Lafcadio Hearn Memory of the Last Island

8/8/2019 Lafcadio Hearn Memory of the Last Island

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Chita: A Memory of Last Islandby Lafcadio HearnHypertext Meanings and Commentariesfrom the Encyclopedia of the Self

by Mark ZimmermanCHITA : A Memory of Last Island

by Lafcadio Hearn

"But Nature whistled with all her winds,Did as she pleased , and went her way."---Emerson

To my friendDr. Rodolfo Matas of New Orleans

The Legend of L'Ile Derniere

I.

Travelling south from New Orleans to the Islands,you passthrough a strange land into a strange sea, by

various windingwaterways. You can journey to the Gulf by lugger if you please;but the trip may be made much more rapidly andagreeably on someone of those light, narrow steamers, built



especially forbayou-travel, which usually receive passengers ata point not far

from the foot of old Saint-Louis Street, hard by thesugar-landing, where there is ever a pushing andflocking of steam craft--all striving for place to rest their whitebreastsagainst the levee, side by side,--like great wearyswans. Butthe miniature steamboat on which you engagepassage to the Gulf never lingers long in the Mississippi: she crossesthe river,slips into some canal-mouth, labors along theartificial channelawhile, and then leaves it with a scream of joy , topuff her freeway down many a league of heavily shadowedbayou. Perhapsthereafter she may bear you through the immensesilence of drenched rice-fields, where the yellow-green levelis broken atlong intervals by the black silhouette of some

irrigatingmachine;--but, whichever of the five differentroutes be pursued,you will find yourself more than once floatingthrough sombre



mazes of swamp-forest,--past assemblages of cypresses all hoarywith the parasitic tillandsia, and grotesque as

gatherings of fetich-gods. Ever from river or from lakelet thesteamer glidesagain into canal or bayou,--from bayou or canalonce more intolake or bay; and sometimes the swamp-forestvisibly thins awayfrom these shores into wastes of reedy morasswhere, even of breathless nights, the quaggy soil trembles to asound likethunder of breakers on a coast: the storm-roar of billions of reptile voices chanting in cadence,--rhythmicallysurging instupendous crescendo and diminuendo,--amonstrous and appallingchorus of frogs! ....

Panting, screaming, scraping her bottom over thesand-bars,--allday the little steamer strives to reach the grand

blaze of blueopen water below the marsh-lands; and perhapsshe may befortunate enough to enter the Gulf about the timeof sunset. For



the sake of passengers, she travels by day only;but there areother vessels which make the journey also by

night--threading thebayou-labyrinths winter and summer: sometimessteering by theNorth Star,--sometimes feeling the way with polesin the whiteseason of fogs,--sometimes, again, steering by thatStar of Evening which in our sky glows like another moon,and drops overthe silent lakes as she passes a quivering trail of silver fire.

Shadows lengthen; and at last the woods dwindleaway behind youinto thin bluish lines;--land and water alike takemore luminouscolor;--bayous open into broad passes;--lakes linkthemselveswith sea-bays;--and the ocean-wind bursts uponyou,--keen, cool,and full of light. For the first time the vessel beginsto

swing,--rocking to the great living pulse of thetides. Andgazing from the deck around you, with no forestwalls to breakthe view, it will seem to you that the low land must



have oncebeen rent asunder by the sea, and strewn aboutthe Gulf in

fantastic tatters....Sometimes above a waste of wind-blown prairie-cane you see anoasis emerging,--a ridge or hillock heavilyumbraged with therounded foliage of evergreen oaks:--a cheniere.And from theshining flood also kindred green knolls arise,--pretty islets,each with its beach-girdle of dazzling sand andshells,yellow-white,--and all radiant with semi-tropicalfoliage, myrtleand palmetto, orange and magnolia. Under theiremerald shadowscurious little villages of palmetto huts aredrowsing, wheredwell a swarthy population of Orientals,--Malayfishermen, whospeak the Spanish-Creole of the Philippines as wellas their own

Tagal, and perpetuate in Louisiana the Catholictraditions of theIndies. There are girls in those unfamiliar villagesworthy toinspire any statuary,--beautiful with the beauty of



ruddybronze,--gracile as the palmettoes that sway abovethem....

Further seaward you may also pass a Chinesesettlement: somequeer camp of wooden dwellings clustering arounda vast platformthat stands above the water upon a thousandpiles;--over theminiature wharf you can scarcely fail to observe awhitesign-board painted with crimson ideographs. Thegreat platformis used for drying fish in the sun; and the fantasticcharactersof the sign, literally translated, mean: "Heap--Shrimp--Plenty."... And finally all the land melts down intodesolations of sea-marsh, whose stillness is seldom broken,except by themelancholy cry of long-legged birds, and in wildseasons by thatsound which shakes all shores when the weirdMusician of the Sea

touches the bass keys of his mighty organ....

II.

Beyond the sea-marshes a curious archipelago lies.



If you travelby steamer to the sea-islands to-day, you aretolerably certain

to enter the Gulf by Grande Pass--skirting Grande Terre, the mostfamiliar island of all, not so much because of itsproximity asbecause of its great crumbling fort and its gracefulpharos: thestationary White-Light of Barataria. Otherwise theplace isbleakly uninteresting: a wilderness of wind-sweptgrasses andsinewy weeds waving away from a thin beach everspeckled withdrift and decaying things,--worm-riddled timbers,dead porpoises.

Eastward the russet level is broken by thecolumnar silhouette of the light house, and again, beyond it, by somepuny scrub timber,above which rises the angular ruddy mass of theold brick fort,whose ditches swarm with crabs, and whose

sluiceways are half choked by obsolete cannon-shot, now thicklycovered withincrustation of oyster shells.... Around all the graycircling of



a shark-haunted sea...

Sometimes of autumn evenings there, when the

hollow of heavenflames like the interior of a chalice, and waves andclouds areflying in one wild rout of broken gold,--you may seethe tawnygrasses all covered with something like husks,--wheat-coloredhusks,--large, flat, and disposed evenly along thelee-side of each swaying stalk, so as to present only theiredges to thewind. But, if you approach, those pale husks allbreak open todisplay strange splendors of scarlet and seal-brown, witharabesque mottlings in white and black: theychange intowondrous living blossoms, which detachthemselves before youreyes and rise in air, and flutter away by thousandsto settledown farther off, and turn into wheat-colored husks

once more ...a whirling flower-drift of sleepy butterflies!

Southwest, across the pass, gleams beautifulGrande Isle:



primitively a wilderness of palmetto (latanier);--then drained,diked, and cultivated by Spanish sugar-planters;

and now familiarchiefly as a bathing-resort. Since the war the oceanreclaimedits own;--the cane-fields have degenerated intosandy plains,over which tramways wind to the smooth beach;--theplantation-residences have been converted intorustic hotels, andthe negro-quarters remodelled into villages of cozycottages forthe reception of guests. But with its imposinggroves of oak,its golden wealth of orange-trees, its odorous lanesof oleander.

its broad grazing-meadows yellow-starred with wildcamomile,Grande Isle remains the prettiest island of the Gulf;and itsloveliness is exceptional. For the bleakness of Grand Terre is

reiterated by most of the other islands,--Caillou,Cassetete,Calumet, Wine Island, the twin Timbaliers, GullIsland, and themany islets haunted by the gray pelican,--all of



which are littlemore than sand-bars covered with wiry grasses,prairie-cane, and

scrub-timber. Last Island (L'Ile Derniere),--wellworthy a longvisit in other years, in spite of its remoteness, isnow aghastly desolation twenty-five miles long. Lyingnearly fortymiles west of Grande Isle, it was nevertheless farmore populateda generation ago: it was not only the mostcelebrated island of the group, but also the most fashionable watering-place of thearistocratic South;--to-day it is visited by fishermenonly, atlong intervals. Its admirable beach in manyrespects resembledthat of Grande Isle to-day; the accommodationsalso were muchsimilar, although finer: a charming village of cottages facingthe Gulf near the western end. The hotel itself wasa massive

two-story construction of timber, containing manyapartments,together with a large dining-room and dancing-hall.In rear of the hotel was a bayou, where passengers



landed--"Village Bayou"it is still called by seamen;--but the deep channelwhich now

cuts the island in two a little eastwardly did notexist whilethe village remained. The sea tore it out in onenight--the samenight when trees, fields, dwellings, all vanished intothe Gulf,leaving no vestige of former human habitationexcept a few of those strong brick props and foundations uponwhich the framehouses and cisterns had been raised. One livingcreature wasfound there after the cataclysm--a cow! But howthat solitarycow survived the fury of a storm-flood that actuallyrent theisland in twain has ever remained a mystery ...

III.

On the Gulf side of these islands you may observethat the

trees--when there are any trees--all bend awayfrom the sea; and,even of bright, hot days when the wind sleeps,there is somethinggrotesquely pathetic in their look of agonized



terror. A groupof oaks at Grande Isle I remember as especiallysuggestive: five

stooping silhouettes in line against the horizon, likefleeingwomen with streaming garments and wind-blownhair,--bowinggrievously and thrusting out arms desperatelynorthward as tosave themselves from falling. And they are beingpursuedindeed;--for the sea is devouring the land. Manyand many a mileof ground has yielded to the tireless charging of Ocean'scavalry: far out you can see , through a good glass,theporpoises at play where of old the sugar-caneshook out itsmillion bannerets; and shark-fins now seam deepwater above asite where pigeons used to coo. Men build dikes;but thebesieging tides bring up their battering-rams--whole forests of

drift--huge trunks of water-oak and weightycypress. Forever theyellow Mississippi strives to build; forever the seastruggles todestroy;--and amid their eternal strife the islands



and thepromontories change shape, more slowly, but notless

fantastically, than the clouds of heaven.And worthy of study are those wan battle-groundswhere the woodsmade their last brave stand against the irresistibleinvasion,--usually at some long point of sea-marsh,widelyfringed with billowing sand. Just where the wavescurl beyondsuch a point you may discern a multitude of blackened, snaggyshapes protruding above the water,--some highenough to resembleruined chimneys, others bearing a startlinglikeness to enormousskeleton-feet and skeleton-hands,--withcrustaceous white growthsclinging to them here and there like remnants of integument.

These are bodies and limbs of drowned oaks,--solong drowned thatthe shell-scurf is inch-thick upon parts of them.

Farther inupon the beach immense trunks lie overthrown.Some look likevast broken columns; some suggest colossal torsosimbedded, and



seem to reach out mutilated stumps in despairfrom theirdeepening graves;--and beside these are others

which have kepttheir feet with astounding obstinacy, although thebarbariantides have been charging them for twenty years,and graduallytorn away the soil above and beneath their roots.

The sandaround,--soft beneath and thinly crusted upon thesurface,--iseverywhere pierced with holes made by abeautifully mottled andsemi-diaphanous crab, with hairy legs, big staringeyes, andmilk-white claws;--while in the green sedgesbeyond there is aperpetual rustling, as of some strong wind beatingamong reeds:a marvellous creeping of "fiddlers," which theinexperiencedvisitor might at first mistake for so many peculiarbeetles, asthey run about sideways, each with his huge single

claw foldedupon his body like a wing-case. Year by year thatrustling stripof green land grows narrower; the sand spreadsand sinks,



shuddering and wrinkling like a living brown skin;and the laststanding corpses of the oaks, ever clinging with

naked, dead feetto the sliding beach, lean more and more out of theperpendicular. As the sands subside, the stumpsappear to creep;their intertwisted masses of snakish roots seem tocrawl, towrithe,--like the reaching arms of cephalopods....

... Grande Terre is going: the sea mines her fort,and willbefore many years carry the ramparts by storm.Grande Isle isgoing,--slowly but surely: the Gulf has eaten threemiles intoher meadowed land. Last Island has gone! How itwent I firstheard from the lips of a veteran pilot, while we satone eveningtogether on the trunk of a drifted cypress whichsome high tidehad pressed deeply into the Grande Isle beach. Theday had been

tropically warm; we had sought the shore for abreath of livingair. Sunset came, and with it the ponderous heatlifted,--asudden breeze blew,--lightnings flickered in the



darkeninghorizon,--wind and water began to strivetogether,--and soon all

the low coast boomed. Then my companion beganhis story; perhapsthe coming of the storm inspired him to speak! Andas I listenedto him, listening also to the clamoring of the coast,thereflashed back to me recollection of a singular Bretonfancy: thatthe Voice of the Sea is never one voice, but atumult of manyvoices--voices of drowned men,--the muttering of multitudinousdead,--the moaning of innumerable ghosts, allrising, to rageagainst the living, at the great Witch call of storms....

IV.

The charm of a single summer day on these islandshores issomething impossible to express, never to be

forgotten. Rarely,in the paler zones, do earth and heaven take suchluminosity:those will best understand me who have seen thesplendor of a



West Indian sky. And yet there is a tenderness of tint, a caressof color, in these Gulf-days which is not of the

Antilles,--aspirituality , as of eternal tropical spring. It musthave beento even such a sky that Xenophanes lifted up hiseyes of old whenhe vowed the Infinite Blue was God;--it was indeedunder such asky that De Soto named the vastest and grandestof Southernhavens Espiritu Santo,--the Bay of the Holy Ghost.

