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

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  The entire troop of coffee pickers now advanced as a body toward the next-to-last gate of the Eagle Warehouse, the part of the building closest to Notre Dame. The alert coffee pickers had not been slow in perceiving that the large scale had been rolled under the arch of one of the many gates. Being experts, these freebooters knew full well that the sacks with frayed stitching would be emptied and the emptied coffee would be shoveled into new sacks then brought to the scale and weighed. On this occasion one could always hope for big winnings, for no matter how carefully the shoveling was done, so many beans were kicked down by the workers’ feet that a bystander would need twenty hands to catch all the beans jumping and bouncing about.

  Lorie saw at once that these were not gray-green Rio beans but Java pouring out its cornucopia, and like the wind she was after the yellow-brown things that rained down on her head then bounced into the gutter or beyond.

  Sacks of Java or Domingo were normally only opened in the upper rooms of the warehouse. It was an epoch-making event among the coffee pickers when such an aristocrat among coffee bags lost its way and ended up downstairs.

  One must remember that it was not poetry that drove these men, women, and children, old and young, to dive at these lovely Java beans. Rather, it was solely the splendid expectation of earning a few dollars.

  After all, many groceries of the third rank in New Orleans draw their imported goods from these coffee pickers, supporting this transitory trade to the best of their ability.

  Coffee pickers of such dubious qualification are more dangerous than the sweet-water pirates of Bayou Barataria and Bayou Lafourche. While the latter can be kept at bay with a well-disciplined deck watch, it is virtually impossible to keep the coffee pickers off your heels when they come into the vicinity of a sack of Domingo or Java. They do not do this with Rio coffee, since little is to be earned from it. Who is capable of watching or catching these coffee pickers? What watchman wants to be told to look behind every sack to see whether a coffee picker has dropped anchor there? Besides, this dangerous variety of picker has such sharp teeth that half the watch of the quarter in question would have to patrol night and day without hands. Just imagine properly guarding these thousands of sacks, piled from the floorboards to the rafters! There were efforts three years ago to set traps in the Pelican Warehouse, but a Negro of Mr. Touro’s was caught in one, at a loss of two thousand dollars—the Negro lost a leg as a result of this misunderstanding—so that was the end of these fateful machines. Since that accident, the warehouse pirates have been pursuing their craft more actively than ever, but if one figures the losses, it still has not equaled the expense of amputating the Negro’s leg.

  More recently, the pirates have utterly vanished from the Pelican, as they have no taste for the lime barrels stored there. Thus the Eagle Warehouse has become the scene of harvesting and capering.

  Gertrude and Lorie have now brought their own harvest to a happy conclusion.

  Suddenly the first recalled that she had left the house without telling her family.

  “What will my parents and siblings think, Lorie, when they cannot find me?” a concerned Gertrude anxiously said to her friend.

  “It was not that long ago that we left, Trudy. Your parents have probably not even discovered you were gone—and if they have, they will not be mad at you when they see the lovely coffee. I thought once just as you did—my father was alive then. Lindsey’s children enticed me out into the city, Father and Mother searched the entire house from top to bottom, asked through the neighborhood, sent to all acquaintances or went themselves to spy me out—but naturally they could not find me. Oh, and how my heart pounded as I headed home—how afraid I was—since my father was very strict, Trudy. Then, when my parents saw me coming from far away, they ran to me, Mother with a joyful face, Father earnest and reproving—then I showed them my coffee, and all was forgiven at once. See, Trudy, it will be no different for you, don’t you think?”

  But Gertrude was not pacified with these words. Besides, she was a bit ashamed to have advertised the miserable situation of her family so publicly by visiting the coffee pickers.

  Lorie, who could not ignore her friend’s sudden depression, naturally could not figure out the real reason. She believed that Gertrude had a troubled face simply because she feared rebukes awaiting her at home.

  On their return to Tchoupitoulas Street, they had to wait again for several minutes, as the drays storming back and forth blocked the entire street.

  Gertrude grew ever more restless, and she urged Lorie whenever an opportunity appeared to rush across the street.

  Finally the right moment seemed to have come.

  A space formed between two rushing drays which had to be exploited in an instant if the girls were to cross. Otherwise they would end up under the cart’s wheels or the legs of the horses.

  Lorie bolted like lightning and ducked under the head of the horse at precisely the right moment—any later and she would have gone to the ground.

  Gertrude, who followed right on Lorie’s heels, came too late—there was a dreadful cry! She touched the wheel of a cart loaded with cotton—then she felt herself embraced by a powerful arm, which brought her out of the chaos to the secure sidewalk. Wheels and hooves passed over her little basket—in a few moments nothing more was seen but a few bits of wicker and some scattered beans.

  Gertrude, her temples pounding feverishly, was so shocked by the episode that she had not even looked her savior in the face. Now, when she looked up and met his eyes, she stormily embraced his neck, laughing and weeping as she sobbed: “Thank God! You’re here, Prince?”

  “Countess Gertrude,” her rescuer joyfully called out in a tone which clearly said, “so it was you—I did not err after all.”

