What a regrettable decision it was to travel to New Orleans with the entire family! To free themselves from the dreadful uncertainty concerning the news their two children had brought them, it would have been enough to send Hugo alone. How different their fate would have been! Then one could declare what the family did not know, which was that the man with the Mantis religiosa held their destiny in his hands. Weren’t Melanie and the old count Emil’s parents? Weren’t Hugo, Constanze, Gertrude, and Amelie Emil’s siblings? Emil appeared to have escaped his punishment because he had deposited the cell of the future savior of her race in Lucy’s body—but his disobedience, his poor fulfillment of his duty after he and Lucy left the upper chambers of the Atchafalaya Bank—O dreadful fate, for this disobedience his dear parents and his innocent siblings were to be punished!
He had already revenged himself on Jenny, who never saw her Emil again. And on Frida, who had trusted a murderer and arsonist until a few hours before her death—he had not allowed her to guess the man she embraced as her spouse. He, the fabled old man, the man with the Mantis religiosa, had sent that rat, the same one her husband had pointed out to deceive the Italian Lombardi, into the lovable cottage, to attack her innocent child. And as for Lajos—what the old man plans for him is no longer far away.
Before we watch the unfortunate family arrive in New Orleans, we will present the reader with some interesting historical notes about the Covington farm. This farm, generally known among the denizens of Covington by the name of Cockroaches’ Farm, had been leased by the prince for two years to three strange-looking persons before the count’s family was brought there. The neighborhood folk wracked their brains trying to discover who these three persons were and what was their support, for they did not appear to make the slightest effort to do anything on the farm they had leased. The farm remained as desolate as it had been the day they occupied it through the two whole years.
The Americans living in the area, particularly those in Covington itself, took a great interest in the residents of the farmhouse, which was not a bad-looking cottage. But no one could discover even the smallest fact about them for the simple reason that no one understood their language. Curious visitors were unable to discover anything. They took Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Spaniards, Italians—in short, every imaginable nationality—out to the farm to serve as interpreters. But none succeeding in understanding these strange persons’ language or even in guessing what it was. When the prince of Württemberg came to Covington, which was not an unusual event, he was besieged by hundreds and hundreds of questions, and it even happened that the notorious Pompano gang in Covington threatened to burn down his farm and drive its inhabitants away. The prince always assured them that his tenants themselves had no idea who they were and from whence they came. The prince himself would not have discovered the truth if a compatriot of his—who was over forty—had not tracked the story to its source. Soon after this compatriot’s first visit to the mysterious residents of the farm, he declared that they were his own countrymen, which is to say that they were “Schwaben.” Since the conceited investigator spoke superb English, he immediately translated the name of his countrymen as “cockroaches,”10 which caused a dreadful sensation among the residents of Covington, for they had never heard of such a nation. They came to the farm in droves to learn about this newly discovered land and to grant it general admiration. The cockroaches finally tired of these endless visits so much that they suddenly vanished one moonlit night and were never seen again.
The prince of Württemberg laughed off his lost rent with a cheerful smile when a trusted friend in Covington wrote to him in New Orleans to inform him of his tenants’ disappearance. Since he had discovered the count’s family on Washington Avenue in such poor circumstances, it was fine with him that such unthankful riffraff had abandoned the farm so that he could transfer it to the count’s family without upsetting his previous commitments.
After the count’s family had settled on the Covington farm, everything quickly took on a different appearance. The sun of Louisiana lays to waste just as rapidly as it enlivens. Normally fruitful land produces a jungle of weedy vines of every sort when cultivators slumber, and what had been swampland once more produces palmettos. Our heroes of the sabre did not fear to apply the plow, and they so blunted it with one round that it had to be sharpened again before a second round. These problems impressed themselves on the new farmers at once, and it became clear that they had to be pioneers all over again. With the help of a few Negroes lent by the prince of Württemberg for their first two months, they were soon far enough to show at least a pretty bit of garden to grow vegetables. This was the first goal of their efforts, since nothing could be done with cereals on a small scale. After visiting the surrounding plantations and seeing their complex systems of production, Hugo even argued for starting a sugar plantation, but he was soon told to be quiet. The old count, Melanie, and even the little Amelie worked in the fields, and they only wished that Constanze and Gertrude could return so their workforce could be doubled. They were pleased when the last Negro, which they had kept as a result of the prince’s endless encouragement, could be sent back. Some of their vegetables were sold in Covington, and some of them even reached New Orleans by indirect routes. The Cockroaches’ Farm not only produced vegetables but also hens, turkeys, and Persian ducks. Hugo also bought a few guinea hens in Covington, but these were more to occupy little Amelie, who could deal with them very well.
The round of activities could be summarized as follows: Out of bed punctually at five, summer and winter, then rustic washing and dressing until quarter after five. The old count would put up Amelie’s hair and dress her in a fresh shirt (a new one every day in the summer, every other day in the winter), put on her shoes, and, if there were no laces, he would get a new lace or even take one from his own shoes. During this time, Melanie would set a fire and Hugo would ground coffee. The Yankee clock on the mantel would sound 5:30. Little Amelie would cry out, “Breakfast ready!” And so they ate breakfast. At a quarter to six, the old count would feed the hens, Melanie would milk the cow, Amelie would milk the goats, and Hugo would bring in the gardening tools. With six o’clock, “March! On to work!” This would continue for four hours without a break. Then Hugo would go aside and blow on a cow-horn, which meant lunch—a cold one, of course.
