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

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  She never saw her Emil again—what purpose would that have served, once she had acted out her deformed love for Emil in Albert’s embrace?

  Over there, right by the legs of the soft armchair where the Hungarian had sat just a short time before, lay the unhappy Frida. Her heart was untouched, but the gold of her marvelous hair no longer wound about her once so splendid head. Don’t think of Count Lajos, or you could easily fall into the error that he is the murderer. It is enough for you to know that she fell victim to her fidelity to her husband. She did not see her Karl again, so he never had a chance to convince her of his innocence—yet what purpose would that have served? For he stood at her child’s grave, and thoughts of Lajos’s Doppelgänger had driven her out of this world and into the dark alleys of madness.

  Aunty Celestine and Frida, you are tied together in your madness, and if you ever encounter one another, join hands and say: “We are happy that we’re finally dead.”

  And if Jenny and Frida ever meet, the one will say: “Look, my dear sister, Frida, that was the culmination of my nature as a Don Juan.”

  And the other: “Console yourself, my dear Jenny—I was the Faust of our sex.”

  One has an entirely different view of oneself, once dead.

  We will not even attempt to describe the two girls’ terror and pain at seeing the two women dead. They heard the following confused and partial narrative from the Negro Tom:

  “When the tall old man,” the Negro continued in his narrative, after he’d told Constanze and Gertrude about announcing Hiram and Cleveland, “went into the salon, the man who gave his name as Sam Cleveland sat down in the rocking chair in the waiting room. That seemed quite strange to me. It did not seem quite right that the old man did not take him in with him. I thought right away that they were up to something bad. For that reason I hid myself right outside the waiting room and looked in the window, and I did not let him out of my sight—for I thought he was up to no good. Semiramis and Hannah, who had just put the hats and shawls of the ladies in order, snuck in behind me and asked what the man in the rocking chair was doing that I should keep watching him. I told them, ‘Just you wait, that man is not sitting in that rocking chair to do nothing, he’s certainly going to do something bad.’ I have no idea why I said that, but it turned out to be true. In the end it took too much time, since the man did nothing but rock and look often at his watch. Semiramis also said to me that I should go to the salon door and see what the tall old man was doing, and if I heard anything then I could come out and tell her.

  “The man in the rocking chair did not see me when I stationed myself, and he had no idea what I was doing. Otherwise he would have said to me, ‘What are you doing in there, you damn’d nigger, this ain’t even your jour—Big Billy, Yellow Abram, Jerry, Neptune, and Nelly have it—damn’d Tom.’ He then would have said to me, ‘The empty sherbet glasses were carried out long ago—go where your place is.’ He would have said that if he were a real massa. ‘He is some sort of fool, an Irishman from Virginia,’ I thought to myself, ‘the kind of person who doesn’t know what’s in fashion.’ Then I went out. There were Big Billy, Yellow Abram, Jerry, Neptune, and Nelly—they told me, ‘Damn’d black nigger, that’s none of your business up here, see that you stay in your own place.’ But Yellow Abram did say to me, ‘Just look through the salon door, Tom!’ I saw absolutely nothing, just as if I had no eyes at all. ‘But the door was open,’ Kelly said, ‘I pulled the wings back myself, and now it’s as if they didn’t exist.’ Then the door opened again, and I could see again, and right then the tall old man stuck his head out in our direction and cried out, ‘S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Cleveland!’

  “Then the man from the rocking chair came running in, so I hid behind Big Billy out of sheer fright. Then all of us, Big Billy, Yellow Abram, Jerry, Neptune, and Nelly, all ran out into the waiting room. Why? We didn’t know ourselves. We hadn’t been standing there long when we heard a pistol go off, then another and yet another. Everyone in the salon shrieked, and when we began to go in, another pistol shot went off that we thought was aimed at us.

