by Anne Rice
Of course the battle was over for Grandpère. It had been fought bitterly in the early years of the Territory of Louisiana when the gens de couleur had struggled to be fully enfranchised citizens under the new flag. In the year 1814, it seemed General Andrew Jackson had all but promised full citizenship to the members of the colored battalions who had gone with him to vanquish the British below the city on the battlefield of Chalmette. And this when certain white Creoles were grumbling behind closed doors, afraid that Jackson was fighting “a Russian war,” and would burn New Orleans as the Czar had burned Moscow rather than surrender it to a foreign power.
Well, the war had been won with the lives of colored soldiers fighting valiantly side by side with white, and the hopes of the gens de couleur for the franchise had been utterly lost.
In the years that followed it was clear that the Anglo-Saxon American despised and distrusted the “free Negro,” and the colored battalions had been deceived and used. The new government had never really planned to strengthen and maintain these proud fighting units, which had existed for years under the Spanish and the French, because it feared the very sight of armed Negroes, and the State of Louisiana, denying them the vote, had put more and more restrictions on her people of color than they had ever known.
Yes, the war was won and the battle lost, and Grandpère would never pit himself against the white Anglo again.
There would be an air of grim superiority about him tonight if Rudolphe were to mention the election. And Richard, deep in his studies, would not even acknowledge the subject at all. No, hot and tired and angry as he was on this Tuesday evening, Rudolphe did not wish to go home.
And if there was any man whom he did wish to see, it was Christophe, though why he was not entirely sure. Certainly Christophe didn’t share his anxiety over the state of the gens de couleur and never had. Shortly after his return from France Christophe had told Rudolphe simply that such matters did not concern him; he had made peace with all of this, and had he not made peace he would never have come back. The incident of Bubbles in the classroom did not weaken Christophe’s commitment to his students, he had accepted its outcome with an amazing equanimity, never broaching the subject again.
But there was something beyond resignation in Christophe’s manner. It was not the same as Grandpère’s bitter silence or Richard’s genteel disdain. Christophe was not wounded by the inequities around him. Though eminently successful in day-to-day life he appeared, nevertheless, to exist on a different plane. Yet he had always respected Rudolphe for his concern, respected Rudolphe even for his honest opposition to bringing a slave into the schoolroom, and at other times uttered sympathy for Rudolphe’s frustrations in the face of what he was powerless to change.
And Rudolphe felt that if he could talk with Christophe tonight, the man would listen, offer understanding and ultimate solace to Rudolphe’s soul.
But unfortunately other matters came first. It was Dolly Rose whom Rudolphe had to see now on a matter that could not be postponed nor delegated to anyone else. It concerned the grave of Dolly’s daughter, Lisa, for which a magnificent statue had been ordered without Dolly’s knowledge by the wealthy and somewhat condescending Vincent Dazincourt. For months, Narcisse Cruzat, Rudolphe’s finest sculptor, had been at work on this monument, now it was ready, and Dolly of course must be told.
Of course Dolly herself did not go to the cemetery. On the Feast of All Saints last November she had come into the shop to make arrangements for the flowers, her hands trembling, her face shimmering from drink. Rudolphe who was still thoroughly angry with her for the affair of Christophe and Captain Hamilton would have shunned her had duty allowed for it, but she was frail then in her grief. “You take care of this for me, Michie Rudolphe,” she had said without guile, the voice soft, stripped of its flamboyant cynicism and contempt. She had a charm in those moments, the charm of the young Dolly who had come so often to the Lermontant house in days past to visit with Giselle. Dolly simply being Dolly, not the wild belle dame sans merci bound to be the tragic heroine of a glamorous and sordid life.
Well, grief did that to people. And Rudolphe himself had tended little Lisa’s grave.
But he had no illusions now, some seven months later, of how he might find the grieving mother, if indeed, he could speak with her at all. The house in the Rue Dumaine was infamous, carriages stopping all evening before the doors, as champagne by the case went up the back stairs, and the white gentlemen callers paid lavishly for their refreshments, sums adequate for entertainment and companionship should they so desire. Neighbors were outraged, but Dolly’s clientele was the richest, and this was the “old city,” what could be done?
