In earlier times, the Third District possessed two free ports, one for ships and one for dancing girls. The first has vanished, and only the second survives. Parasina Brulard Hotchkiss’s palace, with its subsidiaries running back and forth across the entire district, is still fondly recalled, as is the colorful Mulattoes’ Settlement and Creole Mulatressages. Here the infamous Hotoohs hold their illicit gatherings, their “naked balls” and shocking orgies. In this district live most of the pale chino cholas, whose deadly qualities are well known to any denizen of New Orleans. Most women of this coloration are free, since they are useless to their masters as slaves and they have a dreadful effect on children entrusted to their care. Their inns are concentrated in the interior of the district, and only the Hamburg Mill stood (stands?) directly on the levee.
Fortune led the Hungarian directly to the mill without his having known a thing about the institution. He happened on Gabor von Rokavar at Lombardi’s fruit store as he was engaged in a heated discussion with Lombardi. Gabor and Lajos, who had known each other previously, quickly declared themselves inseparable comrades, and Lombardi immediately made the acquaintance of the Hungarian officer of hussars. He decided there was no risk in introducing Lajos to the Lady Merlina Dufresne. Lajos soon joined the mill as a clubman, which was his status at the time we first encountered him on his departure from Bissell’s Island. The reader has already learned the character of the clubmen of the Hamburg Mill from an earlier volume of The Mysteries of New Orleans, as well as the Hungarian’s efforts as an arsonist. The two gangs of arsonists that operated out of the Lady Merlina’s establishment were entirely dissolved through clever maneuvers, and then the clubmen of the Hamburg Mill had a complete monopoly in their hands. One might object that the manner we have presented this gang of arsonists to the reader lacks enough practicality and precision to be believable in all its ramifications. We believe that we can dispel this doubt by pointing out that it would be dangerous for us to give naked facts without the garb of a novel. Further, we do not feel our chosen genre demands that we compare our bemused imagination to criminal statistics. This attitude was necessary so as not to degenerate into bizarre fantasy or to spur criticism to no avail. Among the innumerable fires the clubmen of the Hamburger Mill started, the one that reduced the splendid St. Charles Hotel to ashes was by far the most important and that which was realized in the most criminal and bold manner.
Sure enough, this matter is still covered by an impenetrable veil of secrecy, and not one of the scoundrels caught setting other fires has ever confessed anything about it. Incidentally, the flames that destroyed the St. Charles Hotel also devoured a Unitarian church at the corner of Union and St. Charles Street, leaving it in ashes.*
This was almost the same time the Hungarian committed the crime against a family just arrived from Germany, taking them from prosperity to desperation. If help had not come to them at the right moment, they would have descended forever into an abyss of misery and need. While Lajos had been wandering the streets of the First District one day, fortune led him to the exchange office of the bankers Mathews and Finley, at the corner of Camp Street and Commercial Place. There he noted a rather elderly man at the payment table receiving a quantity of banknotes. For the Hungarian, it was a single thought to see the money and to decide to take it. He followed the man at a short distance as he went on his way harmlessly and slowly. It was too early in the day for Lajos to attack and rob him on the street. Then a marvelous accident showed him the way to come into possession of this very significant amount of money. After he had followed his selected victim a few blocks, a small blonde girl came out of a large, dignified house and ran straight to the man.
“Mama and the children are visiting the old miss over there—she told me to wait for you until you returned from the banker. Then I was to tell you to put the money in the large desk in the big room and keep the key, in case you have to go out, for we probably won’t be back until after eight.”
“You mean preparations for travel have already been completed, as we said at breakfast, and Mama and your siblings have already been gone for some time?”
“Mama only left two hours ago—I waited for you the entire time, Papa—as far as the other matter goes, everything is the way you wanted it.”
“Give Mama and your siblings my greetings, Gertrude, and tell them they should not stay out too long.”
“Adieu, Papa!”
“Adieu, my child.”