  “And now, while I was looking around, the tall old man came out of the salon, with the man from the rocking chair right after him, and after them came Big Billy, Yellow Abram, Jerry, Neptune, and Nelly, and clouds came along with them that almost blinded me, so I ran into the garden in terror and hid. When I heard nothing more, I snuck out here and looked around. But when I came into the salon, there was nothing but the countesses there—they killed them—that is all I know, Misses.”

  • • •

  Before us lies a rather large packet of letters that could tell us a great deal about Hiram’s night. But some of the contents are too compromising for us to dare publish the information contained. In addition——and this is the main reason we are withholding them—utter silence has been demanded of us as the price for seeing them. What the Negro Tom said has already been given, and that is really all he knew. We also have heard that Gertrude and Constanze performed the last service of love by placing them on one deathbed, something they had ardently desired in life.

  We are allowed to make as much use as we desire of one letter, since no discretion was demanded when it was sent to us. The said letter could not have been written by the prince of Württemberg, although it is the clear intention of the writer to make it appear so. Whatever the case, the letter came at the proper moment, since its content fills an important gap in our mysteries.

  When we stopped before Lady Evans-Stuart’s mansion, we were greeted by persons totally unknown to us. When I asked for permission to enter, they looked askance. But when I told them my name, I was immediately welcomed. They told me that Dudley had been the first in the house to be taken away by yellow fever. She never saw her mother again, since Lady Evans-Stuart only returned several days later, after her daughter’s death. We could not learn where she had been in the meantime. We only noted in her appearance a great distress that terrified us at times. She had not kept any of her Negroes, nor did she allow any to appear. When she learned of her child’s death, she did not show the least agitation. Sometimes it seemed to us as if she knew of it already. Now the opinion is voiced in certain circles that Lady Evans-Stuart had given freedom to all of her Negroes and then shipped them to Liberia.

  Captain Marcy told the most incredible things about his visit at Lady Evans-Stuart’s, and if the half is true, then we can truly thank our good fortune not to have been present.

  He himself asserts that he escaped with his life only with difficulty, and he declares he has lost all desire ever to return to New Orleans. Despite that, he does dare to prepare himself for a new Red River expedition. It is obvious that the captain can be quite brave when he is not in New Orleans. May he succeed in finding the source of the Red River without coming into conflict with supernatural forces. In any case, New Orleans will lose nothing as a result.

  So much for the letter.

  • • •

  In the meantime, Constanze and Gertrude crossed over the lake and brought their parents and siblings the dreadful story of Hiram’s appearance that night and the unhappy end of Jenny and Frida. The initially joyous reunion of the two dear children soon gave way to shock when they told of what had happened, a shock that led the old count and Melanie to serious musings, while Hugo made rumbling oaths and little Amelie cried and complained. And when Melanie asked about the prince, about Lady Evans-Stuart and Dudley, the two children could say nothing more than: “Dear Mother, poor Dudley is dead—we cannot tell you where the prince of Württemberg and Lady Evans-Stuart are, for we have not seen them. Two days after that dreadful night, completely unknown persons came into Lady Evans-Stuart’s mansion and drove us out with harsh words. We thought at once of Count Lajos and tried to cross to Algiers to find him and ask him to come here with us. But we could find neither him nor the cottage. The cottage had burned down, and where the beautiful garden once was there is nothing but charred tree-trunks and branches without leaves or
blossoms. The neighbors also said that the little German cook perished in the flames. We can tell you neither where Frida’s husband is nor how the fire happened. According to what we learned, the fire must have broken out the same night we stayed in Dudley’s bedchamber, when there was so much shooting and opening and slamming of doors.

  “In our anxiety, we then went to the Bayou Road to seek the prince of Württemberg in his mansion. But instead of him, an old, tall Negro woman met us and told us right away, without being asked, that we sought the prince of Württemberg in vain there, since he had left New Orleans twenty-four hours before. She told us that her name was Diana Robert and that she had orders to admit no one during the day. At night anyone who wished to enter could do so, since she was then with her master, who was not the prince but someone much more important. And so, dear Mother, we made the way to you alone.”