There is asomething unutterable in this bright Gulf-air thatcompelsawe,--something vital, something holy, somethingpantheistic:and reverentially the mind asks itself if what theeye beholds isnot the Pneuma indeed, the Infinite Breath, theDivine Ghost, thegreat Blue Soul of the Unknown. All, all is blue inthecalm,--save the low land under your feet, which

you almostforget, since it seems only as a tiny green flakeafloat in theliquid eternity of day. Then slowly, caressingly,irresistibly,



the witchery of the Infinite grows upon you: out of Time andSpace you begin to dream with open eyes,--to drift

into deliciousoblivion of facts,--to forget the past, the present,thesubstantial,--to comprehend nothing but theexistence of thatinfinite Blue Ghost as something into which youwould wish tomelt utterly away forever....

And this day-magic of azure endures sometimes formonthstogether. Cloudlessly the dawn reddens up througha violet east:

there is no speck upon the blossoming of itsMysticalRose,--unless it be the silhouette of some passinggull, whirlinghis sickle-wings against the crimsoning. Ever, asthe sun floatshigher, the flood shifts its color. Sometimes smoothand gray,

yet flickering with the morning gold, it is the visionof John,--the apocalyptic Sea of Glass mixed withfire;--again, withthe growing breeze, it takes that incredible purple







of myriad fish. Sometimes the shallows arethickened withminute, transparent, crab-like organisms,--all

colorless asgelatine. There are days also when countlessmedusae driftin--beautiful veined creatures that throb likehearts, withperpetual systole and diastole of their diaphanousenvelops:some, of translucent azure or rose, seem in theflood the shadowsor ghosts of huge campanulate flowers;--othershave the semblanceof strange living vegetables,--great milky tubers,

just beginningto sprout. But woe to the human skin grazed bythose shadowysproutings and spectral stamens!--the touch of glowing iron isnot more painful ... Within an hour or two after theirappearanceall these tremulous jellies vanish mysteriously asthey came.

Perhaps, if a bold swimmer, you may venture outalone a longway--once! Not twice!--even in company. As thewater deepensbeneath you, and you feel those ascending wave-



currents of coldness arising which bespeak profundity, you willalso begin to

feel innumerable touches , as of groping fingers--touches of thebodies of fish, innumerable fish, fleeing towardsshore. Thefarther you advance, the more thickly you will feelthem come;and above you and around you, to right and left,others will leapand fall so swiftly as to daze the sight , likeintercrossingfountain-jets of fluid silver. The gulls fly lowerabout you,circling with sinister squeaking cries;--perhaps foran instantyour feet touch in the deep something heavy, swift,lithe, thatrushes past with a swirling shock. Then the fear of the Abyss,the vast and voiceless Nightmare of the Sea, willcome upon you;the silent panic of all those opaline millions thatflee

glimmering by will enter into you also...

From what do they flee thus perpetually? Is it fromthe giantsawfish or the ravening shark?--from the herds of



the porpoises,or from the grande-ecaille,--that splendid monsterwhom no net

may hold,--all helmed and armored in argent plate-mail?--or fromthe hideous devilfish of the Gulf,--gigantic, flat-bodied, black,with immense side-fins ever outspread like thepinions of abat,--the terror of luggermen, the uprooter of anchors? From allthese, perhaps, and from other monsters likewise--goblin shapesevolved by Nature as destroyers, as equilibrists, ascounterchecks to that prodigious fecundity, which,unhindered,would thicken the deep into one measureless andwaveless fermentof being ... But when there are many bathers theseperils areforgotten,--numbers give courage,--one canabandon one's self ,without fear of the invisible, to the long, quivering,electricalcaresses of the sea ...

V.

Thirty years ago, Last Island lay steeped in theenormous light



of even such magical days. July was dying;--forweeks no fleckof cloud had broken the heaven's blue dream of

eternity; windsheld their breath; slow waveless caressed thebland brown beachwith a sound as of kisses and whispers. To one whofound himself alone , beyond the limits of the village and beyondthe hearing of its voices,--the vast silence, the vast light, seemedfull of weirdness. And these hushes, thesetransparencies, do not alwaysinspire a causeless apprehension: they are omenssometimes--omens of coming tempest. Nature,--incomprehensibleSphinx!--before her mightiest bursts of rage, everputs forth herdivinest witchery, makes more manifest her awfulbeauty ...

But in that forgotten summer the witchery lastedmany longdays,--days born in rose-light, buried in gold. It was

theheight of the season. The long myrtle-shadowedvillage wasthronged with its summer population;--the bighotel could hardly



accommodate all its guests;--the bathing-houseswere too few forthe crowds who flocked to the water morning and

evening. Therewere diversions for all,--hunting and fishing parties,yachtingexcursions, rides, music, games, promenades.Carriage wheelswhirled flickering along the beach, seaming itssmoothnessnoiselessly, as if muffled. Love wrote its dreamsupon the sand...

... Then one great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed toyawn over the world more deeply than ever before,a sudden changetouched the quicksilver smoothness of the waters--the swayingshadow of a vast motion. First the whole sea-circleappeared torise up bodily at the sky; the horizon-curve lifted toa straightline; the line darkened and approached,--a

monstrous wrinkle, animmeasurable fold of green water, moving swift asa cloud-shadowpursued by sunlight. But it had looked formidableonly by



startling contrast with the previous placidity of theopen: itwas scarcely two feet high;--it curled slowly as it

neared thebeach, and combed itself out in sheets of woollyfoam with a low,rich roll of whispered thunder. Swift in pursuitanotherfollowed--a third--a feebler fourth; then the seaonly swayed alittle, and stilled again. Minutes passed, and theimmeasurableheaving recommenced--one, two, three, four ...seven long swellsthis time;--and the Gulf smoothed itself once more.Irregularlythe phenomenon continued to repeat itself, eachtime with heavierbillowing and briefer intervals of quiet--until at lastthe wholesea grew restless and shifted color and flickeredgreen;--theswells became shorter and changed form . Thenfrom horizon toshore ran one uninterrupted heaving--one vast

green swarming of snaky shapes, rolling in to hiss and flatten upon thesand. Yetno single cirrus-speck revealed itself through allthe violet



heights: there was no wind!--you might havefancied the sea hadbeen upheaved from beneath ...

And indeed the fancy of a seismic origin for awindless surgewould not appear in these latitudes to be utterlywithoutfoundation. On the fairest days a southeast breezemay bear youan odor singular enough to startle you from sleep,--a strong,sharp smell as of fish-oil; and gazing at the sea youmight bestill more startled at the sudden apparition of greatoleaginouspatches spreading over the water, sheeting overthe swells. Thatis, if you had never heard of the mysterioussubmarine oil-wells,the volcanic fountains, unexplored, that well upwith the eternalpulsing of the Gulf-Stream ...

But the pleasure-seekers of Last Island knew there

must have beena "great blow" somewhere that day. Still the seaswelled; and asplendid surf made the evening bath delightful.

Then, just at



sundown, a beautiful cloud-bridge grew up andarched the sky witha single span of cottony pink vapor, that changed

and deepenedcolor with the dying of the iridescent day. And thecloud-bridgeapproached, stretched, strained, and swung roundat last to makeway for the coming of the gale,--even as the lightbridges thattraverse the dreamy Teche swing open whenluggermen sound throughtheir conch-shells the long, bellowing signal of approach.

Then the wind began to blow, with the passing of July. It blewfrom the northeast, clear, cool. It blew in enormoussighs,dying away at regular intervals, as if pausing todraw breath.All night it blew; and in each pause could be heardthe answeringmoan of the rising surf,--as if the rhythm of the seamoulded

itself after the rhythm of the air,--as if the wavingof thewater responded precisely to the waving of thewind,--a billowfor every puff, a surge for every sigh.





billowing waxed mightier, and faster and fasteroverhead flew thetatters of torn cloud. The gray morning of the 9th

wanly lighteda surf that appalled the best swimmers: the seawas one wildagony of foam, the gale was rending off the headsof the wavesand veiling the horizon with a fog of salt spray.Shadowless andgray the day remained; there were mad bursts of lashing rain.Evening brought with it a sinister apparition,looming through acloud-rent in the west--a scarlet sun in a green sky.Hissanguine disk, enormously magnified, seemedbarred like the bodyof a belted planet. A moment, and the crimsonspectre vanished;and the moonless night came.

Then the Wind grew weird. It ceased being abreath; it became aVoice moaning across the world,--hooting,--uttering

nightmaresounds,--Whoo!--whoo!--whoo!--and with eachstupendous owl-crythe mooing of the waters seemed to deepen, moreand more



abysmally, through all the hours of darkness. Fromthe northwestthe breakers of the bay began to roll high over the

sandy slope,into the salines;--the village bayou broadened to abellowingflood ... So the tumult swelled and the turmoilheightened untilmorning,--a morning of gray gloom and whistlingrain. Rain of bursting clouds and rain of wind-blown brine fromthe greatspuming agony of the sea.

The steamer Star was due from St. Mary's thatfearful morning.Could she come? No one really believed it,--no one.Andnevertheless men struggled to the roaring beach tolook for her,because hope is stronger than reason ...

Even today, in these Creole islands, the advent of the steamer isthe great event of the week. There are no

telegraph lines, notelephones: the mail-packet is the only trustworthymedium of communication with the outer world, bringingfriends, news,



letters. The magic of steam has placed NewOrleans nearer to New

York than to the Timbaliers, nearer to Washington

than to WineIsland, nearer to Chicago than to Barataria Bay.And even duringthe deepest sleep of waves and winds there willcome betimes tosojourners in this unfamiliar archipelago a feelingof lonesomeness that is a fear , a feeling of isolationfrom theworld of men,--totally unlike that sense of solitudewhich hauntsone in the silence of mountain-heights, or amid theeternaltumult of lofty granitic coasts: a sense of helplessinsecurity.

The land seems but an undulation of the sea-bed:its highestridges do not rise more than the height of a manabove thesalines on either side;--the salines themselves liealmost level

with the level of the flood-tides;--the tides arevariable,treacherous, mysterious. But when all around andabove theseever-changing shores the twin vastnesses of



heaven and sea beginto utter the tremendous revelation of themselvesas infinite

forces in contention, then indeed this sense of separation fromhumanity appalls ... Perhaps it was such a feelingwhich forcedmen, on the tenth day of August, eighteen hundredand fifty-six,to hope against hope for the coming of the Star,and to straintheir eyes towards far-off Terrebonne. "It was awind you couldlie down on," said my friend the pilot.

... "Great God!" shrieked a voice above theshouting of thestorm,--"she is coming!" ... It was true . Down theAtchafalaya,and thence through strange mazes of bayou,lakelet, and pass, bya rear route familiar only to the best of pilots, thefrailriver-craft had toiled into Caillou Bay, running closeto the

main shore;--and now she was heading right for theisland, withthe wind aft, over the monstrous sea. On shecame, swaying,rocking, plunging,--with a great whiteness



wrapping her aboutlike a cloud, and moving with her moving,--atempest-whirl of

spray;--ghost-white and like a ghost she came, forhersmoke-stacks exhaled no visible smoke--the winddevoured it! Theexcitement on shore became wild;--men shoutedthemselves hoarse;women laughed and cried. Every telescope andopera-glass wasdirected upon the coming apparition; all wonderedhow the pilotkept his feet; all marvelled at the madness of thecaptain.

But Captain Abraham Smith was not mad. Aveteran Americansailor, he had learned to know the great Gulf asscholars knowdeep books by heart: he knew the birthplace of itstempests, themystery of its tides, the omens of its hurricanes.While lyingat Brashear City he felt the storm had not yet

reached itshighest, vaguely foresaw a mighty peril, andresolved to wait nolonger for a lull. "Boys," he said, "we've got to takeher out



in spite of Hell!" And they "took her out." Throughall theperil, his men stayed by him and obeyed him. By

midmorning thewind had deepened to a roar,--lowering sometimesto a rumble,sometimes bursting upon the ears like ameasureless and deafeningcrash. Then the captain knew the Star was runninga race withDeath. "She'll win it," he muttered;--"she'll standit ...Perhaps they'll have need of me to-night."

She won! With a sonorous steam-chant of triumphthe brave littlevessel rode at last into the bayou, and anchoredhard by heraccustomed resting-place, in full view of the hotel,though notnear enough to shore to lower her gang-plank....But she had sungher swan-song. Gathering in from the northeast,the waters of the bay were already marbling over the salines and

half acrossthe island; and still the wind increased itsparoxysmal power.

Cottages began to rock. Some slid away from the



solid props uponwhich they rested . A chimney fumbled. Shutterswere wrenched

off; verandas demolished. Light roofs lifted,dropped again, andflapped into ruin. Trees bent their heads to theearth. Andstill the storm grew louder and blacker with everypassing hour.

The Star rose with the rising of the waters,dragging her anchor.

Two more anchors were put out, and still shedragged--dragged inwith the flood,--twisting, shuddering, careening inher agony.Evening fell; the sand began to move with thewind, stingingfaces like a continuous fire of fine shot; andfrenzied blastscame to buffet the steamer forward, sideward.

Then one of herhog-chains parted with a clang like the boom of abig bell. Then

another! ... Then the captain bade his men to cutaway all herupper works, clean to the deck. Overboard into theseething wenther stacks, her pilot-house, her cabins,--and



whirled away. Andthe naked hull of the Star, still dragging her threeanchors,

labored on through the darkness, nearer andnearer to the immensesilhouette of the hotel, whose hundred windowswere now allaflame. The vast timber building seemed to defythe storm. Thewind, roaring round its broad verandas,--hissingthrough everycrevice with the sound and force of steam,--appeared to waste itsrage. And in the half-lull between two terrible guststhere cameto the captain's ears a sound that seemed strangein that nightof multitudinous terrors ... a sound of music!

