“Perhaps the woman is sleeping,” he thought to himself. “The devil take me if that is not my wife, and the shawl is the one Karl gave her in New Orleans.” He pursed his lips together and reached for his Bowie knife. As his gaze moved momentarily from its original target and moved about the room, he noted that on the little table inlaid with mother-of-pearl there was an album of chrysaloid green that banished all doubt. Now looking at the lady, then at the album, he quietly advanced to the small table, softly putting his hand to the album and opening it. He could not be mistaken. He saw his own drawing, his own handwriting. He drew his Bowie knife from its sheath and held its grip with a tight fist.
“It is she! It’s Frida—hell and damnation—Karl has her with him,” he thought. Suddenly, as if he thought better of it, he returned the knife to its sheath and hid it in the side pocket of his farmer’s cloak. Then he nudged the little table with the tip of his boot, so that it made a little dance and then fell over. The lady awoke with a shock, with her first glance falling on the Hungarian, who stood there as if rooted, looking at her with cutting intensity.
“Only the window is open to you, my faithful Frida, the door is blocked,” the Hungarian said, pulling down the corner of his mouth in mockery.
“What do you want here, sir?” the lady responded, looking questioningly in his face.
“Am I drunk, or are you my faithful Frida?”
“I demand again, sir, that you leave my room. Your mad words permit me to suppose that you are in a dubious state.”
“Hell and damnation—such unexampled boldness!”
The young lady rushed to the bell-pull, but before she was able to grasp the ring the Hungarian pulled her away, holding her arms fast.
“Don’t cry out, Frida, I advise you, you could force me to extremes—hmm, what a serpent, aren’t you perhaps ashamed of me?—a person would have to be crazy not to offer a hand to such a pitiful-appearing robber.”
The lady’s terror at these words and the person who said them can hardly be described. The lady could not be Frida, since such dissimulation would have exceeded all the boldness any actress in this genre could ever have presented. And just recall gentle, calm, and clear-thinking Frida. How could she have presented such a false mania, acting as if she hated him from her very soul? As we shall later see, Frida herself in no way hated him at that time. Had the Hungarian been deceived? This could be no spook of an overheated imagination. The magic lantern of jealousy cannot project false forms, for jealousy knows its objects down to the last hair on the back of the neck—even pronunciation and tone of words, which betray a German despite every effort, reproduced Frida in every way. It was Frida, it had to be Frida!
“Hell and damnation, Frida, look at me, my dear—you could drive even the most certain man mad—unheard-of! How am I to begin? Look at me—quit this foolery! Look at me—or do you believe you can turn my head through your conduct, so that I end up believing it’s not you? Well, by God, Frida, Frida, don’t push it too far!”
The lady was no longer able to hear the last words; she collapsed into unconsciousness, so that her tormentor had to release her hands and catch her around her waist to prevent a hard fall. He did not do this out of consideration but merely from instinct, shared even by the rawest man. For she was a beautiful woman, and who could allow a beauty to fall to the floor without easing her situation as much as possible? Even centaurs will do that.
Once the Hungarian was convinced that the lady was not pretending but was in a genuine swoon, he stood several moments with his arms akimbo in the presence of this woman he believed to be his wife. What was he to do? Should he rush out, block the doors, and storm up to Karl to exact a dreadful revenge? Should he remain silent? Apologize? Leave her unattended—without revenging himself on her?
These thoughts raced through his brain, each struggling for the upper hand.
“What if she weren’t?” he said to himself, “But by the devil, it must be her!”
Then he suddenly thought of the birthmark on his wife’s upper left arm, in the form of a split heart, which he had first spied through a blouse sleeve of white gauze aboard the Gutenberg.
His wife had told him in a tender moment that Jenny had a birthmark in the same form, also of glossy black velvet, only somewhat closer to the elbow.
The Hungarian ducked down to the floor and grasped the lowest fasteners on her blouse sleeve to open it. It did not open as easily as he had expected. After several attempts, he became impatient, drew out his Bowie knife, and slit the blouse sleeve with one motion. Her arm was so situated that, had the birthmark been there, he would have seen it as soon as the sleeve was cut away.
If the Hungarian had been able to look into his own eyes at this moment, he would have seen reflected a fine naked arm on which was burned an anchor, of the sort sailors receive when they are initiated.18
The Hungarian, whose total imagination was concentrated on finding the split heart, did not even see the anchor, since it was not the birthmark. That is the way it often is with ordinary episodes of life. When a person is expected, for example, and someone stares continuously at one spot in expectation, he only has eyes for that one object. As a result, he does not see objects that would never have been missed if he had been observing less intensely.
The Hungarian made an ugly face when he did not find the birthmark.
“If it is not her, all the better in some ways,” he said to himself, turning an indescribable look at the unconscious woman.
“But what about the album!” he thought, suddenly. “Wasn’t that my own handwriting? It would be all too amusing if that was her album, if it were also my writing—this time Mr. Satan has bagged a big one! The fellow must be feeling very witty!”