  What were the unfortunate parents to make of all of Constanze’s and Gertrude’s strange talk? Let us build a bridge for understanding: pain has its limits just as much as joy. When either of them exceed the limit established by nature, either death or madness comes. Happy is one whose understanding sits like a practiced rider on a horse, keeping it from crossing the most fearsome barriers. Melanie’s understanding was solidly in the saddle. There was no fear of it going too far, but still her pain was great. It raved in the most hidden corners of her fine heart when her children brought the news. But her understanding still posed a question: “Could things really have happened as the children said? And if not? Then the children, my Constanze and Gertrude—say it boldly, with understanding—then my children must be mad!” The children might have lied about something joyful, although they had never lied to their parents. Yet that was always possible—but sorrow? Sorrow, pain, and mourning—nobody can lie about such things. So, so—the children must be crazy if what they described did not really happen. Understanding and healthy logic brought about this reasoning—yet the understanding was wrong, fortunately. Melanie would learn on her arrival in New Orleans that the children did not lie. No, never! She would learn that their dreadful news was true.

  In the little frame house in Covington where the count’s family lived, everything had long since gone to rest, but the people inside remained awake, weeping and hardly speaking a word.

  “Children, lie down and may the Almighty grant you the peaceful sleep you need. Lie down, dear children, and do not dwell on your pain. Constanze, Gertrude, follow them and go to bed! Hugo, do it for love of me. Lie down to sleep and stop your silent brooding. Look, children, Amelie has already gone to sleep.

  “Constanze, undress Amelie and take her properly to bed—tell her that Mother and Father are already sleeping—then she will undress without protest.

  “So, children, be spirited and orderly—Hugo, follow me and the others will follow. Good night, Constanze—sleep well, Gertrude, there, Amelie, it is good of you, Father is already sleeping—good night, Hugo. Before you lie down, do not forget to close the window, the night is wet and unhealthy.

  “So, my dear children, all of you rest, and may the Almighty protect you and give you a quiet, peaceful sleep. Look how prettily Suzie is already sleeping, be quiet and do not wake her up. Good night, good night.”

  This is what Melanie said to her children before she went to her own bedroom, where the old count sat with sunken head on a sofa made by Hugo and Constanze, smoking his good old pipe.

  “The children have finally gone to bed, may they sleep better than they did last night,” Melanie said, setting herself beside her husband.

  The old count set his pipe on the side table and turned his concerned eyes to his wife.

  “Well, what did you get out of Constanze and Gertrude? Is it still the same?”

  “My dear Ernst, would I hide anything from you?”

  “So you still think the same way, Melanie?”

  “Oh, this question is too harsh, since you know what I’ll say to you.”

  “But Melanie—can’t you explain it any other way? You are so understanding otherwise. Must it be so?”

  “Consider, my dear Ernst, how could it possibly be any other way? I have to be amazed that I ever gave the slightest credence to the story the two children told.”

  “Melanie, I believe that you are wrong this time. Why couldn’t it be as they tell us? I have read remarkable things—”

  “You’ve read them, my dear Ernst—but were they true? Think about it a bit. Lady Evans-Stuart and all her Negroes are supposed to have vanished suddenly in the middle of the night? There were supposed to have been four shots fired in the house? Clouds were supposed to have chased after the Negroes? Jenny and Frida are supposed to have been—oh no, no—the cottage in Algiers is supposed to have burned down in the same night, Frida’s husband is not to be found, and the prince himself—how is it possible? How could he have left us so suddenly? And yet, if only it were—oh no, if only half of it were true, I would not believe that my dear children—”

  Melanie’s words were interrupted by a storm of tears. She leaned on her husband, who began to weep himself.

  “Melanie—”

  “Ernst, don’t weep!”