VI.

... Almost every evening throughout the seasonthere had beendancing in the great hall;--there was dancing thatnight also.

The population of the hotel had been augmentedby the advent of families from other parts of the island, who foundtheir summercottages insecure places of shelter: there were



nearly fourhundred guests assembled. Perhaps it was for thisreason that

the entertainment had been prepared upon agrander plan thanusual, that it assumed the form of a fashionableball. And allthose pleasure seekers,--representing the wealthand beauty of the Creole parishes,--whether from Ascension orAssumption, St.Mary's or St. Landry's, Iberville or Terrebonne,whetherinhabitants of the multi-colored and many-balconied Creolequarter of the quaint metropolis, or dwellers in thedreamyparadises of the Teche,--mingled joyously , knowingeach other,feeling in some sort akin--whether affiliated byblood,connaturalized by caste, or simply interassociatedby traditionalsympathies of class sentiment and class interest.Perhaps in the

more than ordinary merriment of that eveningsomething of nervousexaltation might have been discerned,--somethinglike a feverishresolve to oppose apprehension with gayety, to



combat uneasinessby diversion. But the hours passed in mirthfulness;the first

general feeling of depression began to weigh lessand less uponthe guests; they had found reason to confide in thesolidity of the massive building; there were no positiveterrors, nooutspoken fears ; and the new conviction of all hadfoundexpression in the words of the host himself ,--"Il n'ya rien demieux a faire que de s'amuser!" Of what avail tolament theprospective devastation of cane-fields,--to discussthe possibleruin of crops? Better to seek solace in choregraphicharmonies,in the rhythm of gracious motion and of perfectmelody, thanhearken to the discords of the wild orchestra of storms;--wiserto admire the grace of Parisian toilets, the eddy of trailing

robes with its fairy-foam of lace, the ivorineloveliness of glossy shoulders and jewelled throats, theglimmering of satin-slippered feet,--than to watch the raging of



the floodwithout, or the flying of the wrack ...

So the music and the mirth went on: they made joyforthemselves--those elegant guests;--they jested andsipped richwines;--they pledged, and hoped, and loved, andpromised, withnever a thought of the morrow, on the night of thetenth of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. Observantparents werethere, planning for the future bliss of their nearestanddearest;--mothers and fathers of handsome lads,lithe and elegantas young pines, and fresh from the polish of foreignuniversitytraining;--mothers and fathers of splendid girlswhose simplestattitudes were witcheries. Young cheeks flushed,young heartsfluttered with an emotion more puissant than theexcitement of

the dance;--young eyes betrayed the happy secretdiscreeter lipswould have preserved. Slave-servants circledthrough thearistocratic press, bearing dainties and wines,



prayingpermission to pass in terms at once humble andofficious,--always

in the excellent French which well-trained house-servants weretaught to use on such occasions.

... Night wore on: still the shining floor palpitated tothefeet of the dancers; still the piano-forte pealed, andstill theviolins sang,--and the sound of their singing shrilledthroughthe darkness, in gasps of the gale, to the ears of Captain Smith,as he strove to keep his footing on the spray-drenched deck of the Star.

--"Christ!" he muttered,--"a dance! If that windwhips roundsouth, there'll be another dance! ... But I guess theStar willstay." ...

Half an hour might have passed; still the lightsflamed calmly,and the violins trilled, and the perfumed whirl wenton ... Andsuddenly the wind veered!



Again the Star reeled, and shuddered, and turned,and began to

drag all her anchors. But she now dragged awayfrom the greatbuilding and its lights,--away from the voluptuousthunder of thegrand piano, even at that moment outpouring thegreat joy of Weber's melody orchestrated by Berlioz: l'Invitationa laValse,--with its marvellous musical swing!

--"Waltzing!" cried the captain. "God help them!--God help usall now! ... The Wind waltzes to-night, with the Seafor hispartner!" ...

O the stupendous Valse-Tourbillon! O the mightyDancer!One--two--three! From northeast to east, from eastto southeast,from southeast to south: then from the south hecame, whirling

the Sea in his arms ...

... Some one shrieked in the midst of the revels;--some girl whofound her pretty slippers wet. What could it be?



Thin streamsof water were spreading over the level planking,--curling about

the feet of the dancers ... What could it be? All theland hadbegun to quake, even as, but a moment before, thepolished floorwas trembling to the pressure of circling steps;--allthebuilding shook now; every beam uttered its groan.What could itbe? ...

There was a clamor, a panic, a rush to the windynight. Infinitedarkness above and beyond; but the lantern-beams danced far outover an unbroken circle of heaving and swirlingblack water.Stealthily, swiftly, the measureless sea-flood wasrising.

--" Messieurs--mesdames, ce n'est rien. Nothingserious, ladies,I assure you ... Mais nous en avons vu bien

souvent, lesinondations comme celle-ci; ca passe vite! Thewater will go downin a few hours, ladies;--it never rises higher thanthis; il n'y



a pas le moindre danger, je vous dis! Allons! il n'ya--My God!what is that?" ...

For a moment there was a ghastly hush of voices.And throughthat hush there burst upon the ears of all a fearfulandunfamiliar sound, as of a colossal cannonaderolling up from thesouth, with volleying lightnings. Vastly and swiftly,nearer andnearer it came,--a ponderous and unbrokenthunder-roll, terribleas the long muttering of an earthquake.

The nearest mainland,--across mad Caillou Bay tothesea-marshes,--lay twelve miles north; west, by theGulf, thenearest solid ground was twenty miles distant.

There were boats,yes!--but the stoutest swimmer might never reachthem now!

Then rose a frightful cry,--the hoarse, hideous,indescribablecry of hopeless fear ,--the despairing animal-cryman utters whensuddenly brought face to face with Nothingness,



withoutpreparation, without consolation, withoutpossibility of respite

... Sauve qui peut! Some wrenched down thedoors; some clung tothe heavy banquet-tables, to the sofas, to thebilliard.tables:--during one terrible instant,--againstfruitlessheroisms, against futile generosities ,--raged all thefrenzy of selfishness , all the brutalities of panic. And then--then came,thundering through the blackness, the giant swells,boom on boom!... One crash!--the huge frame building rocks like acradle,seesaws, crackles. What are human shrieks now?--the tornado isshrieking! Another!--chandeliers splinter; lights aredashed out;a sweeping cataract hurls in: the immense hallrises,--oscillates,--twirls as upon apivot,--crepitates,--crumbles into ruin. Crashagain!--the

swirling wreck dissolves into the wallowing of another monsterbillow; and a hundred cottages overturn, spin insudden eddies,quiver, disjoint, and melt into the seething.



... So the hurricane passed,--tearing off the headsof the

prodigious waves, to hurl them a hundred feet inair,--heaping upthe ocean against the land,--upturning the woods.Bays andpasses were swollen to abysses; rivers regorged;the sea-marsheswere changed to raging wastes of water. BeforeNew Orleans theflood of the mile-broad Mississippi rose six feetabove highestwater-mark. One hundred and ten miles away,Donaldsonvilletrembled at the towering tide of the Lafourche.Lakes strove toburst their boundaries. Far-off river steamerstugged wildly attheir cables,--shivering like tethered creatures thathear bynight the approaching howl of destroyers. Smoke-stacks werehurled overboard, pilot-houses torn away, cabinsblown to

fragments.

And over roaring Kaimbuck Pass,--over the agonyof CaillouBay,--the billowing tide rushed unresisted from the



Gulf,--tearing and swallowing the land in itscourse,--ploughingout deep-sea channels where sleek herds had been

grazing but afew hours before,--rending islands in twain,--andever bearingwith it, through the night, enormous vortex of wreck and vast wandrift of corpses ...

But the Star remained. And Captain AbrahamSmith, with a long,good rope about his waist, dashed again and againinto that awfulsurging to snatch victims from death,--clutching atpassinghands, heads, garments, in the cataract-sweep of theseas,--saving, aiding, cheering, though blinded byspray andbattered by drifting wreck, until his strength failedin theunequal struggle at last, and his men drew himaboard senseless,with some beautiful half-drowned girl safe in his

arms. Butwell-nigh twoscore souls had been rescued by him;and the Starstayed on through it all.



Long years after, the weed-grown ribs of hergraceful skeletoncould still be seen , curving up from the sand-dunes

of LastIsland, in valiant witness of how well she stayed.

VII.

Day breaks through the flying wrack, over theinfinite heaving of the sea, over the low land made vast withdesolation. It is aspectral dawn: a wan light, like the light of a dyingsun.

The wind has waned and veered; the flood sinksslowly back to itsabysses--abandoning its plunder,--scattering itspiteous waifsover bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, amongthe silences of the mango-swamps, over the long low reaches of sand-grasses anddrowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles.From the

shell-reefs of Pointe-au-Fer to the shallows of PeltoBay thedead lie mingled with the high-heaped drift;--fromtheir cypressgroves the vultures rise to dispute a share of the



feast with theshrieking frigate-birds and squeaking gulls. And asthe

tremendous tide withdraws its plunging waters, allthe pirates of air follow the great white-gleaming retreat: a stormof billowing wings and screaming throats.

And swift in the wake of gull and frigate-bird theWreckers come,the Spoilers of the dead,--savage skimmers of thesea,--hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas-pinions in theface of storms; Sicilian and Corsican outlaws,Manila-men fromthe marshes, deserters from many navies, Lascars,marooners,refugees of a hundred nationalities,--fishers andshrimpers byname, smugglers by opportunity,--wild channel-finders fromobscure bayous and unfamiliar chenieres, all skilledin themysteries of these mysterious waters beyond the

comprehension of the oldest licensed pilot ...

There is plunder for all--birds and men. There aredrowned sheep



in multitude, heaped carcasses of kine. There arecasks of claret and kegs of brandy and legions of bottles

bobbing in thesurf. There are billiard-tables overturned upon thesand;--thereare sofas, pianos, footstools and music-stools,luxurious chairs,lounges of bamboo. There are chests of cedar, andtoilet-tablesof rosewood, and trunks of fine stamped leatherstored withprecious apparel. There are objets de luxeinnumerable. Thereare children's playthings: French dolls inmarvellous toilets,and toy carts, and wooden horses, and woodenspades, and bravelittle wooden ships that rode out the gale in whichthe greatNautilus went down. There is money in notes andin coin--inpurses, in pocketbooks, and in pockets: plenty of it!

There aresilks, satins, laces, and fine linen to be stripped

from thebodies of the drowned,--and necklaces, bracelets,watches,finger-rings and fine chains, brooches andtrinkets ... "Chi



bidizza!--Oh! chi bedda mughieri! Eccu, labidizza!" Thatball-dress was made in Paris by--But you never

heard of him,Sicilian Vicenzu ... "Che bella sposina!" Herbetrothal ringwill not come off, Giuseppe; but the delicate bonesnaps easily:your oyster-knife can sever the tendon ..."Guardate! chi beddapicciota!" Over her heart you will find it,Valentino--thelocket held by that fine Swiss chain of wovenhair--"Caya manan!"

And it is not your quadroon bondsmaid, sweet lady,who nowdisrobes you so roughly; those Malay hands areless deft thanhers,--but she slumbers very far away from you,and may not bearoused from her sleep. "Na quita mo! dalaga!--naquitamaganda!" ... Juan, the fastenings of thosediamond ear-drops are

much too complicated for your peon fingers: tearthemout!--"Dispense, chulita!" ...

... Suddenly a long, mighty silver trilling fills the



ears of all: there is a wild hurrying and scurrying; swiftly,one after

another, the overburdened luggers spread wingsand flutter away.

Thrice the great cry rings rippling through the grayair, andover the green sea, and over the far-flooded shell-reefs, wherethe huge white flashes are,--sheet-lightning of breakers,--andover the weird wash of corpses coming in.

It is the steam-call of the relief-boat, hastening torescue theliving, to gather in the dead.

The tremendous tragedy is over!

Out of the Sea's Strength

I.

There are regions of Louisiana coast whose aspect

seems not of the present, but of the immemorial past--of thatepoch when lowflat reaches of primordial continent first rose intoform above a



Silurian Sea. To indulge this geologic dream , anyfervid andbreezeless day there, it is only necessary to ignore

theevolutional protests of a few blue asters or a fewcompositeflowers of the coryopsis sort, which contrive todisplay theirrare flashes of color through the general waving of cat-heads,blood-weeds, wild cane, and marsh grasses. For, ata hastyglance, the general appearance of this marshverdure is vagueenough, as it ranges away towards the sand, toconvey the idea of amphibious vegetation,--a primitive flora as yetundecidedwhether to retain marine habits and forms , or toassumeterrestrial ones;--and the occasional inspection of surprisingshapes might strengthen this fancy. Queer flat-lying andmany-branching things, which resemble sea-weeds

in juiciness andcolor and consistency, crackle under your feet fromtime to time;the moist and weighty air seems heated ratherfrom below than



from above,--less by the sun than by the radiationof a coolingworld; and the mists of morning or evening appear

to simulate thevapory exhalation of volcanic forces,--latent, butonly dozing,and uncomfortably close to the surface. And indeedgeologistshave actually averred that those rare elevations of thesoil,--which, with their heavy coronets of evergreenfoliage, notonly look like islands, but are so called in theFrenchnomenclature of the coast,--have beenprominences created byancient mud volcanoes.