One will already have recognized the elderly man as the count, Melanie’s husband. This brief conversation, which was carried out in a rather loud voice by both parties, attracted Lajos’s attention to a very high degree. The first decision he made was to follow the count to his apartment, gain entrance under the pretext of a visit, murder him, and take the money. He could not carry out his plan, however, for at the very moment he began mounting the steps, he heard people behind him. Three men passed by and stopped before the count’s door. One of them pulled the bell, and the count appeared immediately and admitted them. They were business associates who had matters to settle with the count before his departure. The Hungarian walked dejectedly down the steps and awaited the men’s departure in the lower hallway for two hours. In the end, bored with waiting and fearing that the entire family would return, he spun another criminal plan, that which led to the impoverishment of the entire family and which Melanie later described to the enthralled prince of Württemberg.
Everything the Hungarian dared in this situation was a success, all the more marvelous because he did not invest a great deal of effort or intelligence in it. The theft from the count’s family was a success simply because of his quickness and physical dexterity. He seemed to be the darling of his special demon, which blinded the eyes of the police and saved him from the revenging arms of Themis.
The reader has long been waiting to be told more about the arrival of the count’s family in New Orleans, as well as their efforts to find Emil and the two sisters. But before we fulfill these tasks, we must look at the lovable cottage several months earlier.
Frida, who naturally had no notion of the Hungarian’s shameful profession, bestowed on him all of her earlier love and respect, and she was overjoyed to find that she was carrying something under her heart that she could not conceal from her husband. He came home late one night from the mill to find Frida, dressed in a sparkling white negligée, sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair. It had been quite humid during the day, and there had been a small thunderstorm that had cooled the air somewhat. Jenny was sad and completely out of sorts. Her sister had pressed in vain to discover the source of her care, despite all tender efforts.
Jenny would admit nothing, but she declared she had a physical complaint that, as she described it, must have been caused by her upset nerves. So they sat together for three entire hours, without Jenny’s depression lightening for a moment and without Frida’s being able to move her sister to a confession of her problem. Jenny finally wished her sister good night in a pained tone, returned her tender kiss, and went back to her room, where she laid down at once. Frida found herself utterly alone on the porch. The lightning had grown stronger, and distant thunder echoed from the vast mass of black clouds that rose in an instant to mountainous heights in the south, announcing an approaching storm. The agitated air felt as cool as the breast of a seagull on the lightly clad body of the unhappy blessed one. She laid her hands in her lap and studied the opposite shore in hopes of seeing her husband in the flashes of lightning as Tiberius brought him to the Algiers shore. Whether it was because the flashes of lightning were so bright or because the thunder that followed was so loud that it distracted her from her task, she did not see her husband until he stood behind her and gave her a tender, “Good evening, my Frida.”
She started a bit when she suddenly felt his hand on her shoulder, followed in the next moment by a stormy embrace.
“Still up so late, my child?” he asked in a gentle tone, helping her out of the rocking chair, as w
as his habit, and sitting in it himself to provide her a place on his lap.
“‘So late,’ my Lajos? It would be better to say ‘so early,’ for midnight has long since passed, and if there were not so many black clouds, you would surely see the first glimmer of daylight,” she responded, touching her blonde head to his strong, broad chest.
“Then we should go to bed, my dear child. I am very tired and exhausted.”
“You torment yourself so much on my behalf, my Lajos—you should give your job to another so you could have your night’s rest.”
“It is not yet time, my Frida, I have to keep working at this—then, if God wills that my health holds, I will start my own business.”
“If God wills it, Lajos? Heaven has blessed me, and in the future it will spare us all trouble.”
At these words a hellish fire began burning in the Hungarian’s eyes. “Heaven has blessed her?” he asked himself. But with feigned joy he asked his wife, “Heaven has blessed you, you say? Did I hear correctly? Are you
“It is just as you think, Lajos, in several months we will be the happiest couple on earth.”
One must not forget that this scene takes place a long time before the fire at the Hamburg Mill, and no doubt it helped lead the Hungarian to set the fire.
