It was a splendid morning. The steeds of the sun-god whinnied for joy as a Gulf breeze kissed their shimmering flanks. They stamped their ruby-red hooves on the gates of the young morning, scattering the high cirrus clouds in all directions. O splendid spectacle, when Helios sheds his first rays on the hands of an artist! The dome of the Odd Fellows’ Hall was bathed in a fairy-tale glow, while further down from St. Charles Street shimmers the Eye of God, with square and compass. This shimmer comes from the Freemasons’ Hall,26 whose façade breaks through the narrows of Commercial Alley every morning but vanishes once more when the sun rushes westward. The god Cupid prefers to haunt at such moments.
“Señor caballero, ho, ho, ho—no understand,” our friend suddenly heard a voice that seemed to come from so close by that he could not avoid looking around for the odious killjoy.
“Señor caballero, ho, ho, ho—how are Frida and Jenny?” the stranger continued, with a voice swinging from masculine to feminine and back. One could just as well swear it was that of a man as they could it was that of a woman.
“Señor caballero, ho, ho, ho. Have you forgotten Jenny so utterly—ho, ho, ho, señor caballero, your Jenny loves you from the heart, and it hurts …”
“Scoundrel!” the young architect cried out in irritation, throwing all his artist’s tools to the ground. He looked in all directions, but he could see no one. He did not notice a small something moving in the dark shadows of a cypress not far away.
“Señor caballero, ho, ho, ho. Your Jenny loves you from the heart, and it hurts …”
“It’s enough to drive one mad!” Albert raged, his eyes almost popping out.
Our lovely lady readers have already recognized the jester on the cypress tree. It was, in fact, none other than that talkative Papchen from the lovable cottage. He had made use of the sisters’ absence to abuse their trust in leaving him free to roam by wandering into forbidden territory. Papchen had sat quite happily through the whole warm night in the deepest shadows of the cypress branches, cheerfully snapping at the beetles and the occasional grub. He probably had recognized the young architect as soon as the young man approached the place where he settled. When he began to draw, Papchen figured it was the proper time to pose a few questions and make a few remarks to disturb him, using phrases Jenny had taught him in her obsession with Emil. It was quite irresponsible for the bird to undertake such plagiarism and so drive our friend mad with it.
It can be seen that Papchen was no small-scale jester.
“Señor caballero,” the colorfully feathered rascal began from the top. But Albert spied him in that moment, and he stepped quickly to the cypress, catching him with a quick grab. Papchen was not pleased at such a swift arrest. He beat with his wings, pecked with his beak at our friend’s hands, and made every conceivable effort to make his dissatisfaction known. But it was to no avail, and the delinquent had to obey. He grumbled with his thick tongue, but he spoke not a word.
Albert, who had not shown himself in Algiers since he’d met Cousin Karl at the sisters’ place, now determined to return the captured Papchen, so as to restore the once-close relationship his own ungrounded and senseless bad humor had since clouded.
This must have been foremost on his mind, since otherwise he would not have left behind his sketchbook and paraphernalia, along with his umbrella, in his confusion. Let us rush toward the two sisters’ residential sanctuary along with Papchen, and we will see what is happening there. Jenny and Frida had quickly discovered the parrot’s disappearance and dared to take a rather distant walk of the area to find him. A few moments after Albert had left, they arrived at the place where he had left his things. Frida, who was curious by nature, could not leave the artist’s materials lying undisturbed on the ground with only an indifferent glance. Once she had determined that absolutely no one but her sister was nearby, and after repeated examination of the area, she dared at last to put her pretty hand on the sketchbook. She then pulled back, extremely surprised, turned to Jenny, and declared: “My God, sister, guess whose trail we are following here?”
“Little sister, don’t frighten me. Just who would we be tracking? Don’t touch someone else’s things, for heaven’s sake—what if the owner should see you?” Jenny snapped out of her reverie, for she had been thinking of something other than Papchen the whole time, and she had only pretended to be looking—so as not to upset Frida.
“The person this belongs to,” the sensible blonde replied, “will not protest—look here, little sister, what name is here under the corner of the cover—look, look, Albert R*.’”
“Albert? My God, that is strange!” Jenny declared.
“Let’s take the things home—he can get them there,” Frida suggested.
“Yes, let’s do that,” Jenny agreed.
“Well, who knows if we won’t find him there when we go home? I have a feeling.”
“Then all the better, Frida, we will hold the things until he explains why he has not visited us in so long. He can reclaim them when he apologizes and promises not to neglect his lady friends any more.”
“Yes, let’s do it.”
Frida pulled the umbrella out of the muddy soil, Jenny took the sketchbook and instruments under her arm, and so they proceeded, looking about now and then, to their happy home. They seemed utterly to have forgotten Papchen.
This was not the case with Papchen. When the sisters opened the garden gate they saw from the crushed shells that someone had entered, then they heard with amazement the familiar phrases from the magnolia tree.