  “Woman of my heart, let me weep—Aunty Celestine’s prophecy will be fulfilled: our family will meet its ruin on America’s soil. Our destiny is that of the Atreids, and all that is needed is that a Clytemnestra take your place at my side.”9

  “Ernst, I should take this badly. You are Melanie’s husband and no Agamemnon at all. Don’t conjure up old shades, and let the son of Atreus rest in his grave.”

  The two spouses were quiet for a few moments, then the old count began again.

  “Do you really believe that about the two children, Melanie?”

  Melanie’s silence gave the count the correct answer to his question.

  “Then it is Celestine’s heritage—my God, what have Constanze and Gertrude done to deserve a clouded understanding? Melanie, Melanie! Tell me that it isn’t so—I will believe it,” the count begged with a voice such as she had never heard. Then he put his arm around his wife’s slender body and placed his head on her shoulder.

  “How loudly your heart beats, my Melanie—can’t you hear mine, too?”

  “It hammers out an old, sad story—oh, if you had just been silent about Celestine’s heritage!” And then Melanie stood up, no longer the tender mother, no longer the quiet, sorrowing Niobe—her face glowed, her eyes danced wildly in their hollows, she raised her arms and let them sink, and then she let out a heart-rending shriek, a sound that bore articulated words.

  “Do you know, Ernst? Do you know now?”

  The count leaped up in shock, grasping his wife by the hands and crying: “But Melanie, for God’s sake, what is the matter with you? What are you trying to say?”

  “Do you know what the prince told us about the abbé? Do you know why Celestine, my dear noble sister, went mad?”

  “Because he—because—but what are you trying to say? What is terrifying you so? What?”

  “Do you know why Constanze and Gertrude have gone mad? Do you know?”

  “But Melanie, they are not mad!”

  “The dear children have fallen into the abbé’s hands! Oh, now I can explain everything to myself! Ernst, Ernst—we have lost our children forever!”

  “But Melanie, how did you arrive at such a dreadful thought? The abbé has been gone for some time, and haven’t Constanze and Gertrude written cogent and heartfelt letters? You are confused tonight, Melanie, consider it for a while—your pain is driving you too far. And does it have to be the children? Not they! And what they told us could have happened. Melanie, I am coming to my senses only now, as a result of your saying something like that.”

  How the dear mother deceived herself! And yet, was it any wonder that she made such a connection? The tale Constanze and Gertrude brought them from New Orleans was so strange and sounded so fictional that even the healthiest understanding would have to draw just such a hostile conclusion.

&nbs
p; It was only her hot blood that caused Melanie to draw such a dreadful image, it was only her heart that insisted on Aunty Celestine’s old story. This agitation had to pass away. She thought, grumbled, rejected, and thought further. And the result of all this dreadful torment was what Melanie concluded: that even if the children had really been conscious, and everything had happened as they said, then they at least remained her children, even though they all must mourn the deaths of Jenny and Frida. Yes, during the night it even went so far that the spouses exchanged such a consolation with great resignation.

  “We can expect nothing from the present, but everything from the future. When we get to New Orleans, we shall find out.”

  And the very next morning, when the entire family sat together, neither of the spouses could believe anymore that Constanze and Gertrude had been so unhappy. Melanie’s understanding was solidly in the saddle, and her husband was loyal to its strength.

  “When we get to New Orleans, we shall find out.” They wanted to stay another week in the little farmhouse to await the prince, who was to come across the lake during this time so long as nothing extraordinary held him back or, if they were to give any credence to the statements of Gertrude and Constanze, he hadn’t been harmed by some unknown catastrophe. If the prince came, then they would be concerned; if he did not come, they would be the same. In the first case, they would hear only bad news, and in the second case they would learn what had happened late but firsthand.

  During this week, Constanze and Gertrude were the sole concern of the two parents when they could find time to be alone with the girls. In some ways the parents gained a great deal as a result of this concentration. Melanie’s obsessive worries weakened, but another thought gained force, a thought just as sad if not so hopeless and dreadful. Constanze and Gertrude remained theirs, but they had lost Jenny and Frida.