Jenny’s condition grew more hopeless with every passing day, and Frida lost all expectation of things improving, especially since her sister refused to see a physician. Then a man who could bring light into this dark situation appeared, in the form of the prince of Württemberg. He came one day to the charming cottage to visit the two sisters and collect the butterflies and beetles they had been gathering for him. He was received as a good friend, as was always the case when he appeared. The joy over his sudden, unexpected appearance was so great that even Jenny’s mask of suffering lightened a bit, and her eyes—blank since that scene with the handsome fireman—glittered with life again. But all too soon her good spirit retreated and the quiet demon of her sorrow recovered the upper hand. The prince was too much a connoisseur of women for the cause of her distress to be hidden from him long. When they went for a stroll in the garden after dinner, the prince between the two sisters, Jenny suddenly broke away and left the prince alone with Frida, making excuses of feeling unwell, then went to the opposite side of the garden. The prince looked at the blonde in confusion and stated his concerns for her sister.
“My dear Countess Frida,” he said, going to the bower on the right side of the sheltered path, “shall we be seated here for a few moments?”
“As you wish, Prince, but I ask you not to be disturbed if I leave you soon, for I cannot leave Jenny out of my sight for long. She could easily harm herself.”
“But my God, are things so poorly with Countess Jenny that you have something to fear?”
“I cannot say for sure, Prince, since I could deceive myself in this matter, but prudence requires that one always be prepared.”
“How should I interpret your words, dear Countess? You are talking in riddles.”
“Prince, you know that I have never kept secrets from you, so long as they did not deal with the inner sanctum of women’s matters.”
“I know that, dear Countess, but I beg that you do not misinterpret my words.”
“Utterly not, Prince—you always speak honestly, and so it is my duty to give you what you always demand from yourself.” Frida laid her index finger on her mouth and then continued: “Since my husband has returned, Jenny sleeps alone once more. You know, Prince, that hitherto we two sisters slept in one bed and were as happy together as a young married couple. I always came to bed earlier than Jenny, who often stayed up until one or two hours after midnight, reading her romantic poets or writing little essays that she would read out at breakfast. By the time Jenny was done with her studies, I was already in the deepest sleep. So she would strip down to her stockings and her minimal negligée, then she would climb into bed and awaken me. Then I had to remove her stockings with my own hands, and formally cover her up and get her to sleep like a little child. I was so used to that, and we were so happy and pleased to do that, so it was only with pain that I separated myself from her side when my husband returned. Jenny asked repeatedly that I spend the night with her, and my husband had nothing against it, since he knew how dependent we were on each other. So we began sleeping together again—my husband was often gone the entire night anyway. I half slept, half wakened, and, when I did sleep, I dreamed the dumbest stuff, about fires, dead horses, or murderers and robbers, so that I was always happier when I was awake. My sister lay right across the bed, taking practically all the room. Since I did not want to wake her to get into a more comfortable position, I rolled up as tightly as possible against the top of the bed. I now believe that my bad dreams came from this uncomfortable position. One night I carefully stretched myself further across the bed, and, since I found no opposition, I reclaimed half of it. Only then did I realize that Jenny must have moved to the other side. I probed about, looked around, and arose—my sister was not with me. Then a shadow stroked the mosquito nets, spreading itself against the columns at the foot of the bed. In the next moment the room became quite dark. ‘Are you in front of a light, Jenny?’ I called out, lifting the curtains and sticking my head out toward the fireplace, on whose mantel the night lamp stood. Jenny was indeed standing in front of the lamp. Her left hand was on its glass top, her right near the flame, so that one could see the fine, rosy blood shimmering through her hand. ‘What are you doing, dear sister?’ I called out time after time. ‘Lie down.’ No answer. I have to confess that I felt an uncanny shiver. I rose from the bed, but no sooner had I placed a foot on the carpet than Jenny rushed from the lamp to the window, open because of the heat.”
“I suspect, Countess Frida, that your sister is a sleepwa—” the prince did not finish the word, since Frida placed her hand over his mouth.
“Please, Prince,” she continued, “don’t frighten me. Hear what I have to say first.”