The family of a Spanish fisherman, Feliu Viosca,once occupiedand gave its name to such an islet, quite close totheGulf-shore,--the loftiest bit of land along fourteenmiles of

just such marshy coast as I have spoken of.

Landward, itdominated a desolation that wearied the eye tolook at, awilderness of reedy sloughs, patched at intervalswith ranges of



bitter-weed, tufts of elbow-bushes, and broadreaches of saw-grass, stretching away to a bluish-green line of

woods thatclosed the horizon, and imperfectly drained in thedriest seasonby a slimy little bayou that continually vomited foulwater intothe sea. The point had been much discussed bygeologists; itproved a godsend to United States surveyorsweary of attemptingto take observations among quagmires, moccasins,and arborescentweeds from fifteen to twenty feet high. Savagefishermen, atsome unrecorded time, had heaped upon theeminence a hill of clam-shells,--refuse of a million feasts; earth againhad beenformed over these, perhaps by the blind agency of worms workingthrough centuries unnumbered; and the new soilhad given birth toa luxuriant vegetation. Millennial oaks interknotted

their rootsbelow its surface, and vouchsafed protection tomany a frailergrowth of shrub or tree,--wild orange, water-willow,palmetto,



locust, pomegranate, and many trailing tendrilledthings, bothgreen and gray. Then,--perhaps about half a

century ago,--a fewwhite fishermen cleared a place for themselves inthis grove, andbuilt a few palmetto cottages, with boat-housesand a wharf,facing the bayou. Later on this temporary fishingstation becamea permanent settlement: homes constructed of heavy timber andplaster mixed with the trailing moss of the oaksand cypressestook the places of the frail and fragrant huts of palmetto.Still the population itself retained a floatingcharacter : itebbed and came, according to season andcircumstances, accordingto luck or loss in the tilling of the sea. Viosca, thefounderof the settlement, always remained; he alwaysmanaged to do well.

He owned several luggers and sloops, which werehired out uponexcellent terms; he could make large andprofitable contractswith New Orleans fish-dealers; and he was vaguely





years,--the Shrieker,the Sky-Sweeper, the awful Sea-Wind!

Never had he given them so terrible a wrestle ason the night of the tenth of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six.All thewaves of the excited Gulf thronged in as if to see ,and lifted uptheir voices, and pushed, and roared, until thecheniere wasislanded by such a billowing as no white man'seyes had everlooked upon before. Grandly the oaks borethemselves , but everyfibre of their knotted thews was strained in theunequal contest,and two of the giants were overthrown, upturning,as they fell,roots coiled and huge as the serpent-limbs of

Titans. Moved toits entrails, all the islet trembled, while the seamagnified itsmenace, and reached out whitely to the prostratetrees; but the

rest of the oaks stood on, and strove in line, andsaved thehabitations defended by them ...

II.



Before a little waxen image of the Mother andChild,--an odd

little Virgin with an Indian face, brought home byFeliu as agift after one of his Mexican voyages,--CarmenViosca had burnedcandles and prayed; sometimes telling her beads;sometimesmurmuring the litanies she knew by heart;sometimes also readingfrom a prayer-book worn and greasy as a long-usedpack of cards.It was particularly stained at one page, a page onwhich hertears had fallen many a lonely night--a page with aclumsy woodcut representing a celestial lamp, a symbolicradiance, shiningthrough darkness, and on either side a kneelingangel with foldedwings. And beneath this rudely wrought symbol of the PerpetualCalm appeared in big, coarse type the title of aprayer that has

been offered up through many a century,doubtless, by wives of Spanish mariners,--Contra las Tempestades.

Once she became very much frightened. After a



partial lull thestorm had suddenly redoubled its force: the groundshook; the

house quivered and creaked; the wind brayed andscreamed andpushed and scuffled at the door; and the water,which had beenwhipping in through every crevice, all at once roseover thethreshold and flooded the dwelling. Carmen dippedher finger inthe water and tasted it. It was salt!

And none of Feliu's boats had yet come in;--doubtless they hadbeen driven into some far-away bayous by thestorm. The onlyboat at the settlement, the Carmencita, had beenalmost wreckedby running upon a snag three days before;--therewas at least afortnight's work for the ship-carpenter of DeadCypress Point.And Feliu was sleeping as if nothing unusual hadhappened--the

heavy sleep of a sailor, heedless of commotionsand voices. Andhis men, Miguel and Mateo, were at the other endof the cheniere.



With a scream Carmen aroused Feliu. He raisedhimself upon hiselbow, rubbed his eyes, and asked her, with

exasperatingcalmness, "Que tienes? que tienes?" (What ailsthee?)

--"Oh, Feliu! the sea is coming upon us!" sheanswered, in thesame tongue. But she screamed out a wordinspired by her fear :she did not cry, "Se nos viene el mar encima!" but"Se nos vieneLA ALTURA!"--the name that conveys the terriblethought of depthswallowed up in height,--the height of the high sea.

"No lo creo!" muttered Feliu, looking at the floor;then in aquiet , deep voice he said, pointing to an oar in thecorner of the room, "Echame ese remo."

She gave it to him. Still reclining upon one elbow,Feliu

measured the depth of the water with his thumbnail upon theblade of the oar, and then bade Carmen light hispipe for him.His calmness reassured her. For half an hour more,



undismayed bythe clamoring of the wind or the calling of the sea,Feliu

silently smoked his pipe and watched his oar. Thewater rose alittle higher, and he made another mark;--then itclimbed alittle more, but not so rapidly; and he smiled atCarmen as hemade a third mark. "Como creia!" he exclaimed,"no hay porqueasustarse: el agua baja!" And as Carmen wouldhave continued topray, he rebuked her fears , and bade her try toobtain some rest :

"Basta ya de plegarios, querida!--vete yduerme." His tone,though kindly, was imperative; and Carmen,accustomed to obeyhim, laid herself down by his side, and soon, forvery weariness,slept.

It was a feverish sleep, nevertheless, shattered at

brief intervals by terrible sounds, sounds magnified byher nervouscondition--a sleep visited by dreams that mingledin a strange



way with the impressions of the storm, and morethan once madeher heart stop, and start again at its own stopping.

One of these fancies she never could forget--a dreamabout littleConcha,--Conchita, her firstborn, who now slept faraway in theold churchyard at Barcelona. She had tried tobecomeresigned,--not to think . But the child would comeback nightafter night, though the earth lay heavy upon her--night afternight, through long distances of Time and Space.Oh! the fanciedclinging of infant-lips!--the thrilling touch of littleghostlyhands!--those phantom-caresses that torturemothers' hearts! ...Night after night, through many a month of pain .

Then for a timethe gentle presence ceased to haunt her,--seemedto have laindown to sleep forever under the high bright grass

and yellowflowers. Why did it return, that night of all nights,to kissher, to cling to her, to nestle in her arms?



For in her dream she thought herself still kneelingbefore thewaxen Image, while the terrors of the tempest

were ever deepeningabout her,--raving of winds and booming of watersand a shakingof the land. And before her, even as she prayed herdream-prayer, the waxen Virgin became tall as awoman, andtaller,--rising to the roof and smiling as she grew .

Then Carmenwould have cried out for fear , but that somethingsmothered hervoice,--paralyzed her tongue. And the Virginsilently stoopedabove her, and placed in her arms the Child,--thebrown Childwith the Indian face. And the Child whitened in herhands andchanged,--seeming as it changed to send a sharppain through herheart: an old pain linked somehow with memoriesof bright windySpanish hills, and summer scent of olive groves,and all the

luminous Past;--it looked into her face with the softdark gaze,with the unforgotten smile of ... dead Conchita!

And Carmen wished to thank; the smiling Virgin for



that pricelessbliss , and lifted up her eyes, but the sickness of ghostly fear

returned upon her when she looked; for now theMother seemed as awoman long dead, and the smile was the smile of fleshlessness,and the places of the eyes were voids anddarknesses ... And thesea sent up so vast a roar that the dwelling rocked.

Carmen started from sleep to find her heartthrobbing so that thecouch shook with it. Night was growing gray; thedoor had justbeen opened and slammed again. Through therain-whipped panesshe discerned the passing shape of Feliu, makingfor the beach--abroad and bearded silhouette, bending against thewind. Stillthe waxen Virgin smiled her Mexican smile,--butnow she was onlyseven inches high; and her bead-glass eyesseemed to twinkle with

kindliness while the flame of the last expiring taperstruggledfor life in the earthen socket at her feet.

III.



Rain and a blind sky and a bursting sea Feliu andhis men, Miguel

and Mateo, looked out upon the thundering andflashing of themonstrous tide. The wind had fallen, and the grayair was fullof gulls. Behind the cheniere, back to the cloudyline of lowwoods many miles away, stretched a wash of lead-colored water,with a green point piercing it here and there--elbow-bushes orwild cane tall enough to keep their heads abovethe flood. Butthe inundation was visibly decreasing;--with thepassing of eachhour more and more green patches and points hadbeen showingthemselves : by degrees the course of the bayouhad becomedefined--two parallel winding lines of dwarf-timberand bushyshrubs traversing the water toward the distantcypress-swamps.

Before the cheniere all the shell-beach slope waspiled withwreck--uptorn trees with the foliage still fresh uponthem,splintered timbers of mysterious origin, and logs in



multitude,scarred with gashes of the axe. Feliu and hiscomrades had saved

wood enough to build a little town,--working up totheir waistsin the surf, with ropes, poles, and boat-hooks. Thewhole seawas full of flotsam. Voto a Cristo!--what a wreckingthere musthave been! And to think the Carmencita could notbe taken out!

They had seen other luggers making eastwardduring themorning--could recognize some by their sails,others by theirgait,--exaggerated in their struggle with thepitching of thesea: the San Pablo, the Gasparina, the Enriqueta,the Agueda,the Constanza. Ugly water, yes!--but what achance for wreckers!... Some great ship must have gone to pieces;--scores of caskswere rolling in the trough,--casks of wine. Perhaps

it was theManila,--perhaps the Nautilus!

A dead cow floated near enough for Mateo to throwhis rope over



one horn; and they all helped to get it out. It was amilch cowof some expensive breed; and the owner's brand

had been burnedupon the horns:--a monographic combination of theletters A andP. Feliu said he knew that brand: Old-man Preaulx,of Belle-Isle, who kept a sort of dairy at Last Islandduring thesummer season, used to mark all his cows thatway. Strange!

But, as they worked on, they began to see strangerthings,--whitedead faces and dead hands, which did not look likethe hands orthe faces of drowned sailors: the ebb wasbeginning to runstrongly, and these were passing out with it on theother side of the mouth of the bayou;--perhaps they had beenwashed into themarsh during the night, when the great rush of thesea came.

Then the three men left the water, and retired tohigher groundto scan the furrowed Gulf;--their practiced eyesbegan to searchthe courses of the sea-currents,--keen as the gaze



of birds thatwatch the wake of the plough. And soon the casksand the drift

were forgotten; for it seemed to them that the tidewas heavywith human dead--passing out, processionally, tothe great open.Very far, where the huge pitching of the swells wasdiminished bydistance into a mere fluttering of ripples, the waterappeared asif sprinkled with them;--they vanished and becamevisible againat irregular intervals, here and there--floating mostthicklyeastward!--tossing, swaying patches of white orpink or blue orblack each with its tiny speck of flesh-colorshowing as the sealifted or lowered the body. Nearer to shore therewere few; butof these two were close enough to be almostrecognizable: Miguelfirst discerned them. They were rising and fallingwhere the

water was deepest--well out in front of the mouthof the bayou,beyond the flooded sand-bars, and moving towardthe shell-reef westward. They were drifting almost side by side.



One was thatof a negro, apparently well attired, and wearing awhite

apron;--the other seemed to be a young coloredgirl, clad in ablue dress; she was floating upon her face; theycould observethat she had nearly straight hair, braided and tiedwith a redribbon. These were evidently house-servants,--slaves. But fromwhence? Nothing could be learned until the luggersshouldreturn; and none of them was yet in sight . StillFeliu was notanxious as to the fate of his boats, manned by thebest sailorsof the coast. Rarely are these Louisiana fishermenlost insudden storms; even when to other eyes theappearances are mostpacific and the skies most splendidly blue, theydivine somefar-off danger, like the gulls; and like the gulls also,you see

their light vessels fleeing landward. These menseem livingbarometers, exquisitely sensitive to all the invisiblechanges of atmospheric expansion and compression; they are



not easily caughtin those awful dead calms which suddenly paralyzethe wings of a

bark, and hold her helpless in their charmed circle,as in anightmare, until the blackness overtakes her, andthelong-sleeping sea leaps up foaming to devour her.

--"Carajo!"

The word all at once bursts from Feliu's mouth,with thatpeculiar guttural snarl of the "r" betokening strongexcitement,--while he points to something rockingin the ebb,beyond the foaming of the shell-reef, under acircling of gulls.More dead? Yes--but something too that lives andmoves, like aquivering speck of gold; and Mateo also perceivesit, a gleam of bright hair,--and Miguel likewise, after a moment'sgazing. Aliving child;--a lifeless mother. Pobrecita! No boat

withinreach, and only a mighty surf-wrestler could hopeto swim thitherand return!



But already, without a word, brown Feliu hasstripped for thestruggle;--another second, and he is shooting

through the surf,head and hands tunnelling the foam hills.... One--two--threelines passed!--four!--that is where they first beginto crumblewhite from the summit,--five!--that he can ridefearlessly! ...