Now Melanie left her work in the garden and began preparing dinner, which was served at two. Three o’clock! Feed the hens and so on, then back to work. At four, Melanie left her work in the garden again and went to the kitchen to fix supper. The Yankee clock struck six. Little Amelie would cry, “Supper ready!”
Hugo then brought the tools under cover and sat down to supper with his parents. At seven o’clock, they would rise from the table. The old count would pull a twig out of a bed of beans or peas and chase the fowl into their nests. If one was missing, which he would know at once since he was in charge of the birds, it is sought until found. If a missing egg-laying fowl could not be not returned, then the old count received only one cup of coffee the next morning instead of two. The count imposed this penalty on himself, and similar penalties were levied on Melanie, Hugo, and Amelie if they failed at their assigned tasks. At 7:30, there was an edifying reading out of the Southern Cultivator and The Soil of the South. At eight o’clock, free time for entertainment, and so on. By nine o’clock (in winter) and ten o’clock (in summer), the children went to bed.
Father and mother remained up as long as they wished. This is the sole privilege they have preserved for themselves over the children.
This order of work was altered only when Hugo or the count were trading in fowl or vegetables, or when someone was sick or the like.
The Fortunatus-genius of Prince Paul of Württemberg managed to bring considerable change to this monotonous farm life by having a positive influence on the souls of the count’s family, bringing irregularity and variation into the rigid schedule of work they had established once and for all. It was about this time
that the prince of Württemberg thought it right to cease keeping the whereabouts of Jenny and Frida secret and to make preparations to bring Jenny into the arms of her parents-in-law. For Melanie, this revived the memory of Emil’s loss all the more, but she consoled herself that she would soon embrace her recovered daughter-in-law in place of her lost son. They counted the days until Jenny and Frida, escorted by Frida’s husband, Count Lajos—whom Melanie was especially interested in meeting—as well as Lady Evans-Stuart and her daughter, Dudley, would cross the lake and witnesses their countryside happiness and quiet satisfaction. For this purpose, the two largest rooms in the farmhouse, which had been used to store fruit, seeds, tools, and the like, were put in order for visitors. Since there were not enough beds for all the guests, Melanie called a family council on a Sunday afternoon, at which her motion that they all surrender their beds to the guests on their arrival was adopted warmly. There was scrubbing and sweeping, sewing and plucking, shoving and pulling, pumping and mixing, quite a sight to see. Even the hens appeared possessed, fulfilling tyrannic measures to assure that the guests did not lack for eggs. In the end the poor hens lost their feathers from all the plucking and tugging, and a good dozen of them refused to lay another egg. The guinea hens, on the other hand, always produced what they were asked to do.
Little Amelie made splendid red silk halters for her gray goats. Yes, she even had the unforgivable idea of locking up the Persian ducks in their own cage so they could not dirty their feet and upset the guests. Hugo taught his little sister at once that locking up the Persian ducks served no purpose, since they had to get themselves dirty if they were to digest anything at all.
Then the longed-for day came at last, when the reunion was to take place. But, adieu—there can be no talk about joy here. For when it appears, it vanishes under horses’ hoofs. Yet that doesn’t matter, for stupid human beings can always find something to be happy about.
One, two, three days passed, then at last came—the guests? Oh, no—only Constanze and Gertrude with their news about Hiram and that night.
Good night, adieu, dear farmhouse, we’ll not see you again. Your residents will not return if they tread the soil of New Orleans, for yellow fever is enticing them thither.
Once they had arrived in New Orleans, the troubled parents confirmed that Constanze and Gertrude had told them the truth about everything, save Hiram’s performance that night, whose terrors were beyond their investigation.
“See, Melanie,” the count said to his wife on this occasion, “they aren’t crazy.”
“Thank heaven,” the relieved woman responded, “you’re right.”
Just as the children had said, they found the lovable cottage burned to the ground, the mansion of Lady Evans-Stuart closed up, and no trace of either Count Lajos or the prince of Württemberg. To find the latter, Constanze and Gertrude went with their parents and siblings to Bayou Road. When they arrived at the prince’s mansion, they saw the tall old Negress Diana Robert rushing to the barred garden gate. But this time she was not alone, as she had been when Gertrude and Constanze first asked after the prince. She held something living in her thin arms, wrapped in a broad black shawl, which sometimes seemed to grow larger, then smaller. It was impossible to see what it was. As the count’s family passed down Bayou Road with empty hands, they encountered a city hearse with not a soul following. Inside were the first victims of yellow fever—foreigners without hearth or home.
“That’s not a bad start for yellow fever,” a drunk stuttered, almost falling under the wagon’s wheels.
In vino veritas.
Here they waited for the omnibus to cross the Bayou Bridge.
The old count and Melanie slowly proceeded on, with Gertrude and Amelie at their sides.