But Rudolphe who had never used a servants’ entrance in his life was contemplating using one this evening with relief.
Five-fifteen. The clock over his desk struck just as he opened the shop door. Antoine was deep in conversation with a white woman from Boston who had only just lost her brother and wanted two score pair of black silk gloves made for all the mourners which they might then keep. It could be done, anything could be done, that is, if the seamstresses worked night and day. Rudolphe surveyed the merchandise quickly, swept dust from the counters, set the clock in accordance with his infallible watch, and left for the stoneyard a block away.
It had been too long since he had spoken with Narcisse, his young colored sculptor, and besides he was longing to see the completed monument for little Lisa’s grave himself.
Narcisse was the best of them.
Twenty-five and the son of a freed slave woman and a white father, he had already sprinkled the cemeteries of the First Municipality with astonishing funereal art, fresh, delicate, and exquisitely crafted, so that people were coming to the Lermontant yards to place their orders from all over the city and even the parishes beyond.
And Rudolphe, brimming with admiration for young Narcisse, felt a profound interest in him, his talent, the scope of his life. It was time to bring the young man to his house for supper, to present him socially as his gifts had merited and not stand upon ceremony and custom with the old families, as aloof and exclusive as they were. Rudolphe’s social world, of course, was composed of such people, the LeMonds, Vacqueries, Rousseaus, and lately, the Dumanoirs. Naturally enough, the prosperous and respectable quadroon women were included, those whose white connections brought their children breeding, education, wealth. But rarely if ever was this cordon bleu atmosphere challenged by the inclusion of humbler men, and in the case of this brilliantly talented young sculptor, an exception must be made. His was a natural gentility, something inevitable in such a sublime sensibility, resonating fully with the God-given ability in his hands.
And when Rudolphe, entering the work yard behind the shed, laid eyes upon the new monument, his breath was literally taken away. It was just getting dusk. Lanterns burned beneath the nearby roof, and the sky above was perfectly lavender behind the darkening trees. But the light of the sun was not yet gone, and in fact, at this moment seemed to pulse from all the color that it could yet find. The red bougainvillea that clung to the weather-beaten fence, the wild lilies in clumps behind the small cistern, the grass beneath Rudolphe’s feet. And in this radiant twilight moment, softened by the balm of the summer air, Rudolphe saw the marble angel, gleaming and white, its head bent as its arm descended to embrace the small figure of a child. Sorrow marked the angel’s face, seemingly inexplicable sorrow. And the child, her gown descending in classical folds, turned inward beneath the angel’s wing, her eyes closed.
Only little sounds came from afar. It seemed Rudolphe was alone in this place with the angel and the little girl, and the pair before him on the high wooden pedestal was alive. He took a step forward, strangely conscious of the crunch of the grass beneath his boot, and gently, gently, he extended his hand. It hurt him to look at the expression of the angel, he felt anguish at the slope of the child’s neck. And standing there, quite lost in this unexpected experience, he did not hear Narcisse come from the shed
.
Slowly Rudolphe shifted his gaze. The young mulatto in work sleeves, a small hammer jutting from his vest pocket seemed altogether unreal. And Rudolphe had the disconcerting sensation that he had lost complete track of time. “Eh bien, Narcisse,” he whispered. But his eyes returned to the angel, the lowered lids of the stricken face, the mouth half open in its cry. “Eh bien, Narcisse,” he whispered again.
Narcisse was smiling at him. His dark brown skin was covered with a fine film of dust, and the large African mouth yielded easily to a serene expression of pleasure in what he perceived in his employer’s eyes. Rudolphe worked every day of his life with monuments, with graves, with sorrow, and yet he stood all but speechless at the angel’s feet.
And then, as if wrenching himself loose, Rudolphe turned and made a small slow circle about the yard. He was thinking, rubbing his chin.
Narcisse meanwhile had taken a receipt from his pocket, his roughened fingers opening it easily for Rudolphe to see. “He paid for it in full today, Monsieur,” he said in very proper French, eschewing the Creole “Michie.” “He was pleased.”
