The abbé knew with one glance where he was, before the Hungarian even suspected. Hadn’t he already seen Melanie in their impoverished dwelling on Washington Avenue, with Constanze as well? Hadn’t he seen the latter with Miss Dudley? Trusting his changed appearance, he left the threshold and took his place behind the Hungarian.
Melanie now saw the two of them.
“My Constanze—what is this? Who are these men? Speak, Constanze—what do these men want here?”
The poor, unhappy girl no longer heard her mother’s question—she had sunk down on her side of the bed. The throttling angel of fever had decided that it was her time.
The Hungarian and the abbé watched Constanze’s dreadful end.
“I’m going out,” the abbé said, and he glided through the door—not the one to the street but the one into the rear room where the corpses of the count, Hugo, and Suzie lay. Let us leave him to grope about in the darkness. Perhaps he will touch something cold—and if that is the case, then he will fall to the ground in terror and give up his spirit, for it would be too much of a shock for such a coward.
Melanie, you most unhappy of all mothers, climb back into your bed—you can hardly stay on your feet. Do you really believe the fever has left you because you can rise again? Oh, do not trust this deceptive enemy, who attacks and murders when you least expect it. Look, over there lies dear Lorie—even a few minutes ago she put cooling cloths on your brow. I tell you, unhappy mother, don’t trust the fever! Lie down!
Look, Constanze is already dead.
Be careful of your white feet, Melanie. If you step there, they will take on an ugly color. Gertrude and Amelie, too? Just shudder, Melanie. Look—dead too. You will go there soon, too—but Melanie, you are acting as if you were the only living being in your apartment. Now, look, now you are going in to see!
The Hungarian had been thinking to himself as this was going on—he had been thinking a great deal. Who knows what kept him rooted to one place, why he did not flee?
Dead people cannot be looked at for long. It makes the eyes so tired. And you cannot kiss them, either, when they have died that way. Melanie wants to get back in her bed, and she no longer thinks of her husband, or of the men she’d asked Constanze about earlier. Then she feels a hand on her bare shoulder, her shoulder so glowing with heat and the hand so bitterly cold. She started, and, as she turned, her lips grazed the scar on the Hungarian’s cheek.
This scar! Those eyes! Melanie can only have one thought: she has before her the same man who grabbed the money from her hands during the fire, as she bore Emil’s picture in her arms—the originator of all her misery, the murderer of her entire family was before her.
She did not know what she was doing. Instead of removing her lips from the scar, she pressed them down harder and tore at the Hungarian’s long hair with both hands. He allowed her to do it. He had already recognized Melanie as that woman even before he’d put his hand on her shoulder. He had guessed that she was also the mother of Constanze and Gertrude and the female head of the count’s family he was to visit together with Lady Evans-Stuart and the prince of Württemberg—and it was actually on his lips to tell her who he was—then Melanie pulled him to the floor, and as he pulled himself suddenly away he left much of his hair in her hands.
She never learned that the Hungarian was also Frida’s husband. So she never learn that Frida’s husband was the thief and arsonist.
The Hungarian then thought of the abbé. He took the light from the mantel and went into the rear room. Since he was not looking at his own feet, he stepped on the abbé. He was dead.
And now the Hungarian closed his eyes for a moment. Without anyone telling him to do it, he walked on his toes out of the back room and put the light, now merely a stump, back in its place.
What was holding him here? It was not as if he had anything further to do.
What was he thinking about now? Did he want to stay here? Now he is going, yes—and now he is staying. He thought to himself, “Outside there are people standing at the door, I can hear their soft speech, occasionally growing somewhat louder.”
In came Uriah Hiram, Sam Cleveland from Illinois, and the young Count Emil.