Then swiftly, easily, he advances, with a long,powerfulbreast-stroke,--keeping his bearded head well up towatch fordrift,--seeming to slide with a swing from swell toswell,--ascending, sinking,--alternately presentingbreast orshoulder to the wave; always diminishing more andmore to theeyes of Mateo and Miguel,--till he becomes amoving speck,occasionally hard to follow through the confusion of heapingwaters ... You are not afraid of the sharks, Feliu!--no: they

are afraid of you; right and left they slunk awayfrom yourcoming that morning you swam for life in West-Indian waters, withyour knife in your teeth, while the balls of the



Cubancoast-guard were purring all around you. That daythe swarming

sea was warm,--warm like soup--and clear, with anemerald flashin every ripple,--not opaque and clamorous like theGulf today... Miguel and his comrade are anxious. Ropes areunrolled andinter-knotted into a line. Miguel remains on thebeach; butMateo, bearing the end of the line, fights his wayout,--swimmingand wading by turns, to the further sandbar, wherethe water isshallow enough to stand in,--if you know how to

jump when thebreaker comes.

But Feliu, nearing the flooded shell-bank, watchesthe whiteflashings,--knows when the time comes to keep flatand take along, long breath. One heavy volleying of foam,--darkness and

hissing as of a steam-burst; a vibrant lifting up; arush intolight,--and again the volleying and the seethingdarkness. Oncemore,--and the fight is won! He feels the upcoming





his powerfularms seem to spin in circles, like the spokes of aflying wheel.

For now is the wrestle indeed!--after each passingswell comes aprodigious pulling from beneath,--the sea clutchingfor its prey.

But the reef is gained, is passed;--the wild horsesof the deepseem to know the swimmer who has learned toride them so well.And still the brown arms spin in an ever-nearingmist of spray;and the outer sand-bar is not far off,--and there isshoutingMateo, leaping in the surf, swinging somethingabout his head, asa vaquero swings his noose! ... Sough! splash!--itstruggles inthe trough beside Feliu, and the sinewy handdescends upon it.

Tiene!--tira, Miguel! And their feet touch landagain! ...

She is very cold, the child, and very still, with eyesclosed.

--"Esta muerta, Feliu?" asks Mateo.



--"No!" the panting swimmer makes answer,emerging, while thewaves reach whitely up the sand as in

pursuit,--"no; vive!respira todavia!"

Behind him the deep lifts up its million hands, andthunders asin acclaim.

IV.

--"Madre de Dios!--mi sueno!" screamed Carmen,abandoning herpreparations for the morning meal, as Feliu, nude,like a marinegod, rushed in and held out to her a dripping andgaspingbaby-girl,--"Mother of God! my dream !" But therewas no timethen to tell of dreams ; the child might die. In oneinstantCarmen's quick, deft hands had stripped theslender little body;and while Mateo and Feliu were finding dry clothing

andstimulants, and Miguel telling how it all happened--quickly,passionately, with furious gesture,--the kind andvigorous woman



exerted all her skill to revive the flickering life.Soon Feliucame to aid her, while his men set to work

completing theinterrupted preparation of the breakfast. Flannelswere heatedfor the friction of the frail limbs; and brandy-and-water warmed,which Carmen administered by the spoonful,skilfully as anyphysician,--until, at last, the little creature openedher eyesand began to sob. Sobbing still, she was laid inCarmen's warmfeather-bed, well swathed in woollen wrappings.

The immediatedanger, at least, was over; and Feliu smiled withpride andpleasure .

Then Carmen first ventured to relate her dream ;and his facebecame grave again. Husband and wife gazed amoment into eachother's eyes, feeling together the same strange

thrill--thatmysterious faint creeping, as of a wind passing,which is the aweof the Unknowable. Then they looked at the child,lying there,



pink checked with the flush of the blood returning;and such asudden tenderness touched them as they had

known long yearsbefore, while together bending above theslumbering loveliness of lost Conchita.

--"Que ojos!" murmured Feliu, as he turned away,--feigning hunger... (He was not hungry; but his sight had grown alittle dim, aswith a mist.) Que ojos! They were singular eyes,large, dark, andwonderfully fringed. The child's hair was yellow--itwas theflash of it that had saved her; yet her eyes andbrows werebeautifully black. She was comely, but with such acurious,delicate comeliness--totally unlike the robustbeauty of Concha... At intervals she would moan a little between hersobs; and atlast cried out, with a thin, shrill cry: "Maman!--oh!

maman!" Then Carmen lifted her from the bed to her lap,and caressed her,and rocked her gently to and fro, as she had donemany a night



for Concha,--murmuring,--"Yo sere tu madre, angelmio, dulzuramia;--sere tu madrecita, palomita mia!" (I will be

thy mother, myangel, my sweet;--I will be thy little mother, mydoveling.) Andthe long silk fringes of the child's eyes overlapped,shadowedher little cheeks; and she slept--just as Conchitahad slept longago,--with her head on Carmen's bosom.

Feliu re-appeared at the inner door: at a sign, heapproachedcautiously, without noise, and looked.

--"She can talk," whispered Carmen in Spanish:"she called hermother"--ha llamado a su madre.

--"Y Dios tambien la ha llamado," responded Feliu,with rudepathos;--"And God also called her."

--"But the Virgin sent us the child, Feliu,--sent us

the childfor Concha's sake."

He did not answer at once; he seemed to bethinking very



deeply;--Carmen anxiously scanned his impassiveface.

--"Who knows ?" he answered, at last;--"who knows ?Perhaps shehas ceased to belong to any one else."

One after another, Feliu's luggers fluttered in,--bearing withthem news of the immense calamity. And all thefishermen, inturn, looked at the child. Not one had ever seenher before.

V.

Ten days later, a lugger full of armed men enteredthe bayou, andmoored at Viosca's wharf. The visitors were, for themost part,country gentlemen,--residents of Franklin andneighboring towns,or planters from the Teche country,--forming one of the numerousexpeditions organized for the purpose of finding

the bodies of relatives or friends lost in the great hurricane, andof punishing the robbers of the dead. They hadsearched numberless





Mateo, who had come to the country while a boy,spoke Englishbetter than the rest of the cheniere people;--he

acted asinterpreter whenever Feliu found any difficulty incomprehendingor answering questions; and he told them of thechild rescuedthat wild morning, and of Feliu's swim. His recitalevoked amurmur of interest and excitement, followed by aconfusion of questions. Well, they could see for themselves ,Feliu said; buthe hoped they would have a little patience ;--thechild was stillweak;--it might be dangerous to startle her. "We'llarrange it

just as you like, " responded the captain;--"goahead, Feliu!"...

All proceeded to the house, under the great trees;Feliu andCaptain Harris leading the way. It was sultry and

bright;--eventhe sea-breeze was warm; there were pleasantodors in the shade,and a soporific murmur made of leaf-speech andthe hum of gnats.



Only the captain entered the house with Feliu; therest remainedwithout--some taking seats on a rude plank bench

under theoaks--others flinging themselves down upon theweeds--a few stoodstill, leaning upon their rifles. Then Carmen cameout to themwith gourds and a bucket of fresh water, which allwere glad todrink.

They waited many minutes. Perhaps it was the coolpeace of theplace that made them all feel how hot and tiredthey were:conversation flagged; and the general languorfinally betrayeditself in a silence so absolute that every leaf-whisper seemed tobecome separately audible.

It was broken at last by the guttural voice of theold captainemerging from the cottage, leading the child by

the hand, andfollowed by Carmen and Feliu. All who had beenresting rose upand looked at the child.



Standing in a lighted space, with one tiny handenveloped by thecaptain's great brown fist, she looked so lovely that

a generalexclamation of surprise went up. Her bright hair,loose andsteeped in the sun-flame, illuminated her like ahalo; and herlarge dark eyes, gentle and melancholy as a deer's,watched thestrange faces before her with shy curiosity. Shewore the samedress in which Feliu had found her--a soft whitefabric of muslin, with trimmings of ribbon that had oncebeen blue; and thenow discolored silken scarf, which had twice doneher such braveservice, was thrown over her shoulders. Carmenhad washed andrepaired the dress very creditably; but the tiny slimfeet werebare,--the brine-soaked shoes she wore that fearfulnight hadfallen into shreds at the first attempt to remove

them.

--"Gentlemen, " said Captain Harris,--"we can findno clew to theidentity of this child. There is no mark upon her



clothing; andshe wore nothing in the shape of jewelry--exceptthis string of

coral beads. We are nearly all Americans here; andshe does notspeak any English ... Does any one here knowanything about her?"

Carmen felt a great sinking at her heart: was hernew-founddarling to be taken so soon from her? But noanswer came to thecaptain's query. No one of the expedition had everseen thatchild before. The coral beads were passed fromhand to hand; thescarf was minutely scrutinized without avail.Somebody asked if the child could not talk German or Italian.

--"Italiano? No!" said Feliu, shaking his head.... Oneof hisluggermen, Gioachino Sparicio, who, though aSicilian, couldspeak several Italian idioms besides his own, had

alreadyessayed.

--"She speaks something or other," answered thecaptain--"but no



English. I couldn't make her understand me; andFeliu, who talksnearly all the infernal languages spoken down this

way, says hecan't make her understand him. Suppose some of you who knowFrench talk to her a bit ... Laroussel, why don't youtry?"

The young man addressed did not at first seem tonotice thecaptain's suggestion. He was a tall, lithe fellow,with a dark,positive face: he had never removed his black gazefrom thechild since the moment of her appearance. Hereyes, too, seemedto be all for him--to return his scrutiny with a sortof vaguepleasure , a half savage confidence ... Was it thefirst embryonicfeeling of race-affinity quickening in the littlebrain?--someintuitive, inexplicable sense of kindred? She shrankfrom Doctor

Hecker, who addressed her in German, shook herhead at LawyerSolari, who tried to make her answer in Italian; andher lookalways went back plaintively to the dark, sinister



face of Laroussel,--Laroussel who had calmly taken ahuman life, a wicked

human life, only the evening before.--"Laroussel, you're the only Creole in this crowd,"said thecaptain; "talk to her! Talk gumbo to her! ... I've nodoubt thischild knows German very well, and Italian too,"--headded,maliciously--"but not in the way you gentlemenpronounce it!"

Laroussel handed his rifle to a friend, croucheddown before thelittle girl, and looked into her face, and smiled. Hergreatsweet orbs shone into his one moment, seriously,as if searching; and then ... she returned his smile. Itseemed totouch something latent within the man, somethingrare; for hiswhole expression changed; and there was a caress

in his look andvoice none of the men could have believedpossible--as heexclaimed:--



--"Fais moin bo, piti."

She pouted up her pretty lips and kissed his black

moustache.He spoke to her again:--

--"Dis moin to nom, piti;--dis moin to nom, chere."

Then, for the first time, she spoke, answering inher argenttreble:

--"Zouzoune."

All held their breath. Captain Harris lifted his fingerto hislips to command silence.

--"Zouzoune? Zouzoune qui, chere?"

--"Zouzoune, a c'est moin, Lili!"

--"C'est pas tout to nom, Lili;--dis moin, chere, tolaut nom."

--"Mo pas connin laut nom. "

--"Comment ye te pele to maman, piti?"



--"Maman,--Maman 'Dele."

--"Et comment ye te pele to papa, chere?"

--"Papa Zulien."

--"Bon! Et comment to maman te pele to papa?--disca a moin,chere?"

The child looked down, put a finger in her mouth,thought amoment, and replied:--

--"Li pele li, 'Cheri'; li pele li, 'Papoute.'"

--"Aie, aie!--c'est tout, ca?--to maman te jamainpele li daut'chose?"

--"Mo pas connin, moin."

She began to play with some trinkets attached tohis watchchain;--a very small gold compass especially

impressed her fancyby the trembling and flashing of its tiny needle,and shemurmured, coaxingly:--



--"Mo oule ca! Donnin ca a moin."

He took all possible advantage of the situation, and

replied atonce:--

-- "Oui! mo va donnin toi ca si to di moin to lautnom."

The splendid bribe evidently impressed her greatly;for tearsrose to the brown eyes as she answered:

-- "Mo pas capab di' ca;--mo pas capab di' laut nom... Mo oule;mo pas capab!"

Laroussel explained. The child's name was Lili,--perhaps acontraction of Eulalie; and her pet Creole nameZouzoune. Hethought she must be the daughter of wealthypeople; but she couldnot, for some reason or other, tell her family name.Perhaps she

could not pronounce it well, and was afraid of being laughed at:some of the old French names were very hard forCreole childrento pronounce, so long as the little ones were



indulged in thehabit of talking the patois; and after a certain agetheir

mispronunciations would be made fun of in orderto accustom themto abandon the idiom of the slave-nurses, and tospeak onlyFrench. Perhaps, again, she was really unable torecall thename: certain memories might have been blurredin the delicatebrain by the shock of that terrible night. She saidher mother'sname was Adele, and her father's Julien; but thesewere verycommon names in Louisiana,--and could affordscarcely any betterclew than the innocent statement that her motherused to addressher father as "dear" (Cheri),--or with the Creolediminutive"little papa" (Papoute). Then Laroussel tried toreach a clew inother ways, without success. He asked her aboutwhere she

lived,--what the place was like; and she told himabout fig-treesin a court, and galleries, and banquettes, andspoke of afaubou',--without being able to name any street.