“Indeed he should have been,” Rudolphe was nodding, surveying the pair from afar. The sun had left the flowers. The trees were shapeless in the dark. But the statue, some five feet in height and perfectly polished, had become itself a source of light.
He was barely conscious of Narcisse speaking to him, of Narcisse telling him there was some matter he must take up with him now. The French was decorous, slow, the boy uneasy, a little sad. At last Rudolphe pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, made a small shrug, and said almost irritably, “But what…?”
“…that we have at last raised the money, Monsieur, my mother, my uncles, our Craftsmen’s Society, it’s been done. I could be leaving any day, Monsieur, that is, when it is best for you, Monsieur, that I take my leave, when you will permit…”
Now the boy appeared quite clear to Rudolphe as he stood before the sculpture, the dust clinging to his dark lashes and the tight halo of his black hair. His words were soft and winding and unobtrusive and Rudolphe without even hearing them suddenly realized what they meant. The boy was going to Europe, he was going to Italy to study art.
That he would be disappointed now to see his employer bow his head, that he would be disappointed to see his employer turn his back, all this Rudolphe knew. But just for a moment Rudolphe could say nothing, and it seemed all the bitterness that had been building in him all the long day came up like the taste of poison in his mouth. “Going,” Rudolphe whispered. “Going. Like all the rest.”
“Pardonnez, Monsieur?” the boy whispered behind him.
Rudolphe shook his head. Turning he saw the sculpture had become slightly indistinct, shadows obscured the beautiful face.
“Monsieur, I have worked for years for this…”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Rudolphe said wearily, and without thinking to explain, he walked heavily past the boy, past the angel, into the shed. He found a chair there without worrying about dust or dirt and sat down, his arm on the deal table against the wall. The boy was taking his time as he came from the yard, sensing Rudolphe’s displeasure, and it was the boy who now bowed his head.
“What can I do here, Monsieur?” came the voice as the figure, quite completely dark, stood against the open door. “In Rome, I can study with the masters, Monsieur, I can have the future…” The words without sound or meaning rumbled on.
It seemed a long time before Rudolphe finally spoke.
“I know, Narcisse, I know.” His hand moved into his coat pocket. He felt his leather wallet there and drew it out. He let it rest on his knee. “It’s just that all the young talented ones leave us, Narcisse. Or so it seems.” He sighed.
“Monsieur,” came the soft reasonable voice. “What is there here for me? My work is admired, but I will never be admired!”
It was all the same old story. Why put it into words again?
You can go whenever you want, Rudolphe was explaining, Jacques would take over the remaining orders, and if there is anything special, well, then tomorrow we will go over the books together, we’ll talk. Drowsily, heavily, Rudolphe rose to his feet. He opened his wallet, and he heard the boy’s frank gasp as he received the bills.
“But Monsieur…”
“No, no, no…you deserve it,” Rudolphe was already on his way.
And it was night before he reached the Rue Dumaine.
He had given his mind over to practical thoughts. How tomorrow evening when meeting with his Benevolent Society he would introduce a resolution to raise a fund for the young sculptor to help him in Rome. Of course LeMond would be willing, and Vacquerie delighted, but Rousseau would probably balk. Didn’t the boy already have his Craftsmen’s Society? “You know very well they’d be grateful for our assistance!” Rudolphe would insist with pride. So on his thoughts went. But try as he might, he could not put the bitterness of the loss of Narcisse out of his mind, and as he approached Dolly’s house with its blazing lights, he was eager for any distraction.
And Dolly was one of the more powerful distractions of which he knew.
The truth was that Rudolphe had always been fond of Dolly, and terribly fond of her when she was a young girl. He was a faithful man, deeply in love with Suzette, but fidelity had not always been easy for him. And being powerfully built and handsome in the Caucasian mode, with light brown skin, he had ample opportunity to stray. Only a few lapses had blemished his respect for himself, lapses without affection or warmth. And confessing these to Suzette after, he had endured her scornful condemnations almost gratefully, resolving never to travel sordid paths again.