Chapter 5
THE JOURNEY TO THE PLACE OF EXECUTION
Those were sad days and horrible nights between 14 July and 27 August. There were few sunny days and an almost continuous dripping from the evening sky. And whenever the sun managed to cut through the filthy clouds, a hail of burning arrows descended on a poor, anxious mankind. The moon did not make things much better when it showed itself once more after several nights. Those who rushed from their oppressive apartments into the open to enjoy its light quickly returned complaining of headache. Yes, many even remarked that more people died on those nights the moon stood in the heavens. The adventurous complex of clouds that was displayed, particularly in the middle of August in the night sky, was no less distressing than the sun and moon. On each occasion, its metamorphoses were always the same. First a massive black cloud would arise from the region where the Mississippi emptied its floods into the Gulf. It remained motionless for several minutes, appearing like a weathered block of stone thrown by some long-dead giant into one of our cypress swamps. Then the inorganic physiognomy of this colossus vanished, as it began flying wider and wider afield, then over our town, where it then came to rest above the Freemasons’ Hall.
Then it was impossible to be mistaken. Everyone knew that this apparent colossus of stone was a giant, black cloud. About it were broad circles of unblemished, dark blue night sky, and in the very center sparkled fifteen stars. At the border of this circle of light stretched a fine, dirty mist that hung all the way to the horizon, where it was intermingled with large balls of black cloud. From these flashed lightning, followed by powerful thunderclaps, which made the giant cloud over the Freemasons’ Hall tremble. And what image presented itself then? Thousands, hundreds of thousands of black fists sprang out of the giant black cloud, splintering it in the same instant. From out of the dark chaos the white clouds now separated, flying to one side, while the dark portion, from which the black fists had sprung, fled to the other border of the heavens. The fifteen sparkling stars were now situated between the white and the black clouds, which multiplied themselves into hundreds of thousands on each side. Then there was a remarkable spectacle. The black clouds advanced and flew with the speed of the wind at the fifteen stars, pushing at them as if to pry them from the heaven and send them down to earth by the sheer weight of numbers. The white clouds did not appear to tolerate this. They descended on the blacks, precipitating a terrific fight. It was as if they were armed, carrying long knives and dreadful firearms, for one saw flashes of lightning and heard uninterrupted explosions and groans. Then no more could be observed, for the combatants were veiled by thick smoke.
The powder haze flew away, and the white clouds appeared to have won, for there were still hundreds of thousands of them around the illuminated circle—only a few thousand of the black ones remained. The others, appearing to be dead, sank into the fine, dirty clouds about the horizon, where they were received by flashing lightning and powerful thunderclaps. The victors—for it appeared the white clouds were so—bore the conquered behind them, still displaying their black fists.
This complex of clouds now flew from one end of the city to the other, until the illuminated circle over the Freemasons’ Hall narrowed to the point where not a single star could be seen. The Hotoohs call this phenomenon, which appeared often in 1847 and 1853, the wild hunters of the South.
So we pass along, running up and down all the streets, but nowhere will we find a happy face. Long memorial columns of Odd Fellows and Freemasons, or of firemen and militia companies, or occasionally of Turners march past us along the way. There is not a carriage to be found to take a trip to refresh ourselves, for they are all on their way to the burial grounds. One can hardly even find a proper hearse to take our coffin away. All the gold runs into the bag of the undertaker, but
the throttling angel of fever strikes this overcharging beast to the ground as well, and in the end he has nothing.
We will not linger at the haberdashers, since the provisioning of black hats, lace, and veils provides us with no joy. The eternal monotony of white flowers has also not really uplifted us for a long time.
But here! What? A cannon shot? Is Sevastopol being bombarded,12 or is there a slave rebellion? We quickly turn the next corner to see what’s happening. There is a real cannon, and beside it a real cannoneer. We wonder for a long while. Has his excellency the governor of Louisiana died? Aren’t the Eighth of January or the Fourth of July long since past? And Washington’s Birthday cannot be celebrated today, either—so we have to ask the cannoneer for information.
“Sir, for what purpose is all this shooting?”