He asked herwhat her father used to do, and was assured thathe did

everything--that there was nothing he could not do.Divineabsurdity of childish faith !--infinite artlessness of childishlove! ... Probably the little girl's parents had beenresidentsof New Orleans--dwellers of the old colonialquarter,--thefaubourg, the faubou'.

-- "Well, gentlemen," said Captain Harris, asLaroussel abandonedhis cross-examination in despair ,--"all we can donow is to makeinquiries. I suppose we'd better leave the childhere. She isvery weak yet, and in no condition to be taken tothe city, rightin the middle of the hot season; and nobody couldcare for herany better than she's being cared for here. Then,again, seems

to me that as Feliu saved her life,--and that at therisk of hisown,--he's got the prior claim, anyhow; and his wifeis justcrazy about the child--wants to adopt her. If we can



find herrelatives so much the better; but I say, gentlemen,let them come

right here to Feliu, themselves , and thank him ashe ought to bethanked, by God! That's just what I think aboutit."

Carmen understood the little speech;--all theSpanish charm of her youth had faded out years before; but in theone swift lookof gratitude she turned upon the captain, itseemed to blossomagain;--for that quick moment, she was beautiful.

"The captain is quite right," observed Dr. Hecker:"it would bevery dangerous to take the child away just now."There was nodissent.

--"All correct, boys?" asked the captain ... "Well,we've got tobe going. By-by, Zouzoune!"

But Zouzoune burst into tears. Laroussel was goingtoo!

--"Give her the thing, Laroussel! she gave you a



kiss,anyhow--more than she'd do for me," cried thecaptain.

Laroussel turned, detached the little compass fromhis watchchain, and gave it to her. She held up her prettyface for hisfarewell kiss ...

VI.

But it seemed fated that Feliu's waif should neverbeidentified;--diligent inquiry and printedannouncements alikeproved fruitless. Sea and sand had either hidden oreffaced allthe records of the little world they had engulfed:theannihilation of whole families, the extinction of races, had, inmore than one instance, rendered vain all efforts torecognizethe dead. It required the subtle perception of long

intimacy toname remains tumefied and discolored bycorruption and exposure,mangled and gnawed by fishes, by reptiles, and bybirds;--it



demanded the great courage of love to look uponthe eyeless facesfound sweltering in the blackness of cypress-

shadows, under thelow palmettoes of the swamps,--where gorgedbuzzards started fromsleep, or cottonmouths uncoiled, hissing, at thecoming of thesearchers. And sometimes all who had loved thelost werethemselves among the missing. The full roll call of names couldnever be made out; extraordinary mistakes werecommitted. Menwhom the world deemed dead and buried cameback, like ghosts,--toread their own epitaphs.

... Almost at the same hour that Laroussel wasquestioning thechild in Creole patois, another expedition,searching for bodiesalong the coast, discovered on the beach of a lowislet famed asa haunt of pelicans, the corpse of a child. Some

locks of brighthair still adhering to the skull, a string of redbeads, a whitemuslin dress, a handkerchief broidered with theinitials



"A.L.B.,"--were secured as clews; and the little bodywasinterred where it had been found.

And, several days before, Captain Hotard, of therelief-boatEstelle Brousseaux, had found, drifting in the openGulf (latitude 26 degrees 43 minutes; longitude 88degrees 17minutes),--the corpse of a fair-haired woman,clinging to atable. The body was disfigured beyond recognition:even theslender bones of the hands had been stripped bythe nibs of thesea-birds-except one finger, the third of the left,which seemedto have been protected by a ring of gold, as by acharm. Gravenwithin the plain yellow circlet was adate,--"JUILLET--1851" ;and the names,--"ADELE + JULIEN,"--separated bya cross. TheEstelle carried coffins that day: most of them were

alreadyfull; but there was one for Adele.

Who was she?--who was her Julien? ... When theEstelle and many



other vessels had discharged their ghastlycargoes;--when thebereaved of the land had assembled as hastily as

they might forthe du y of identification;--when memories werestrained almostto madness in research of names, dates,incidents--for theevocation of dead words, resurrection of vanisheddays,recollection of dear promises,--then, in theconfusion , it wasbelieved and declared that the little corpse foundon the pelicanisland was the daughter of the wearer of thewedding ring: AdeleLa Brierre, nee Florane, wife of Dr. Julien La Brierre,of NewOrleans, who was numbered among the missing.

And they brought dead Adele back,--up shadowyriver windings,over linked brightnesses of lake and lakelet,through many agreen glimmering bayou,--to the Creole city, and

laid her to restsomewhere in the old Saint-Louis Cemetery. Andupon the tabletrecording her name were also graven the words--



.....................

Aussi a la memoire de

son mari; JULIEN RAYMOND LA BRIERRE,ne a la paroisse St. Landry,le 29 Mai; MDCCCXXVIII;et de leur fille,EULALIE,agee de 4 as et 5 mois,--Qui tous perirentdans la grande tempete quibalaya L'Ile Derniere, le10 Aout, MDCCCLVI..... + .....Priez pour eux!

VII.

Yet six months afterward the face of Julien LaBrierre was seenagain upon the streets of New Orleans. Men startedat the sightof him, as at a spectre standing in the sun. And

neverthelessthe apparition cast a shadow. People paused,approached, half extended a hand through old habit, suddenlychecked themselves



and passed on,--wondering they should haveforgotten, askingthemselves why they had so nearly made an

absurd mistake.It was a February day,--one of those crystallinedays of oursnowless Southern winter, when the air is clear andcool, andoutlines sharpen in the light as if viewed throughthe focus of adiamond glass;--and in that brightness Julien LaBrierre perusedhis own brief epitaph, and gazed upon thesculptured name of drowned Adele. Only half a year had passed sinceshe was laidaway in the high wall of tombs,--in that strangecolonialcolumbarium where the dead slept in rows, behindsquared marbleslettered in black or bronze. Yet her resting-place,--in thehighest range,--already seemed old. Under ourSouthern sun, the

vegetation of cemeteries seems to spring intobeingspontaneously--to leap all suddenly into luxuriantlife!Microscopic mossy growths had begun to mottle



the slab thatclosed her in;--over its face some singular creeperwas crawling,

planting tiny reptile-feet into the chiselled letters of theinscription; and from the moist soil below speckledeuphorbiaswere growing up to her,--and morning glories,--andbeautifulgreen tangled things of which he did not know thename.

And the sight of the pretty lizards, puffing theircrimsonpouches in the sun, or undulating athwart epitaphs,and shiftingtheir color when approached, from emerald toashen-gray;--thecaravans of the ants, journeying to and from tinychinks in themasonry;--the bees gathering honey from thecrimson blossoms of the crete-de-coq, whose radicles soughtsustenance, perhaps fromhuman dust, in the decay of generations:--all that

rich life of graves summoned up fancies of Resurrection,Nature'sresurrection-work--wondrous transformations of flesh, marvellous



bans migration of souls ! ... From some forgottencrevice of thattomb roof, which alone intervened between her

and the vast light,a sturdy weed was growing . He knew that plant, asit quiveredagainst the blue,--the chou-gras, as Creole childrencall it:its dark berries form the mockingbird's favoritefood ... Mightnot its roots, exploring darkness, have found someunfamiliarnutriment within?--might it not be that somethingof the deadheart had risen to purple and emerald life--in thesap of translucent leaves, in the wine of the savageberries,--to blendwith the blood of the Wizard Singer,--to lend astrange sweetnessto the melody of his wooing? ...

... Seldom, indeed, does it happen that a man inthe prime of youth, in the possession of wealth, habituated to

comforts andthe elegances of life, discovers in one brief weekhow minute histrue relation to the human aggregate,---howinsignificant his



part as one living atom of the social organism.Seldom, at theage of twenty-eight, has one been made able to

comprehend,through experience alone , that in the vast andcomplex Stream of Being he counts for less than a drop; and that,even as the bloodloses and replaces its corpuscles, without avariance in thevolume and vigor of its current, so are individualexistenceseliminated and replaced in the pulsing of apeople's life, withnever a pause in its mighty murmur. But all this,and much more,

Julien had learned in seven merciless days--sevensuccessive andterrible shocks of experience . The enormous worldhad not missedhim; and his place therein was not void--societyhad simplyforgotten him. So long as he had moved amongthem, all he knewfor friends had performed their petty altruistic

roles,--haddischarged their small human obligations,--hadkept turned towardhim the least selfish side of their natures,--hadmade with him a



tolerably equitable exchange of ideas and of favors; and afterhis disappearance from their midst, they had duly

mourned for hisloss--to themselves ! They had played out the finalact in theunimportant drama of his life: it was really askingtoo much todemand a repetition ... Impossible to deceivehimself as to thefeeling his unanticipated return had aroused:--feigned pity wherehe had looked for sympathetic welcome; dismaywhere he hadexpected surprised delight; and, oftener, airs of resignation, ordisappointment ill disguised,--always insincerity,politelymasked or coldly bare. He had come back to findstrangers in hishome, relatives at law concerning his estate, andhimself regarded as an intruder among the living,--anunlucky guest, arevenant ... How hollow and selfish a world it

seemed! And yetthere was love in it; he had been loved in it,unselfishly,passionately, with the love of father and of mother,of wife and



child ... All buried!--all lost forever! ... Oh! would toGod thestory of that stone were not a lie!--would to kind

God he alsowere dead! ...

Evening shadowed: the violet deepened andprickled itself withstars;---the sun passed below the west, leaving inhis wake amomentary splendor of vermilion ... our Southernday is notprolonged by gloaming. And Julien's thoughtsdarkened with thedarkening, and as swiftly. For while there was yetlight to see ,he read another name that he used to know--thename of RAMIREZ... Nacio en Cienfuegos, isla de Cuba ... Whereforeborn?--forwhat eternal purpose, Ramirez,--in the City of aHundred Fires?He had blown out his brains before the sepulchre of his youngwife ... It was a detached double vault, shaped like

a hugechest, and much dilapidated already:--under thecontinuousburrowing of the crawfish it had sunk greatly onone side,



tilting as if about to fall. Out from its zigzagfissurings of brick and plaster, a sinister voice seemed to

come:--"Go thou anddo likewise! ... Earth groans with her burthen evennow,--theburthen of Man: she holds no place for thee!"

VIII.

... That voice pursued him into the darkness of hischillyroom,--haunted him in the silence of his lodging.And then beganwithin the man that ghostly struggle betweencourage and despair ,between patient reason and mad revolt, betweenweakness andforce, between darkness and light, which allsensitive andgenerous natures must wage in their own souls atleastonce--perhaps many times--in their lives. Memory ,in suchmoments, plays like an electric storm;--all

involuntarily hefound himself reviewing his life.

Incidents long forgotten came back with singularvividness: he



saw the Past as he had not seen it while it was thePresent;--remembrances of home, recollections of infancy,

recurred to him with terrible intensity,--the artlesspleasuresand the trifling griefs, the little hurts and thetenderpettings, the hopes and the anxieties of those wholoved him, thesmiles and tears of slaves ... And his first Creolepony, apresent from his father the day after he had provedhimself ableto recite his prayers correctly in French, withoutonemispronunciation--without saying crasse forgrace,--and yellowMichel, who taught him to swim and to fish and topaddle apirogue;--and the bayou, with its wonder-world of turtles andbirds and creeping things;--and his German tutor,who could notpronounce the j;--and the songs of the cane-fields,--strangely

pleasing , full of quaverings and long plaintivenotes, like thecall of the cranes ... Tou', tou' pays blanc! ...AfterwardCamaniere had leased the place;--everything must



have beenchanged; even the songs could not be the same.

Tou', tou' pays

blare!--Danie qui commande ...And then Paris; and the university, with its wildunder-life,--some debts, some follies; and thefrequent fondletters from home to which he might have repliedso muchoftener;--Paris, where talent is mediocrity; Paris,with itsthunders and its splendors and its seething of passion;--Paris,supreme focus of human endeavor, with itsmadnesses of art, itsfrenzied striving to express the Inexpressible, itsspasmodicstrainings to clutch the Unattainable , its soarings of soul-fireto the heaven of the Impossible ...

What a rejoicing there was at his return!--howradiant and levelthe long Road of the Future seemed to open before

him!--everywhere friends, prospects, felicitations. Thenhis firstserious love;--and the night of the ball at St.Martinsville,



--the vision of light! Gracile as a palm, and robed atonce sosimply, so exquisitely in white, she had seemed to

him thesupreme realization of all possible dreams of beauty ... And hispassionate jealousy ; and the slap from Laroussel;and thehumiliating two-minute duel with rapiers in whichhe learned thathe had found his master. The scar was deep. Whyhad notLaroussel killed him then? ... Not evil-hearted,Laroussel,--they used to salute each other afterward whenthey met; andLaroussel's smile was kindly. Why had he refrainedfromreturning it? Where was Laroussel now?

For the death of his generous father, who hadsacrificed so muchto reform him; for the death, only a short whileafter, of hisall-forgiving mother, he had found one sweet

woman to console himwith her tender words, her loving lips, her deliciouscaress.She had given him Zouzoune, the darling linkbetween their



lives,--Zouzoune, who waited each evening withblack Eglantine atthe gate to watch for his coming, and to cry

through all thehouse like a bird, "Papa, lape vini!--papa Zulien apevini!" ...And once that she had made him very angry byupsetting the inkover a mass of business papers, and he hadslapped her (could heever forgive himself ?)--she had cried, through hersobs of astonishment and pain :--"To laimin moin?--to battemoin!" (Thoulovest me?--thou beatest me!) Next month shewould have been fiveyears old. To laimin moin?--to batte moin! ...