But he had lusted, truly lusted, after a few very beautiful women in his heart, women whom he had never even thought to touch. One of these was Juliet Mercier in her youth who had all but bewitched him without the slightest knowledge of it, and another was Dolly Rose.
However, this was not the Dolly who had become Dazincourt’s mistress, nor the spiteful crazed woman who had come drunk and wild-eyed to Marie Ste. Marie’s birthday fête. It was the young Dolly, the honest Dolly, one of the purest, gentlest and truly innocent women Rudolphe had ever known. During those years when she had frequented his home with Giselle, Rudolphe was often in a private hell watching her, listening to her spirited laughter, feeling the bold and naive touch of her cheek when she rose on tiptoe to greet him with a simple kiss. And loving as she did to entertain the respectable young men of color who came to visit with her and with Giselle, Dolly would be the one, for certain, he had thought, to go against her mother’s ways. Times were changing, after all, and these were not the days of Les Sirènes as Madame Rose and the old beauties from Saint-Domingue had been called. There was a sordid air in recent years about the Salle d’Orléans on those nights when women of color went there to meet their white “protectors” and surely this lovely Dolly, so fresh, and so strong in a perfectly feminine fashion, would not choose the old path.
But Dolly had chosen it. In her sixteenth year she had been presented at the “quadroon balls.” Giselle had thrown herself across the bed sobbing when Rudolphe forbade the friends to meet. And on the day that Giselle was married at the St. Louis Cathedral, she had not seen Dolly watching the wedding from the back of the church. But Rudolphe had seen her, and would never forget that pretty figure, Dolly done up as if she were to be a bridesmaid, quite alone, watching all with tears in her eyes.
Of course she was rich then. Young Vincent Dazincourt kept her in silks and satins, she had a beautiful baby girl. A private orchestra was hired to play just for the pair whenever Dazincourt came to town.
Rudolphe seldom saw her after that. Dolly was a wild and bitter woman by the time she lost her mother. But he had never forgotten the vision of that pristine and blossoming girl.
And it was that girl, actually, who had flamed to rage the anger he felt for the woman she had become.
Walking back her carriageway now, he did not wish to see her, did not wish to battle with her o
ver her daughter’s gravestone, nor to hear her crude invectives on the matter of Vincent Dazincourt. Nevertheless he felt a certain grim curiosity about her. Despising her as he did for her behavior with Christophe, he had never guessed that her life would take this course. He had envisioned a series of broken romances for her, the quasi-respectable arrangements of placage fractured again and again by her whims. Advancing age would have put an end to it, an end that might have been shabby indeed.
But Dolly’s “house” and the word did indeed now merit that connotation, was one of the most prosperous in the Quarter, all the rage for its newness and for the luminary that Dolly had been. It was clever, all of it, yet dreadful. Dolly had thrown away everything. Yet Dolly had triumphed at the same time.
He was not at all surprised now to happen upon a courtyard strung with pretty lanterns, and candles on the iron tables about which a few white men were already gathered in the company of dark women whispering in the gloom. And it did not surprise him either that a pretty young mulatto girl came at once to ask his business and went to inform the mistress that he was here.
Led along the upstairs gallery of the servants’ quarters he hesitated outside the appointed room. No one below took notice of him anymore than if he were a Negro servant, and he was too tired to be irritated, and felt merely the vaguest excitement at the prospect of seeing what Dolly really was.
It was her maid who threw open the heavy green shutters and said come in.
The bright lamps of the room blinded him for an instant and he was startled by what he then saw.
For in this smaller servant’s boudoir was crowded all of Dolly’s bedroom trappings from the big house across the yard. Here was the immense four poster from which Rudolphe had pulled the drunken Christophe the summer before. And here that immense dresser with its beveled mirrors, those painted screens. But at a rolltop desk against the wall at the foot of the bed sat Dolly quite collected in a blue dimity dressing gown. Her thick black hair hung loose in deep waves down her back, and as she turned to greet him, her face was bright, almost radiant, and youthful, without the trace of pain.