“The fathers of our city have commanded us to shoot away the yellow fever.”
On the next day half a dozen newsboys run between our legs. We take a Delta from one of them. The list of the dead? Here it is—three hundred twenty dead! That was all we wanted to know. We throw the Delta away and think to ourselves, “So that’s the effectiveness of firing a cannon!”
And since we are already quite tired, we take our seat in an omnibus. Not a soul there. We let ourselves be carried on without any goal, just so long as the trip provides some sort of diversion. But soon we tire of traveling, even more than we had of walking. We pull the cord and in our confusion give the driver a quarter eagle instead of a dime.13 The driver, who already has the plague in his brain, throws the gold piece away and says, “To hell with this dime, it has the yellow fever!”
Now we have arrived at the right place. There can be no discussion of boredom here. Such an amphitheater as the one displayed to us would not even be within the powers of Don Rica to build. It is bordered by Prytany, Plaquemine, and Sixth Streets and Washington Avenue. Who does not know it, the infamous Lafayette Cemetery?14
Sanitation? Our mayor is supposed to do this all himself? How could you ask that? To enter there, you need courage and a bottle, not just the bottle alone.
We are very curious, and if these miserable hearses continue to block the entry we will have to beat the mules or climb the walls. Smack, smack—will you let us in? But we don’t want to beat the poor mules any more. We should really be happy to see something alive in this place.
So—well, now we are sitting on the high cemetery wall, and since it is not entirely deteriorated it will hold us for a while. We have not brought along a bottle of scent, for we actually thought we could tolerate such a dreadful pestilential stink in the middle of the city. Over there they are shooting off cannons to ward off yellow fever, and here this sort of garbage is thrown at it? But how are we to operate without a bottle of scent? We don’t want to jump down, so we continue to sit on the wall. Lacking anything better, we pluck some hairs from the meager tail of a mule we can reach and stuff them up our nostrils. But that is not adequate. Here—these black bunches of feathers on the hearse are easier to reach. We grab a rather large bunch of feathers and press them against our nostrils. That works excellently—in fact, it is an antidote that has never before been cited. Using this mule-hair-feather-moustache, we now sit on the gray cemetery wall and look down on:
Seventy-five coffins. But that would be nothing if these coffins were decently under the earth—at least three feet under. But they had a mere two inches of mud thrown on them, and because it rained last night these coffins have risen up and cracked open. There they lie once more under the open sky: men, women, and children. And since death knows no shame, they are posing in a most improper manner.15
Five hundred coffins and only three gravediggers. These coffins have been unloaded and are being organized. But who is there to dig a hole? Only three gravediggers? Why didn’t the corporation send its Negroes here to put the corpses away? Aren’t Negroes virtually born to such work? The corporation has long since ceased sending its Negroes here—for the dangerous work can often lead to their being stricken by the illness, and then the corporation would lose an average of twelve hundred dollars apiece. It is better to have a pestilential stench over the entire neighborhood than a deficit in the pocket. And only three gravediggers!
Who are the three gravediggers, and how do they work? The three gravediggers are desperate young men. They not only have no money, they also have nothing to eat. This is why, when they heard the high wages paid for digging graves, they took it at once. Twice the pestilential stench has driven them back, and twice they have come back. Five to ten dollars for one grave! For such payment a desperado will gamble his already precarious life. Only twenty such graves and our money worries are over, the three men assure one another. They tried it—but once one, two, three holes have been dug, the courage sinks and all strength ebbs away. We should get good and drunk, one of them declares. This motion is carried, and in a minute the desperate threesome staggers onto the cemetery, drunk, and digs mightily away.
When evening comes, each of them has a hundred dollars in his pocket, which they blow that night—for the next morning they are thrown in the very holes they dug the day before. Do you know who these three desperate men were?