The prince nodded.
“Jenny rushed to the window and leaned her whole upper body out of the window—I ran to her in shock, grabbed her around her middle, and insisted that she tell me what was the problem. Instead of answering me, she wriggled out of my grasp and climbed onto the windowsill, acting as if she wanted to jump out. ‘For heaven’s sake, Jenny, what are you doing?’ I asked her, clinging to her neck. She audibly exhaled and turned to me and repeated several times …”
Frida was silent for a moment.
“Do not torment me any longer, Countess, what did she say?” the prince declared hastily.
“Spare me, Prince, it is almost impossible—and yet—as a trusted friend, perhaps you see better, my senses are so confused when I think about it. Perhaps it was only the language of the world of dreams—in sleep we often say things of which the heart does not know. My good Jenny repeated, ‘Albert, Albert, if you love me even a little bit—Emil, forgive me, my Albert, my Emil—Albert, aren’t you my Emil?’”
Frida appeared to be exhausted. She folded her hands in her lap and looked thoughtfully at the prince’s face. He passed his right hand repeatedly across his forehead and asked: “Countess, why were you so disturbed by your sister’s words? What are you looking for in them? What significance do they have for you?”
“Prince,” the splendid blonde responded, “my sister loves Emil to distraction, despite his faithless conduct. She is also not indifferent to the young architect, since he has Emil’s mannerisms and even the same look—which Jenny assured me, though I could never see it. The young architect is obsessed with Jenny, as a person raves for a beautiful flower or an appealing bouquet. I have no notion how much further it goes—it would be a betrayal of my good sister—or is it already betrayal if I have told her secret?”
“My dear Countess,” the prince of Württemberg interrupted her, “the well-being of your sister depends on your telling me honestly your fears for her. Don’t consider it mere curiosity, and do not believe that you are commit
ting some sort of crime against your sister’s heart if you entrust a secret to an old family friend whose highest mission is to ease pain and settle distress.”
“Prince, Prince—you are going too far in your praiseworthy zeal, no, no, Prince, a secret such as this, what we women …” Frida closed her eyes and blushed, turning her face toward her lap.
The prince laid his right hand on his friend’s shoulder, gently inclining his head forward and saying carefully, “I believe I have detected your sister’s problem—haven’t you noticed her strange posture?”
“Prince!” the blonde sounded in a deeply moving tone. “Could my own sister have forgotten herself so utterly?”
“Quiet, divine woman!” the prince soothed her. “You should sympathize with your sister, not condemn her.”
“Condemn my sister? No, no, Prince, I will kiss her again and again. Oh Jenny, Jenny, if I had even suspected!”
“My dear,” the prince of Württemberg finished, “think of Goethe’s Elective Affinities,29 only in reverse, and your sister is free of all guilt.”
After such a fortunate analysis, the prince of Württemberg held it to be his first duty to speak with Countess Jenny. Even if he had some misgivings about trying to relieve her depression with an honest approach, still he felt himself obligated to save at least outward appearances and protect his friend from a bad reputation she did not deserve. So he determined to persuade Jenny, through Frida’s mediation, to leave Algiers and spend her confinement far away from New Orleans and its environs. Further, since Jenny’s compromising condition coincided with that of her sister Frida, it was also helpful for the latter to enjoy herself as much as possible in relaxing surroundings, exchanging a shared depression for a fragrant springtime of the heart. Pass Christian was the perfect place for this purpose. The prince had access to a roomy, pleasantly located villa there that belonged to his friend Baron von Seckendorf, who was usually in San Antonio, Texas. During its owner’s absence, this villa was reserved for a select family circle who visited during the regatta. This suggestion pleased no one more than it did the Hungarian. At first he heaped false tenderness on Frida, even pressing her to delay her departure by a month on the pretext that he would be able to take leave of his business and join his wife and sister-in-law for a time. But after a few days, he declared that he feared he would not be able to get away for months, so he thought it better for them to hurry up and leave while the clear, splendid skies seemed to favor traveling.
The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) Page 53