“Ho, ho, ho—no understand. How are Jenny and Frida?” Papchen had managed to get out of Albert’s hands as he’d arrived at the front steps. Failing, after many tries, to catch him, Albert sought Tiberius to help and learned that the ladies were away looking for Papchen. He was just now coming out with Tiberius. Albert stood stunned when he saw the ladies with his sketchbook and umbrella sitting under the magnolia tree with Papchen. Jenny no sooner spied him than she called out.
“Look, what a strange find we made! We went out to find our Papchen, and instead we found an umbrella and an artist’s sketchbook.”
“And I,” Albert declared as he approached calmly, his hat in his hand, “I went away an artist and returned with a parrot—I caught your dear Papchen, but he got away from me again.”
“Were you really the lucky finder, Herr R*?” Frida responded.
“And on account of Papchen, you forgot umbrella and sketchbook?” Jenny asked in a tone that cheered up the young architect.
With this sort of exchange they all went into the delightful cottage: Frida, Jenny, Albert, Papchen—little Tiberius had caught him in no time—sketchbook, and umbrella. Our friend, who was severely lectured for absenting himself for so long, was relieved to find that the sisters then quickly left behind all reference to his long avoidance and moved onto a conversation that was as serious as it was practical and well intended. Frida spoke of life in the western states as superior to that in any of the slave states, and she finally declared that many a young, capable man whose activities eventually decline in the exhausting climate of the South would make tremendous progress as a useful member of society in the splendid states of Illinois, Iowa, or Wisconsin. Jenny had nothing in particular to oppose her sister’s assertions, but she believed that things were the same throughout the United States, whether in the South or the West. People were the same everywhere, and money and the shopkeeper’s spirit had general precedence over spiritual qualities, the beauties of the soul and heart. In her view, anyone unable to reach his goals in the South would also strive in vain in the West.
Albert smiled comfortably at Jenny’s definition, since he knew he was the obvious target. He was not going to be untrue to the South so long as he whiled away his time in the shadow of their magnolias and lilacs with his friends from the lovable cottage.
Albert paid attention to both opinions, so as not to give either preference. In response to a further, mild opposition on Jenny’s part, Frida referr
ed to a letter they had just received from the West, which deserved to be cited because it came from a man she respected and who even had some impact in the eyes of her sister, Jenny. Here is the letter.
Chapter 5
A LETTER FROM THE WEST, OR, THE VOICE OF A FRIEND FROM HIGHLAND
My gracious Countesses!
When we had the honor of being presented to you by His Royal Highness Prince Paul of Württemberg, I recognized at once in you the friendly, noble sensibility that you have so often shown to me ever since. How often have I torn up letters I wrote with the greatest care, entirely because I feared to bore you and thus not merit being answered. Yet, on the contrary, I have always encountered tender attention, and until now I have always had the joy of seeing all my lines carefully read and faithfully answered by you, gracious countesses.
You have permitted me to tell you much about St. Louis and its beautiful surroundings. This time let me entertain you with the account of a small country town in Illinois, where I now live. My dears, particularly Countess Jenny, do not expect any look back at the Old Country, with which I have broken once and for all. A look at Europe, so desolate and overpopulated, is so sorrowful that it is good to turn away from it. What is more pleasant and consoling than the beautiful picture of our great painter Kaulback, who can show the destruction of Jerusalem in the background and the flight of the Holy Family, the hope of the world, in the foreground? How swiftly has Germany become mere background for me! Yes, that demonstrates once again the infinity of nature and the mighty predominance of the drive for creation over destruction. Germany, like all of Europe, rushes to its doom, but young America rises to its future ten times as rapidly.
What particularly pleases me, and what awakens in me such a high faith in the future of this country, is the comment that in the foundation of these settlements there is nothing mythic, not even anything romantic. Here they know nothing about the childhood of a state. Organizations, even the smallest, start out at the age of maturity, with practical consciousness and masculine energy. There are never any miraculous foundations or obscure connections. Everything is owed to men with axes, teams, and plows. No devil has ever raised a bridge and demanded the first hen that crosses as a reward. No, a Mr. So and So put it up two weeks ago. There a church does not owe its existence to the intervention of Mary, or, when it goes well, to the mysterious arts and powers of Freemasonry, but rather it is built like any house. In one word, there is no romanticism here. Here youth is the workforce, and, if it continues as it has, it will seem that the land was once inhabited by giants. Are the cows and horses here as intelligent as the peasants were in Pomerania and Brandenburg? Is it any wonder that here a simple person with his primitive capacities takes his place alongside the experienced, learned, and hard-tried German farmer, judge, or foreman? Here in Highland, for example, perfect justice is dispensed, and yet Esquire Suppiger has not drunk and gorged away five years at a university, nor has it occurred to the government to require that he practice five years before he can take up his office. My God, how simple it can all be if one has no interest, no profit in the matter.