Before he picked up the album, which had fallen from the little table onto the floor, he carefully closed the door.
He did not restore the little table to its treacherous legs, but rather he simply lifted the chrysaloid green album and opened it with so much haste that it almost fell out of his hands.
“Thunder and lightning! The thing is entirely different! Different pictures, different mementos. But my things, my handwriting? He leafed through at random, finally finding the fatal page.
He saw, read, and read some more.
“Similar autographs! Nothing more! How did that scoundrel come to America? Did he escape from the lead mines of Venice? And such a scoundrel still found a nest in the souvenir book of such a lovely lady? We will investigate this when we get to New Orleans, where he is now, as this proves. Wonderful, excellent! A vein of California gold in this city of dross—with that scoundrel in the situation, there is money to be made!”
With the closest attention, he had read the following several times:
From the instant when you, Miss, took pity on a condemned, innocent man, and gave him your hand to escape from the killing air of prison, the star of my happiness, which had seemed to have set forever, is once again arisen, fine and sparkling, appearing to me in fabulous splendor in the still of the night, when love tolls the beating of my heart. My profession compels me to pursue my duties as a physician in New Orleans, and I will particularly dedicate my efforts to that illness which has carried away so many unfortunates through many a year. I have followed your counsel to take a different name to avoid problems. I shall not see you again. Keep these lines in remembrance of a man who could never possess you because the prejudice of the Old World has branded him a common criminal. My happiness consists in bearing you forever in my heart and to permit no other wish to arise but to know you are happy. You will find in your journey to Milwaukee the leisure which will do your restless spirit such good.
Your thankful
Gabor von Rokavar
“Infamous hypocrite and moral bum!” the Hungarian ejaculated. “The scoundrel is still the same—the lead mines of Venice have not weakened this toad’s poison—yet I might have some use of this paper, or at least make a fool of the thankful Gabor, or, if that scoundrel pos
sesses anything, perhaps I could squeeze money from him.”
He tore the paper from the album and stuck it in the jacket of his farmer’s coat.
In the hotel, the signal had been given for lunch. At that moment the Hungarian heard several doors open and slam shut. He rushed out the door and down the stairs with a degree of composure.
As he reached the lowest steps, he encountered two young ladies, elegantly dressed, and he heard one of them speak the words: “Our dear Frida appears still to be sleeping, we shall surprise her in bed.”
“It is silly of her,” the other responded, “since she knows that Lajos is returning at eleven.” The Hungarian stood stunned for a moment, then he rushed out of the Planters’ House, murmuring to himself as he crossed to the courthouse.
“All of St. Louis is a nest of witches—now there is even another Lajos!”
The first thing the Hungarian did was go to the nearest coffeehouse, order a whiskey punch, and then check in the Missouri Republican under “steamboats” for the next boat departing for New Orleans. He discovered that the Sultana was leaving the next morning at ten for the Crescent City. He quickly decided to take this steamer to New Orleans, since he was determined to leave the scene of his bold atrocities and crimes. Having made such a decision, there was no more thought of the duel. This was how he trifled with the trust of his cousin Karl. The ten dollars he’d received for the purchase of a weapon was instead taken to a hatter, where he bought a fine castor hat for nine dollars. Then he picked up a pair of silver-gray kid gloves and paid for them with the other dollar. He paid ten of the forty dollars Farmer Watson had given him for a coat that was good and fashionable if not fine, and five for trousers. He bought a simple black alpaca vest for two dollars and a half-dozen store-bought shirts with nine dollars. From the remaining fourteen dollars, he bought a pair of fine shoes and a travel bag, all for ten dollars.
His total fortune, which had amounted to fifty dollars including the ten he had from Cousin Karl, had melted down to four dollars.
Then he sought a private boardinghouse where he could be sure he was not known, and, having found one, he put his things in order and made ready for the next morning. He stuffed all the clothing he had worn before, as well as his torn shoes and ragged hat, into his travel bag, so that it acquired a stately bulge that could only do honor to the person carrying it. He put on his new clothes straightaway. He looked so transformed in these that his landlady almost did not recognize him when he appeared at the dinner table. After the midday meal, he went out again and took care of several sundries, further decimating his purse. He had to get a cigar case, cigars, a comb, and a toothbrush. As he figured it, he had only a dollar and a half left. The boardinghouse would cost at least a half-dollar until the next day. He drank up fifty cents of the remaining dollar and only possessed a last half- dollar on the next morning when he boarded the boat.