This ragpicker will be a rich man if he stays alive. It embarrasses us to say that it is a German eagerly going over the corpses. The ragpicker is smoking a miserable half-Spanish cigar as he strips clothes from the bloated corpses. Summer trousers, good linen shirt-fronts, and women’s dresses—he presses everything together into his bag, and every now and then he finds a little golden ring, a droplet earring, and all sorts of other good wares. This man did not have to get drunk in advance to get to his work, as did the three desperate men. All he needs is the smouldering stump in his mouth, and he is able to gather all these treasures.
Do you recognize this ragpicker from last year? Oh, to be sure—he is sitting in a lawyer’s office, and he’s pushing a pen. A man can get rich if he can just stay alive.
A city corpse-cart bearing twenty coffins. The drivers do not even go up to the gate of the cemetery. They throw their coffins right over the wall, one after another. Are all the people who lie in this trove of dead persons victims of yellow fever? If the coroner were conscientious, and if he did not automatically issue the verdict “died of yellow fever,” one would discover that hardly five of the twenty coffins contained persons who had died of that illness. Then one would soon learn that the pretty cigar seller, Inana M*, had grown tired of her husband and used the excuse of yellow fever to get him out of the way quickly and without arousing attention. Didn’t people find it quite natural to say that this or that person had died of yellow fever? Did anyone investigate it more carefully? And how is it with W., father and son? Did they fall victim to the disease, or does Mr. Neveu know better?
Yes, yellow fever was the scapegoat of all murderers and poisoners. Insofar as a person stayed alive himself, that was always the best plan.
But now we hop off our gray cemetery wall, for we have seen enough. We throw away our false moustache as we turn the corner.
We stroll back home, passing hundreds of tar pots that our city fathers, in their wisdom, have ordered lit to fumigate the city and suffocate the yellow fever.
Firing cannons and burning tar!
Didn’t anybody know that Hiram was in the city?
• • •
Flee to your apartment, for it is true, I tell you, the moon has never been so bright in the heavens. His full disk flashes like the shield of Achilles and the fifteen stars surrounding it glitter like the diadem of Cleopatra.
Are you all at home with your women and children? If you survive tonight, then you can call yourself lucky. If the sickness befalls you now, do not bother rushing to your physician.
Are you all home? And now, if you are at home, it will still do you no good. The warning came too late.
You discovered as a child that the moon attracts water, causing ebb and flood.
What is the brain of a human being but a deep ocean, in whose de
pths monsters prowl? The pearls that can be found in its depths are only the tears of these monsters, who pour them out when the harpoon of a moonbeam strikes them.
The ocean has its ebb and flood, why not the brain?
It would hurt the ocean if the moon left it.
And it hurts the ocean when the moon does not leave it—a dilemma without mercy or pity.
The moonlight beats down on the entire city this night. Only one light, but millions of shadows. We will not concern ourselves with the still shadows that stand and remain but only with those that slither and slide, stamp and tramp, these are the shades we want to get to know. For they are in the midst of a journey to the place of execution.
Along Carondelet Canal the tired wheels of a hearse are creaking. The six black feather bunches wave and wobble as if they have gone to sleep. Only one horse pulls this wagon. At a glance it can be seen that this horse is not used to this sort of duty, that it would much rather fly away with a practiced rider in its saddle. But this is the first and last time it will perform such a task.
Three men are sitting in the wagon.
One of them sits far in the back and wears long, white garb along with heavy iron chains, which have been gathered in his lap. His posture, despite the heavy chains and iron balls, is erect, and he has buckled under only once in the course of the entire long journey. This was when he lifted the chains and balls off of the floor in order to gather them in his lap and his arm was pulled downward when he tried to bring his arms together. There is nothing to see of his face except his eyes, which peer out of two holes in a mask that has been pressed on him. The side bands of the mask cover his ears so tightly that he cannot hear a word of what the two other men are saying to each other as they sit on the opposite corners of the wagon.
One of them bears the black clothing of a monseigneur, while the other is dressed casually, almost like a man of the country.
The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) Page 72