Now I come to my Highland—nomen est omen.27 May it continue to be a savior to many oppressed German families! Our Highland thrives in physical as well as moral matters. The capital grows almost every day with the arrival of well-to-do families and the value of energetic hands, and if cholera had not made such a severe visitation, instead of a dozen there would be a hundred houses in the town. The value of the soil increases, since the immediate surroundings are settled more with every passing day, and the Anglo-Saxon tribe does not deny its child-producing power. In the last year a significant French population has settled here. It consists partly of workers, but also partly of persons from the more educated, prosperous class that has turned to agriculture. All that we are lacking at this point is a pair of factories managed with care and supplied with capital, so that a closer market could be provided than that in St. Louis.
Native-born Americans prefer large towns with such businesses, but an arriving European, particularly a German, is so exhausted from the torpor of European commerce that he prefers to turn to less-productive agriculture than to invest his capital and effort in industrial undertakings. If he knew how much easier, how much less perilous, how much more profitable commerce is here than it is in Germany, he would abandon the deceptive peace of farming life and exchange it for the creative joys of industry, to the benefit of himself and his country. Yet here lessons are to no purpose. It is only a question of time.
But our population grows in moral matters as well. First of all, a reading circle has been formed and is open to every citizen of good reputation. We subscribe to eighteen German, French, English, and American journals—some scholarly, some political papers—and we have laid the foundations for a town library. With the growth of the town, this young institution will unfold, hopefully spreading finer fruits of social grouping rather than those of religious sect-making. Unfortunately, in Highland we have not a single decent school, although there are two or more churches seething with internal disputes. Unfortunately they have built three churches to entice superstitious peasants from the Odenwald, so we have to worry whether the spirited inhabitants of our place will get an opportunity to teach their children to read and write. Unfortunately they seem to prefer inviting yet another thievish killjoy of Christian charity as a preacher of the Word of God than to try to hire a good teacher for children …
We will avoid giving the end of the letter, since it has nothing further interesting to a sympathetic reader. In the place of the full name stood only the initials E. B. B. and under them, on the left: “Highland, Madison County, Ill., April 1852.”
Frida had finished the letter. She turned to Albert: “Well, how did you like this letter?”
Albert seemed to hesitate, or to be holding back an honest answer. Frida saw this.
“Say it right out and openly,” she said, “how do you like this letter? How do you like the views of our friend in the West?”
Instead of an answer, Albert redirected the question to the two sisters, though it actually appeared aimed at Jenny: “Please, ladies, how did you like the letter?”
“I liked it a great deal,” Frida said at once. “I find in it an expression of healthy practicality, and I recognize in its style the man the prince presented to us a year and a half ago.”
“I respect and treasure everyone’s views when they arise from genuine conviction,” Jenny responded. “Our friend may be able to justify the way he portrays things in the New World, and I have nothing against that. But the fact that he has pushed our Germany so much into the background, and that he subjects his own homeland to so much satire and bitter irony cannot please me. He is happy that there is no romanticism in this land, and he is literally overjoyed that only practical understanding and raw workforce dominates and sets the tone. He does not even want to permit the farmer to enjoy his idyllic peace, and he encourages him to turn to a more profitable business—manufacturing. Such encouragement, while spoken rather softly, is theft in the heart of each who sees his personal equanimity rather than some filthy factory as his fortune. Those raised in the dust of the counting house and the storeroom or those estranged from higher education might be drawn to factories. Those who have no idea that there are other regions on this earth in which heart and soul are warmed and made happy. The blossoms of art and scholarship grow in the romanticism of folk life, and a land whose woods, pastures, and mountains do not possess the gentle thread of romanticism might be good for a big meal, but the heart will starve and the soul will languish.”
Jenny was silent as she awaited a reply. Frida, who was of an entirely different opinion than her sister, now turned to Albert, who had listened to Jenny’s words with close attention:
“Well now it’s up to you, my friend, to give your opinion of the letter. Well, tell us how it pleases you.”
“If I am to confess openly without fear of being expelled by you—I can only respo
nd negatively to your wishes that I speak my opinion,” Albert declared.
“Look at me!” Frida cried out.
“Albert!” Jenny raised her forefinger.
Frida looked at her sister, then at Albert. Albert looked at both at the same moment.
Had Jenny betrayed herself? This threatening movement with the cry, “Albert!” Why not “My friend” or “Herr R.,” as custom would demand? Would the portrait of Emil that had been the idol of her heart yield to another? Or did some other play of nature reveal a similarity in Albert?
That is at least probable.
Albert, who was seized by the same sympathetic magic, hid his embarrassment in the funereal answer: “The letter would be something for your esteemed cousin, my ladies. Utterly my own point of view!”
“You are right, my friend,” Frida said. I read it aloud to him before he left for St. Louis.”
“Then your dear cousin has departed?” Albert asked with astonishment and secret joy.
“Didn’t you know that, Herr R.? You did know it—don’t prevaricate,” the two sisters said at once.
“Of course I had no idea,” Albert responded, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“And we haven’t seen you either,” Frida responded rather acidly, since she understood that the young man would not have mentioned Cousin Karl without a purpose.
The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) Page 50