A furious paroxysm of grief convulsed him,suffocated him; itseemed to him that something within must burst,must break. Heflung himself down upon his bed, biting thecoverings in order tostifle his outcry, to smother the sounds of his

despair . Whatcrime had he ever done, oh God! that he should bemade to sufferthus?--was it for this he had been permitted to live?had been



rescued from the sea and carried round all theworld unscathed?Why should he live to remember , to suffer, to

agonize? Was notRamirez wiser ?

How long the contest within him lasted, he neverknew ; but ere itwas done, he had become, in more ways than one,a changed man.For the first,--though not indeed for the last time,--somethingof the deeper and nobler comprehension of humanweakness and of human suffering had been revealed to him,--something of thatlarger knowledge without which the sense of dutycan never befully acquired, nor the understanding of unselfishgoodness , northe spirit of tenderness. The suicide is not acoward; he is anegotist.

A ray of sunlight touched his wet pillow,--awoke

him. He rushedto the window, flung the latticed shutters apart,and looked out.

Something beautiful and ghostly filled all the



vistas,--frost-haze; and in some queer way the misthadmomentarily caught and held the very color of the

sky. An azurefog! Through it the quaint and checkered street--asyet but half illumined by the sun,--took tones of impossiblecolor; the viewpaled away through faint bluish tints intotransparentpurples;--all the shadows were indigo. How sweetthemorning!--how well life seemed worth living!Because the sun hadshown his face through a fairy veil of frost! ...

Who was the ancient thinker ?--was it Hermes?--who said:--

"The Sun is Laughter; for 'tis He who maketh joyous the thoughtsof men, and gladdeneth the infinite world." ...

The Shadow of the Tide.

I.

Carmen found that her little pet had been taughthow to pray; foreach night and morning when the devout woman



began to make herorisons, the child would kneel beside her, with littlehands

joined, and in a voice sweet and clear murmursomething she hadlearned by heart. Much as this pleased Carmen, itseemed to herthat the child's prayers could not be wholly validunless utteredin Spanish;--for Spanish was heaven's owntongue,--la lengua deDios, el idioma de Dios; and she resolved to teachher to say theSalve Maria and the Padre Nuestro in Castilian--also, her ownfavorite prayer to the Virgin, beginning with thewords, "Madresantisima, toda dulce y hermosa." . . .

So Conchita--for a new name had been given to herwith thatterrible sea christening--received her first lessonsin Spanish;and she proved a most intelligent pupil. Beforelong she could

prattle to Feliu;--she would watch for his return of evenings,and announce his coming with "Aqui viene mipapacito?"--shelearned, too, from Carmen, many little caresses of



speech togreet him with. Feliu's was not a joyous nature; hehad his dark

hours, his sombre days; yet it was rarely that hefelt too sullento yield to the little one's petting, when she wouldleap up toreach his neck and to coax his kiss, with--"Dame unbeso,papa!--asi;--y otro! otro! otro!" He grew to love herlike hisown;--was she not indeed his own, since he hadwon her fromdeath? And none had yet come to dispute hisclaim. More andmore, with the passing of weeks, months, seasons,she became aportion of his life--a part of all that he wrought for.At thefirst, he had had a half-formed hope that the littleone might bereclaimed by relatives generous and rich enough toinsist uponhis acceptance of a handsome compensation; andthat Carmen could

find some solace in a pleasant visit to Barceloneta.But now hefelt that no possible generosity could requite himfor her loss;and with the unconscious selfishness of affection,



he commencedto dread her identification as a great calamity.

It was evident that she had been brought up nicely.She hadpretty prim ways of drinking and eating, queer littlefashions of sitting in company, and of addressing people. Shehad peculiarnotions about colors in dress, about wearing herhair; and sheseemed to have already imbibed a small stock of social prejudicesnot altogether in harmony with the republicanismof Viosca'sPoint. Occasional swarthy visitors,--men of theManillasettlements,--she spoke of contemptuously asnegues-marrons; andonce she shocked Carmen inexpressibly bystopping in the middleof her evening prayer, declaring that she wanted tosay herprayers to a white Virgin; Carmen's Senora deGuadalupe was only

a negra! Then, for the first time, Carmen spoke socrossly tothe child as to frighten her. But the pious woman'sheart smoteher the next moment for that first harsh word;--and



she caressedthe motherless one, consoled her, cheered her, andat last

explained to her--I know not how--something verywonderful aboutthe little figurine, something that made Chita'seyes big withawe. Thereafter she always regarded the Virgin of Wax as anobject mysterious and holy.

And, one by one, most of Chita's little eccentricitiesweregradually eliminated from her developing life andthought . Morerapidly than ordinary children, because singularlyintelligent,she learned to adapt herself to all the changes of her newenvironment,--retaining only that indescribablesomething whichto an experienced eye tells of hereditaryrefinement of habit andof mind :--a natural grace, a thorough-bred easeand elegance of

movement, a quickness and delicacy of perception .

She became strong again and active--activeenough to play a greatdeal on the beach, when the sun was not too



fierce; and Carmenmade a canvas bonnet to shield her head and face.Never had she

been allowed to play so much in the sun before;and it seemed todo her good , though her little bare feet and handsbecame brownas copper. At first, it must be confessed, sheworried herfoster-mother a great deal by various queermisfortunes andextraordinary freaks;--getting bitten by crabs,falling into thebayou while in pursuit of "fiddlers," or losingherself at theconclusion of desperate efforts to run races atnight with themoon, or to walk to the "end of the world." If shecould onlyonce get to the edge of the sky, she said, she"could climb up."She wanted to see the stars, which were the soulsof good littlechildren; and she knew that God would let herclimb up. "Just

what I am afraid of!"--thought Carmen toherself ;--"He might lether climb up,--a little ghost!" But one day naughtyChitareceived a terrible lesson,--a lasting lesson,--which



taught herthe value of obedience.

She had been particularly cautioned not to ventureinto a certainpart of the swamp in the rear of the grove, wherethe weeds werevery tall; for Carmen was afraid some snake mightbite the child.

But Chita's bird-bright eye had discerned a gleamof white inthat direction; and she wanted to know what itwas. The whitecould only be seen from one point, behind thefurthest house,where the ground was high. "Never go there," saidCarmen; "thereis a Dead Man there,--will bite you!" And yet, oneday, whileCarmen was unusually busy, Chita went there.

In the early days of the settlement, a Spanishfisherman haddied; and his comrades had built him a little tomb

with thesurplus of the same bricks and other materialbrought down thebayou for the construction of Viosca's cottages. Butno one,



except perhaps some wandering duck hunter, hadapproached thesepulchre for years. High weeds and grasses

wrestled togetherall about it, and rendered it totally invisible fromthesurrounding level of the marsh.

Fiddlers swarmed away as Chita advanced over themoist soil, eachuplifting its single huge claw as it sidled off;--thenfrogsbegan to leap before her as she reached thethicker grass;--andlong-legged brown insects sprang showering toright and left asshe parted the tufts of the thickening verdure. Asshe went on,the bitter-weeds disappeared;--jointed grasses andsinewy darkplants of a taller growth rose above her head: shewas almostdeafened by the storm of insect shrilling, and themosquitoesbecame very wicked. All at once something long

and black andheavy wriggled almost from under her naked feet,--squirming sohorribly that for a minute or two she could notmove for fright.



But it slunk away somewhere, and hid itself; theweeds it hadshaken ceased to tremble in its wake ; and her

courage returned.She felt such an exquisite and fearful pleasure inthegratification of that naughty curiosity! Then, quiteunexpectedly--oh! what a start it gave her!--thesolitary whiteobject burst upon her view, leprous and ghastly asthe yawn of acotton-mouth. Tombs ruin soon in Louisiana;--theone Chitalooked upon seemed ready to topple down. Therewas a greatragged hole at one end, where wind and rain, andperhaps also theburrowing of crawfish and of worms, had loosenedthe bricks, andcaused them to slide out of place. It seemed veryblack inside;but Chita wanted to know what was there. Shepushed her waythrough a gap in the thin and rotten line of pickets,and through

some tall weeds with big coarse pink flowers;--thenshe croucheddown on hands and knees before the black hole,and peered in. Itwas not so black inside as she had thought ; for a



sunbeam slanteddown through a chink in the roof; and she couldsee !

A brown head--without hair, without eyes, but withteeth, ever somany teeth!--seemed to laugh at her; and close toit sat a Toad,the hugest she had ever seen ; and the white skinof his throatkept puffing out and going in. And Chita screamedand screamed,and fled in wild terror,--screaming all the way, tillCarmen ranout to meet her and carry her home. Even whensafe in heradopted mother's arms, she sobbed with fright. Tothe vividfancy of the child there seemed to be somehideous relationbetween the staring reptile and the brown death's-head, with itsempty eyes, and its nightmare-smile.

The shock brought on a fever,--a fever that lasted

several days,and left her very weak. But the experience taughther to obey,taught her that Carmen knew best what was forher good . It also



caused her to think a great deal. Carmen had toldher that thedead people never frightened good little girls who

stayed athome.

--"Madrecita Carmen," she asked, "is my mammadead?"

--"Pobrecita! .... Yes, my angel. God called her toHim,--yourdarling mother."

--"Madrecita," she asked again,--her young eyesgrowing vastwith horror,--"is my own mamma now like That?" ...She pointedtoward the place of the white gleam, behind thegreat trees.

--"No, no, no! my darling!" cried Carmen, appalledherself bythe ghastly question,--"your mamma is with thedear, good ,loving God, who lives in the beautiful sky, above

the clouds, mydarling, beyond the sun!"

But Carmen's kind eyes were full of tears; and thechild read



their meaning. He who teareth off the Mask of theFlesh hadlooked into her face one unutterable moment:--she

had seen thebrutal Truth , naked to the bone!

Yet there came to her a little thrill of consolation,caused bythe words of the tender falsehood; for that whichshe haddiscerned by day could not explain to her thatwhich she sawalmost nightly in her slumber. The face, the voice,the formof her loving mother still lived somewhere,--couldnot haveutterly passed away; since the sweet presencecame to her indreams , bending and smiling over her, caressingher, speaking toher,--sometimes gently chiding, but always chidingwith a kiss.And then the child would laugh in her sleep, andprattle inCreole,--talking to the luminous shadow, telling the

dead motherall the little deeds and thoughts of the day.... Whywould Godonly let her come at night?



... Her idea of God had been first defined by thesight of aquaint French picture of the Creation,--an

engraving whichrepresented a shoreless sea under a black sky, andout of theblackness a solemn and bearded gray heademerging, and a cloudyhand through which stars glimmered. God was likeold Doctor deCoulanges, who used to visit the house, and talk ina voice likea low roll of thunder.... At a later day, when Chitahad beentold that God was "everywhere at the same time "--without andwithin, beneath and above all things,--this ideabecame somewhatchanged. The awful bearded face, the hugeshadowy hand, did notfade from her thought ; but they becamefantastically blended withthe larger and vaguer notion of something thatfilled the worldand reached to the stars,--something diaphanous

andincomprehensible like the invisible air, omnipresentandeverlasting like the high blue of heaven ....



II.

... She began to learn the life of the coast.

With her acquisition of another tongue, there cameto her alsothe understanding of many things relating to theworld of the seaShe memorized with novel delight much that wastold her day byday concerning the nature surrounding her,--manysecrets of theair, many of those signs of heaven which thedwellers in citiescannot comprehend because the atmosphere isthickened and madestagnant above them--cannot even watch becausethe horizon ishidden from their eyes by walls, and by wearyavenues of treeswith whitewashed trunks. She learned, by listening,by asking,by observing also, how to know the signs thatforetell wildweather:--tremendous sunsets, scuddings and

bridgings of cloud,--sharpening and darkening of the sea-line,--and the shriekof gulls flashing to land in level flight, out of a stilltransparent sky,--and halos about the moon.



She learned where the sea-birds, with whitebosoms and brown

wings, made their hidden nests of sand,--andwhere the craneswaded for their prey,--and where the beautiful wild-ducks,plumaged in satiny lilac and silken green, foundtheir food,--andwhere the best reeds grew to furnish stems forFeliu's red-claypipe,--and where the ruddy sea-beans were mostoften tossed uponthe shore,--and how the gray pelicans fished alltogether, likemen--moving in far-extending semicircles, beatingthe flood withtheir wings to drive the fish before them.

And from Carmen she learned the fables and thesayings of thesea,--the proverbs about its deafness, its avarice,itstreachery, its terrific power,--especially one thathaunted her

for all time thereafter: Si quieres aprender a orar,entra en elmar (If thou wouldst learn to pray, go to the sea).She learnedwhy the sea is salt,--how "the tears of women



made the waves of the sea,"--and how the sea has ii no friends,"--andhow the

cat's eyes change with the tides.What had she lost of life by her swift translationfrom the dustyexistence of cities to the open immensity of nature's freedom?What did she gain?

Doubtless she was saved from many of those littlebitternessesand restraints and disappointments which all well-bred citychildren must suffer in the course of their trainingfor the moreor less factitious life of society:--obligations toremain verystill with every nimble nerve quivering in dumbrevolt;--theinjustice of being found troublesome and beingsent to bed earlyfor the comfort of her elders;--the cruel necessityof straining

her pretty eyes, for many long hours at a time,over grimy desksin gloomy school-rooms, though birds might twitterand brightwinds flutter in the trees without;--the austere



constrainsand heavy drowsiness of warm churches, filled withthe droning

echoes of a voice preaching incomprehensiblethings;--theprogressively augmenting weariness of lessons indeportment, indancing, in music, in the impossible art of keepingher dressesunruffled and unsoiled. Perhaps she never had anyreason toregret all these.

