such a wretched appearance. He responded, “Sir, whoever you might be, I beseech you to leave me alone with your impositions from now on, since I have proved to be patient up to now and have fulfilled your wishes—besides, you would have to possess unlimited riches to stand for every gambler with bad luck who has lost his money. To be sure,” he added mockingly, “you would have a considerable practice in New Orleans.”

  “If your doubt about the reality of my wallet is the hindrance,” the old man responded with supreme calm, “it would be my pleasure to eliminate it.” As he said this, he reached carefully into his mantle, bringing out a small, black, satin pocketbook with a peculiar silver clasp. He opened it and lay it before the eyes of the amazed guests, revealing ten times the amount won. A general murmur could be heard passing through the hall. “Who could that be?” they whispered to themselves. “It is a second McDonogh!” “The fellow has the devil in his body,” whispered a short man, “just look under the mantle, you’ll see horse’s hooves.” “I saw his tail when he came in,” remarked a bigoted Spaniard. “And what long fingers he has! He lacks only claws!” These questions and remarks were exchanged so quietly that the old man could not have heard. He appeared concerned only with himself and the two players.

  “A thousand dollars—a bagatelle!” the old man remarked. “Sit down now, my good man, and start over with good courage.” The winner was easily dazzled by the sight of so much money, but he could not hide a certain amount of reluctance and anxiety.

  The game began anew—then suddenly the old man thundered in
the player’s ears, “Cheating!” It caused the player to start and automatically withdraw his hands from the pieces.

  It would have been impossible for the cheater to flee, since he was beset on all sides by an impenetrable wall. Everyone could see, so he made no effort to escape. He looked down, white as chalk, and let the words of criticism pour over him. Soon the call was found to be true.

  The pieces had been cunningly marked in advance, which the old man had suspected from the start. Similar marks were found on five other sets the host produced when asked. People were amazed. The host avoided direct eye contact. The old man took the money he had laid down, replacing it in his pocketbook.

  The cheat was arrested.

  Chapter 6

  SEARCHING FOR A BRIDE

  A girl or little woman

  Papageno wants for himself,

  And such a tender pigeon

  Is happiness for me—

  Is hap-pi-ness for me!

  [The Magic Flute]

  Since his disastrous serenade in Toulouse Street, the Cocker had conceived a mortal hatred for all Frenchmen. When he heard French spoken on the street, he turned red with rage, like a boiled crab, and he swore—to himself—until they had passed out of sight.

  As always, he held his usual internal monologue: “These Frenchmen think that they can make a person dance on his head just because they’re Frenchmen. There is no decent life left in this town, they upset good morals and plunge many a guiltless maiden into the greatest misfortune. Still, I will say nothing about anything, so long as they leave my compatriot untouched. That good child could have been entirely corrupted by those god-d-d-damned Frenchmen!—If I had just not had my guitar in my hand, I would have taken care of them—yes, by God! If my compatriot knew of it, she would surely have scratched that Frenchman’s eyes out, if he tried to keep me from giving her a serenade—yes, by jingo, whatever this French monster thought I was—yes, by God, to mishandle a man who heard lectures in aesthetics at Tübingen and almost passed the state examination—if I were to write that back to Germany, no one would believe it.”