  “Prince, you’re here?” Gertrude repeated, “Oh what happiness, Prince!”

  “Come here, Countess, let us take a cab to the St. Charles Hotel—wherever something unusual takes place a curious crowd always forms,” the prince of Württemberg whispered in Gertrude’s ear, with a glance at those standing around.

  On their way to the St. Charles Hotel, the prince spoke not a word as he led Gertrude by the hand. Gertrude was silent as well. The prince was exquisitely embarrassed as to how to understand Gertrude’s curious situation—Gertrude, her eyes lowered, awaited a word from her rescuer with great anxiety. In this manner they reached a cab stand.

  The prince was the first to break the silence by asking Gertrude, “Countess Gertrude, may I escort you to your home?”

  “Prince, we live on Washington Avenue, opposite Live Oak Square,” Gertrude responded, meeting this considerable gallantry with a reply that brought the prince out of his embarrassment.

  “To Washington Avenue,” the prince called to the cabdriver, “halt opposite Live Oak Square.”

  When they had gone about five blocks, Gertrude saw Lorie weeping as she ran back and forth with her little basket on her arm.

  “Lorie!” Gertrude called from the carriage, without really intending to. She simply gave in to the pressure of her heart.

  Lorie, hearing her friend’s familiar voice, looked in all directions, but since she could not imagine Trudy in a cab, she looked everywhere among the pedestrians.

  “Whom are you calling, Countess?” the prince of Württemberg asked his little lady—then he added, “Forgive me that I ask you.”

  “It was Lorie, the raftman’s little daughter, Prince—” Gertrude replied.

  “How a person can lose all presence of mind when dealing with a child!” the prince thought, since Gertrude’s quick answer told him what he had not dared to ask.

  Chapter 4

  THE PRINCE OF WÜRTTEMBERG

  Many might be surprised by Gertrude’s conduct. Gertrude, who had been raised in a princely court, who had been kissed and caressed by the beautiful daughters of the House of Wittelsbach and idolized by the male camarilla of the court although she was still a child, suddenly recovered her earlier training on unexpectedly enc
ountering the prince. She only resumed being a child when she called out to her friend Lorie from the carriage. Despite the dreadful problems that had befallen her family, although she had been altered in habit and matters of the heart and had become a child of nature, still the prince’s noble face sent the warming rays of spirit and heart that changed a child into a lady, imparting a charm that only those who have been truly elevated in spirit are in a position to enjoy. This mixture of childishness and maturity made Gertrude one of the world’s most lovable creatures. Her parents judged correctly when they quietly whispered to each other, “Our Gertrude is certainly a mature child!”

  Gertrude had been gone from her parents no more than half an hour by the time her absence was noticed.

  Since she had never been gone even for a few moments without obtaining permission, her parents were in a state of disturbance and anxiety that would only vanish with the reappearance of their beloved child.

  Constanze and Hugo were of the opinion that Gertrude had rushed to the live oaks to satisfy her curiosity in the shadow of these giants. We already know that they were incorrect.

  As Melanie set out with Amelie in hand to seek her little daughter, Aunty Celestine shook her head and launched repeatedly her cycle of corybantic grimaces and ravings.

  “Have I not always prophesied the coming of a great misfortune? But no one wants to believe Aunty Celestine—they spurn her—yes, yes, just go, you will regret having come to America? What are you doing now? Away from me, I have done you no harm—have I not always prophesied that a great misfortune will soon come to pass?”

  And so she continued for a long while. Hugo, whose bad mood always returned on such occasions, seized Aunty Celestine by the arm and forced her to sit down on the suitcase.

  “Dumb old thing, you,” he growled, “it is intolerable—jabbering such nonsense just because things aren’t in the best shape, when one has enough to do just doing something to lessen problems and accidents. So stop all this nonsense and strange talk—it’s enough to make someone want to take a cold bath or press a gun against his forehead …”

  “Don’t let me ever hear that again, Hugo,” Father interjected earnestly, “it bespeaks a reprehensible frivolity to release your displeasure in such a manner—such speech is the most unworthy a young man of your age could ever utter. To express such a wish, which one would never even conceive in spirit except to torment and injure the morale of his relatives, does not lead me to pronounce a good sentence over your heart, son …”

  “It was not meant that way, Father,” Hugo responded.

  “That is what everyone says who does not find a good reception for a repellent speech. I hope to God that your unnaturally bad mood will depart once your arm has healed.”

  Melanie entered the room with Amelie. She had searched in vain. Unending concern and anxiety were painted on her heated features.

  “I walked through the entire neighborhood, and I could not find the naughty child anywhere,” the good mother began almost breathlessly. “The sick mother of the dead raftsman thought it was possible that Gertrude had gone into the city with her Lorie, since she had often said that she would take her. That was also was Lindsey’s thought—I was there as well. The dear, bad child, how could she have gone out without permission?

  “Calm down, Melanie,” her husband consoled her, “Gertrude has certainly gone off on a walk with Lorie, and she will soon reappear—but you may give her a little scolding when she returns, so that she will take care not to give us such distress in the future.”