He allowed himself to be treated to a drink by the captain of the Sultana, in order to make the man’s acquaintance, which is vital for any passenger without means desiring passage to New Orleans. It often happens that sharpies are more favored by luck than are modest, honest men, and that was the case here as well. Immediately after the first drink, the captain of the Sultana discovered that the Hungarian was a nice, entertaining man “of high education,” as he said it, and this splendid gentleman was not at all backward about announcing that he was unable to pay for cabin passage right now, which ran twenty-five dollars. When he arrived in New Orleans, he would have no problem covering the debt on the spot. The boat clerk made a doubtful face when the captain informed him of his decision in this matter. But that did not matter, since Lajos appeared well covered and splendidly cared for. A captain is a patron not to be passed up if one is an insolvent passenger.
As soon as they passed Cairo, the Hungarian felt intolerably bored. He even appeared to avoid the captain’s company, perhaps because his attempt to win a pecuniary advance had failed utterly. He also avoided the sole attractive lady in the ladies’ cabin, with whom he had made a passing acquaintance on a lovely, moonlit night, because all she could talk about was her baby, who had died in St. Louis of cholera, and her husband, who had asked her to come to New Orleans, where he had opened a dry goods store and made “plenty money.” Lajos went around the entire boat, sitting sometimes by the paddlewheel, sometimes on the steps to the top deck, where he would smoke, then throw his cigar into the river and light another. During the day he would lie for hours in his cabin, only driven out by the sounding of the bell for dinner and supper. This is how he passed the time as far as Donaldsonville. There he would discover some variation in the monotony of his existence. While he was turning one evening to cross the aft area of the cabin deck, he heard a splendid song from the ‘tween decks. It was a woman’s voice that drew him with all intensity. They were well-known songs that conjured up many a memory of the Old World. They sang the beautiful duet in Alessandro Stradella.19 What a beautiful voice sang Stradella in the ‘tween decks!
Italy my Fatherland,
How beautiful to look upon
Walled in by blue clouds,
Crowned with flowers.
My mouth praises you—my song is for you,
My heart beats in hot passion for you.
Venezia bella—bride of the sea,
You are praised to me by all,
Where of evenings with soft, enticing lute,
The barcaroles sound.
Before the high balconies, up and down move
The gondolas of lovers,
And roses fall as friendly reward
To the singers of these songs.
The Hungarian paced back and forth on the deck as the Leonora took up her part. Could such song work its magic on the heart of a murderer?
I praise Rome’s holy walls,
The powerful construction of high domes.
It fills my breast with a pious shudder,
In my heart it says: trust in God!
“Damn’d!” the Hungarian cried out, loud enough for one of the deck passengers to look out, and then he repeated the curse. The singer did not allow herself to be disturbed:
And the clouds over Campagna,
How splendid, when Aurora shines,
The lark raises a light wing
And chirps the morning song.
“Let them go to the devil!” Lajos cried out between verses. “This gang would be able to turn a fellow soft!”
“Quiet up there!” the voices rose to him, and he saw some had risen from their seat, which consisted of a board set on the railing, and moved to get a look at the disturber of the peace.
Barbarino’s song rose above the roar of the Great Missouri, which the Sultana was just passing in a betting race.’ Malvoglio continued:
I praise Naples,
Under the burning sun,
I rest in a stack
And yawn on the beach,
And gobble macaroni
Without an end
With you bums
With dolce far niente.
I sleep alla stella
Covered by heaven
And dance the tarantella
When my dear wakes me up!
Had it all finally reached the Hungarian, or was it simply out of a desire to make himself heard that, as soon as Malvoglio’s part was finished, he joined in to sing the penultimate verse of the “Romanze” with a full, powerful voice?
Jo sono pittore
Quite quick with my hand,
Called Salvatore
Il rosa.
In chasm
And crypt
And horror
At home!
“Encore! Encore!” sounded from all the mouths on the lower deck, as they made every effort to see their unknown partner on the gangway. When the Hungarian saw this, he pulled back from the railing, over which he had been leaning half his body. Then he brushed the satin dress of a lady and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around in amazement. It was the same lady who h
ad lamented so about her baby and had so bored him that he had been neglecting her for days.
“How sweetly and movingly you sing, sir!” the lady declared in a lively voice, adding rather more quietly, “That’s a very nice song, sir—Hungarian songs are right behind our Yankee songs as the prettiest.”
“That was not Hungarian but German!” the Hungarian responded with irritation, for the woman irritated him.
“My God, that was German, sir? I would not have believed that songs in German could sound so sweet, very sweet, mighty pretty, indeed!”
“To be sure!” the Hungarian responded mockingly, to revenge himself for her classic “indeed.”
“Certainly,” the lady said, without having noted the Hungarian’s sarcasm in the slightest. “How sweet you must have felt, sir, when you sang this song!”
“I cannot really say, ma’am, a little tremor of feeling, that is all.”
“Oh, that reminded me so painfully of my baby.”
“What, my tremor of feeling?”
“Oh, do not mock me, sir! Every song reminds me of my baby, since I always sang to it before it went to sleep.”
“Then you are a singer as well, ma’am?” the Hungarian declared, bowing.
“Certainly, sir!”
“Then you will certainly not deny me a modest request?”
The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) Page 47