Hugo went to the crossroads with his sister Constanze in order to watch for the omnibus.
“I wish we were already back at our farm,” Hugo told his sister, “I am overcome with horror when I think that we will have to spend a night in New Orleans. Besides, yellow fever has broken out, as we have already heard.”
Constanze was silent, but she turned an indescribably sad look at her brother. Then a tear stole its way through the darkness of her long lashes.
“You’re not weeping, are you, Constanze?” Hugo asked his sister.
“I have good reason to weep, my dear brother.”
“We all do, Constanze—”
“Not that, Hugo.”
“But why are you weeping, then?”
“I have a premonition, Brother, which I cannot shake. It has pursued me since we left Covington.”
“Stop that, Constanze, and quit imagining things—we are unhappy enough. It is entirely unnecessary to torment ourselves with unwholesome premonitions.”
“You just said yourself that you shuddered at the thought of spending another night in New Orleans.”
“Yes, yes—I did say that, but leave it alone and think about something else.”
“Hugo, you’ll see that my premonition does not torment me in vain—I felt it before we came to the farm and brought our dreadful news.”
“But my dear sister, don’t be disturbed if I am a little aggravated at you—you are acting as if we are going to our ruin. What sort of premonition do you have?”
“Hugo, do not be disturbed with me, but you shall see that we are not going to return to our farm—”
“Good, then we’ll stay here,” Hugo said, acting as if he did not understand his sister.
Repellent laughter interrupted the dear siblings’ mournful conversation.
When they looked to see where the laughter originated, Hugo said with irritation, “Whatever that tall thing has to laugh about, ‘tis as if she were mad.”
Diana Robert was standing in front of the fence of the prince’s mansion, which could still be seen from the cross street, and she seemed to be reading a placard which caused her to laugh repeatedly.
Then she vanished through the garden gate.
“A moment, Constanze—the omnibus is not coming right away—I will go read that placard and see what that insane person laughed about so much—”
“No, stay here, Brother—what could it be?”
“I’ll be right back, Constanze—”
Hugo ran as fast as he could to the appointed place. He read:
DIED
on Friday, the 7th instant, at half past twelve o’clock
of yellow fever:
Mr. Ernest Count of R … and his Consort
Mrs. Melanie de Nesebeck
natives of Germany
The members of the family are invited to attend the funeral,
commencing this afternoon, at 3 o’clock, from the
ATCHAFALAYA BANK
opposite to Bank’s Arcade, Magazine Street.
• • •
Hugo thought he was dreaming. His right hand pressed convulsively against his forehead, while he held himself up on the garden fence with his left, for he felt quite faint. His eyes searched the ground around him without being able to rise upward. Was this really a dream? Were the demons of his own imagination merely fooling him? Were the words he had just read simply a reflection of his sister’s premonition?
Look again, Hugo—get your courage up, perhaps you read it incorrectly!
Hugo dropped his hand from the fence and ran away without lifting his eyes even once.
“An illusion!” he said to himself. But he would easily have recognized an illusion if he had taken the time to go over the death notice again.
Why didn’t he do it?
“Why did you stand so long, Brother,” Constanze greeted him. “What was on the placard? Brother, you look so disturbed—Hugo, dear Hugo, what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, Constanze—I’m a little unwell—if only the omnibus would just come.”
“I have no idea what’s going on, Brother, it has never taken so long—look, Father and Mother will be most impatient—”
The old count, Melanie, Gertrude, and
Amelie had just arrived.
“Is Hugo sick?” Melanie asked in a concerned tone, looking at Constanze. Then when she appeared to hesitate, she turned to Hugo.
“Is something wrong, Hugo? You’re not getting sick, are you? Tell me, what’s wrong?”
Hugo was barraged with similar questions from the old count and his siblings. Hugo said yes—then he said no—then he said he thought it would soon pass.
“Praise God, the omnibus is finally coming!” the little Amelie suddenly said, “Should I run ahead, Mother, and tell the man to stop here?”
“That’s not necessary, child,” Melanie responded, “the omnibus has to stop here in any case.”
The Bayou Bridge omnibus halted at its stopping place longer than usual this time, since it was still awaiting passengers. Then the driver gave up and set out empty.
“Mother, oh how good—there is nobody in it—now we’ll all have a good seat. Hugo can put up his feet, since he’s not well,” little Amelie chattered on, and she was the first at the door, though she had to wait to get in because she could not open the heavy door by herself.
They had hardly gone two blocks when the family’s concern about Hugo’s distress increased considerably. The ceaseless shaking and jarring of the omnibus caused him such headache that he groaned aloud and expressed the wish to be home at once. The omnibus was also going too slowly, as if the driver had neglected to take care of his mules that day.
Gertrude, who was at Hugo’s left, lay her little hand on her brother’s forehead and looked with concern into his face. Constanze sat at her brother’s right, and she did not release his hands. She brooded over her premonition and thought of the tall Negress’s uncanny laughter. The old count had taken little Amelie into his lap. Melanie often turned to Hugo and sent concerned looks at her husband. Little was said, but all the more was thought, considered, and prepared.
The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) Page 69