  Hugo, who stood with his little sister at the window that opened on Washington Avenue, aimed his attention in the direction from which he expected Gertrude to come.

  At that moment a cab that had been rushing up Magazine Street turned into Washington Avenue, rolling more slowly over the planks laid there.

  “Here comes Gertrude,” Hugo remarked in jest, lightly nudging his sister with his arm.

  “If we had a carriage, I would almost believe it myself,” Constanze responded as she looked after the cab, which now halted a couple paces from the tenement.

  “Mother! Father! The prince with Gertrude!” both Hugo and Constanze cried out at the same instant as they stepped back from the window and turned to their parents.

  “The prince with Gertrude?” they responded with astonishment as they rose and rushed to the window.

  Whose pen could describe the amazement that seized Melanie and her husband when they saw the prince of Württemberg standing in front of the carriage door and offering Gertrude his hand to help her down? They looked at each other, speechless, and remained standing at the open window until the prince and Gertrude were close enough to shake hands with them.

  “Your Royal Highness! You do us the honor …”

  “Royal Highness? Pah, pah—always these empty titles,” the prince responded in a cheerful tone, half irritated. “When will you start calling me simply Citizen Paul, my gracious countess?”

  “Citizen Paul,” Melanie responded with a bounce, “now it is my turn to correct you on account of your ‘gracious countess.’”

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” the prince responded precisely, “the titles have an entirely different function with ladies—a woman might be proud of her dignity in her own right, but it just as well befits a woman also to be proud of an inherited noble name. It would be silly for a man in a republic to insist on a noble title that could only have been given to him in a monarchy. Here a title is only honored when it is tied to great wealth, which is what Americans respect. But you are depriving a woman of a part of her dignity if you take away any part of the standing they have worked to assume since childhood, that of a lovable spirit keeping the vestal fires of majesty and virtue.”

  “Enough, enough, Your Royal Highness,” Melanie commanded, folding her white hands with grace and looking the prince in the face with disapproval.

  Suddenly Melanie appeared to recall that she was addressing the prince from her window and realized she had committed an irresponsible act of discourtesy in not having invited him into their room. The exact thing occurred to her husband at the same moment. After welcoming the prince with a deep bow, he had stepped behind Melanie. When his wife turned and her eyes met his, they quickly understood the impropriety of their conduct and rushed to the door, whose latch the prince already held as he escorted Gertrude with traditional courtesy.

  The prince of Württemberg was one of those beings who draws our interest at first sight and keeps our curiosity in thrall.7 Although he was far beyond his years of being a Don Juan flitting among a thousand blossoms, he still preserved that tender, careful conduct in the presence of ladies which marks out a man ready to marry. He could boast of the fact that, despite his advanced age, he still received many a rose from the hands of fair ladies in reward for his charm and chivalric gallantry. His face radiated that noble quality found in all the Hohenstaufen that will never totally vanish if they survive for hundreds of generations to come. His handsome forehead continually proclaimed the proud motto: “Behold the Guelfs, behold the Ghibellines.” When he turned his conversation to the desperate state of German princely courts, his eyes danced with an uncanny fire that sparked out at his listeners. If his spirit were not bound by some important undertaking, his face would take on a less attractive appearance, and his eyes would be covered by that mysterious veil, lifted only when Cupid whispered to him, “You have loved and been loved!” Since love plays a large role in all the efforts and activities of princes, we cannot pass over it in silence. Love had taken the prince far from his assigned place, causing him to breathe a purer and fresher air on the soil of a republic. Love had led him to the canyons of Mexico and to climb the Ori Saba. Love had brought him down the Humboldt River and allowed him to see the Rocky Mountains. Love was the oar of his Indian canoe. Love stuffed his peace-pipe among the Blackfoot and the Flathead Nation. Love brought him to the wigwam of a Sioux chief, whose beautiful daughter bestowed on him a necklace of alligator teeth. L
ove led him to anchor at the Cape of Good Hope. Love brought him to the saalah of the Queen of Madagascar, and almost every year love led him back to New Orleans.

  Only when love has played such a great role in the active life of a man can one say to him with confidence, “You are one of those fortunate ones who has not lived in vain.”

  Our esteemed lady readers already know from an earlier chapter that the prince of Württemberg was a passionate entomologist and that the two sisters in Algiers always thought of him when they found a beautiful butterfly or a rare beetle.

  His extensive collection, particularly from the realm of insects, offered everything that any researcher of nature could hope for. Coleoptera, orthoptera, hemiptera, neuroptera, hymenoptera, lepidoptera, diptera—in short, all of the known orders were found represented in the greatest detail in his collection of insects. Cheloniera, saurians, ophidians, and batrachians were either preserved in alcohol jars or, if their size did not permit that, stuffed and made pleasing to the eye by the skilled hand of a taxidermist.

  He had brought an enviable selection of cephalopods and pterapods, and he owed several rare casteropods and annelids to the collecting zeal of his countryman, Professor Finke.