She went to sleep and awakened with the wildbirds;--her liferemained as unfettered by formalities as her finefeet by shoes.Excepting Carmen's old prayer-book,--in which shelearned to reada little,--her childhood passed without books,--alsowithoutpictures, without dainties, without music, withouttheatricalamusements. But she saw and heard and felt muchof that which,

though old as the heavens and the earth, is yeteternally new andeternally young with the holiness of beauty,--eternally mysticaland divine,---eternally weird: the unveiled



magnificence of Nature's moods,--the perpetual poem hymned bywind and

surge,--the everlasting splendor of the sky.She saw the quivering pinkness of waters curled bythe breath of the morning--under the deepening of the dawn--like a farfluttering and scattering of rose-leaves of fire;--

Saw the shoreless, cloudless, marvellous double-circling azure of perfect summer days--twin glories of infinite deepsinter.reflected, while the Soul of the World lay still,suffused with a

jewel-light, as of vaporized sapphire;--

Saw the Sea shift color,--"change sheets,"--whenthe viewlessWizard of the Wind breathed upon its face, andmade it green;--

Saw the immeasurable panics,--noiseless,

scintillant,--whichsilver, summer after summer, curved leagues of beach with bodiesof little fish--the yearly massacre of migratingpopulations,



nations of sea-trout, driven from their element byterror;--andthe winnowing of shark-fins,--and the rushing of

porpoises,--andthe rising of the grande-ecaille, like a pillar of flame,--andthe diving and pitching and fighting of the frigatesand thegulls,--and the armored hordes of crabs swarmingout to clear theslope after the carnage and the gorging had beendone;--

Saw the Dreams of the Sky,--scudding mockeries of ridgedfoam,--and shadowy stratification of capes andcoasts andpromontories long-drawn out,--and imageries,multicolored, of mountain frondage, and sierras whitening abovesierras,--andphantom islands ringed around with lagoons of glory;---

Saw the toppling and smouldering of cloud-worlds

after theenormous conflagration of sunsets,--incandescenceruining intodarkness; and after it a moving and climbing of stars among the



blacknesses,--like searching lamps;--

Saw the deep kindle countless ghostly candles as

for mysteriousnight-festival,--and a luminous billowing under ablack sky, andeffervescences of fire, and the twirling andcrawling of phosphoric foam;--

Saw the mesmerism of the Moon;--saw theenchanted tidesself-heaped in muttering obeisance before her.

Often she heard the Music of the Marsh throughthe night: aninfinity of flutings and tinklings made by tinyamphibia,--likethe low blowing of numberless little tin horns, theclanking of billions of little bells;--and, at intervals, profoundtones,vibrant and heavy, as of a bass viol--the orchestraof the greatfrogs! And interweaving with it all, one continuous

shrilling,--keen as the steel speech of a saw ,--thestriduloustelegraphy of crickets.

But always,--always, dreaming or awake , she heard



the huge blindSea chanting that mystic and eternal hymn, whichnone may hear

without awe, which no musician can learn,--Heard the hoary Preacher,--El Pregonador,--preaching the ancientWord, the word "as a fire, and as a hammer thatbreaketh therock in pieces,"--the Elohim--Word of the Sea! ...

Unknowingly she came to know the immemorialsympathy of the mindwith the Soul of the World,--the melancholywrought by its moodsof gray, the reverie responsive to its vagaries of mist, theexhilaration of its vast exultings--days of windy joy ,hours of transfigured light.

She felt ,--even without knowing it,--the weight of the Silences,the solemnities of sky and sea in these low regionswhere all

things seem to dream--waters and grasses withtheir momentarywavings,--woods gray-webbed with mosses thatdrip anddrool,--horizons with their delusions of vapor,--



cranesmeditating in their marshes,--kites floating in thehigh blue....

Even the children were singularly quiet ; and theirplay lessnoisy--though she could not have learned thedifference--than theplay of city children. Hour after hour, the womensewed or wovein silence. And the brown men,--always barefooted,alwayswearing rough blue shirts,--seemed, when theylounged about thewharf on idle days, as if they had told each otherlong ago allthey knew or could ever know , and had nothingmore to say. Theywould stare at the flickering of the current, at thedrifting of clouds and buzzard:--seldom looking at each other,and alwaysturning their black eyes again, in a weary way, tosky or sea.Even thus one sees the horses and the cattle of thecoast,

seeking the beach to escape the whizzing flies;--allwatch thelong waves rolling in, and sometimes turn theirheads a moment tolook at one another, but always look back to the



waves again, asif wondering at a mystery....

How often she herself had wondered--wondered atthe multiformchanges of each swell as it came in--transformations of tint, of shape, of motion, that seemed to betoken a lifeinfinitely moresubtle than the strange cold life of lizards and of fishes,--andsinister, and spectral. Then they all appeared tomove inorder,--according to one law or impulse;--each hadits own voice,yet all sang one and the same everlasting song.Vaguely, as shewatched them and listened to them, there came toher the idea of a unity of will in their motion, a unity of menace intheirutterance--the idea of one monstrous and complexlife! The sealived: it could crawl backward and forward; it couldspeak!--it

only feigned deafness and sightlessness for somemalevolent end. Thenceforward she feared to find herself alone withit. Was itnot at her that it strove to rush, muttering, and



showing itswhite teeth, ... just because it knew that she wasall by

herself ? ... Si quieres aprender a orar, entra en elmar! AndConcha had well learned to pray. But the seaseemed to her theone Power which God could not make to obey Himas He pleased .Saying the creed one day, she repeated veryslowly the openingwords,--"Creo en un Dios, padre todopoderoso,Criador de cielo yde la tierra,"--and paused and thought . Creator of Heaven andEarth? "Madrecita Carmen," she asked,--"quienentonces hizo elmar?" (who then made the sea?).

--"Dios, mi querida," answered Carmen.--"God, mydarling....All things were made by Him" ( todas las cosasfueron hechas porEl).

Even the wicked Sea! And He had said unto it:"Thus far, and nofarther." ... Was that why it had not overtaken anddevouredher when she ran back in fear from the sudden



reaching out of itswaves? Thus far....? But there were times when itdisobeyed--when it rushed further, shaking the

world! Was itbecause God was then asleep--could not hear , didnot see , untiltoo late?

And the tumultuous ocean terrified her more andmore: it filledher sleep with enormous nightmare;--it came uponher in dreams ,mountain-shadowing,--holding her with its spell,smothering herpower of outcry, heaping itself to the stars.

Carmen became alarmed;--she feared that thenervous and delicatechild might die in one of those moaning dreams outof which shehad to arouse her, night after night. But Feliu,answering heranxiety with one of his favorite proverbs,suggested a heroicremedy:--

--"The world is like the sea: those who do not knowhow to swimin it are drowned;--and the sea is like the world,"he added....



"Chita must learn to swim!"

And he found the time to teach her. Each morning,

at sunrise, hetook her into the water. She was less terrified thefirst timethan Carmen thought she would be;--she seemedto feel confidencein Feliu; although she screamed piteously beforeher firstducking at his hands. His teaching was not gentle.He wouldcarry her out, perched upon his shoulder, until thewater rose tohis own neck; and there he would throw her fromhim, and let herstruggle to reach him again as best she could. Thefirst fewmornings she had to be pulled out almost at once;but after thatFeliu showed her less mercy , and helped her onlywhen he saw shewas really in danger. He attempted no otherinstruction untilshe had learned that in order to save herself from

being half choked by the salt water, she must not scream;and by the timeshe became habituated to these austereexperiences , she had



already learned by instinct alone how to keepherself afloat fora while, how to paddle a little with her hands. Then

hecommenced to train her to use them,--to lift themwell out andthrow them forward as if reaching, to dip them asthe blade of anoar is dipped at an angle, without loud splashing;--and he showedher also how to use her feet. She learned rapidlyandastonishingly well. In less than two months Feliufelt reallyproud at the progress made by his tiny pupil: it wasa delightto watch her lifting her slender arms above thewater in swift,easy curves, with the same fine grace that markedall her othernatural motions. Later on he taught her not to fearthe sea evenwhen it growled a little,--how to ride a swell, how toface abreaker, how to dive. She only needed practice

thereafter; andCarmen, who could also swim, finding the child'shealth improvingmarvellously under this new discipline, took goodcare that Chita



should practice whenever the mornings were nottoo cold, or thewater too rough.

With the first thrill of delight at finding herself ableto glideover the water unassisted, the child's superstitiousterror of the sea passed away. Even for the adult there arefew physical

joys keener than the exultation of the swimmer;--how much greaterthe same glee as newly felt by an imaginativechild,--a child,whose vivid fancy can lend unutterable value tothe mostinsignificant trifles, can transform a weed-patch toan Eden! ...Of her own accord she would ask for her morningbath, as soon asshe opened her eyes;--it even required someseverity to preventher from remaining in the water too long. The seaappeared toher as something that had become tame for her

sake, somethingthat loved her in a huge rough way; a tremendousplaymate, whomshe no longer feared to see come bounding andbarking to lick her



feet. And, little by little, she also learned thewonderfulhealing and caressing power of the monster, whose

cool embrace atonce dispelled all drowsiness, feverishness,weariness,--evenafter the sultriest nights when the air had seemedto burn, andthe mosquitoes had filled the chamber with asound as of waterboiling in many kettles. And on mornings when thesea was in toowicked a humor to be played with, how she felt theloss of herloved sport, and prayed for calm! Her delicateconstitutionchanged;--the soft, pale flesh became firm andbrown, the meagrelimbs rounded into robust symmetry, the thincheeks grew peachywith richer life; for the strength of the sea hadentered intoher; the sharp breath of the sea had renewed andbrightened heryoung blood....

... Thou primordial Sea, the awfulness of whoseantiquity hathstricken all mythology dumb;--thou most wrinkleddiving Sea, the



millions of whose years outnumber even themultitude of thy hoarymotions;--thou omniform and most mysterious Sea,

mother of themonsters and the gods,--whence shine eternalyouth? Still do thywaters hold the infinite thrill of that Spirit whichbroodedabove their face in the Beginning!--still is thyquickeningbreath an elixir unto them that flee to thee forlife,--like thebreath of young girls, like the breath of children,prescribedfor the senescent by magicians of old,--prescribedunto weazenedelders in the books of the Wizards.

III

... Eighteen hundred and sixty-seven;--midsummerin thepest-smitten city of New Orleans.

Heat motionless and ponderous. The steel-blue of

the skybleached from the furnace-circle of the horizon;--the lukewarmriver ran yellow and noiseless as a torrent of fluidwax. Even



sounds seemed blunted by the heaviness of theair;--the rumblingof wheels, the reverberation of footsteps, fell half-

toned uponthe ear, like sounds that visit a dozing brain.

Daily, almost at the same hour, the continuoussense of atmospheric oppression became thickened;--apacked herd of low-bellying clouds lumbered up from the Gulf;crowded blacklyagainst the sun; flickered, thundered, and burst intorrentialrain--tepid, perpendicular--and vanished utterlyaway. Then,more furiously than before, the sun flamed down;--roofs andpavements steamed; the streets seemed to smoke;the air grewsuffocating with vapor; and the luminous city filledwith afaint, sickly odor,--a stale smell , as of dead leavessuddenlydisinterred from wet mould,--as of grasses

decomposing after aflood. Something saffron speckled the slimy waterof thegutters; sulphur some called it; others feared evento give it a



name! Was it only the wind-blown pollen of someinnocuous plant?

I do not know ; but to many it seemed as if theInvisibleDestruction were scattering visible seed! ... Suchwere thedays; and each day the terror-stricken city offeredup itshecatomb to death; and the faces of all the deadwere yellow asflame!

"DECEDE--; "DECEDEE--; "FALLECIO;"--"DIED." ...On thedoor-posts, the telegraph-poles, the pillars of verandas, thelamps,--over the government letter-boxes,--everywhere glimmeredthe white annunciations of death. All the city wasspotted withthem. And lime was poured into the gutters; andhuge purifyingfires were kindled after sunset.

The nights began with a black heat;--there werehours when theacrid air seemed to ferment for stagnation, and toburn thebronchial tubing;--then, toward morning, it would



grow chill withvenomous vapors, with morbific dews,--till the suncame up to

lift the torpid moisture, and to fill the buildings withoven-glow. And the interminable procession of mourners andhearses and carriages again began to circulatebetween thecentres of life and of death;--and long trains andsteamshipsrushed from the port, with heavy burden of fugitives.

Wealth might flee; yet even in flight there wasperil. Men, whomight have been saved by the craft of experiencednurses at home,hurriedly departed in apparent health,unconsciously carrying intheir blood the toxic principle of a maladyunfamiliar tophysicians of the West and North;--and they diedupon their way,by the road-side, by the river-banks, in woods, indeserted

stations, on the cots of quarantine hospitals. Wiserthose whosought refuge in the purity of the pine forests, or inthose nearGulf Islands, whence the bright sea-breath kept



ever sweepingback the expanding poison into the funerealswamps, into the

misty lowlands. The watering-resorts becameovercrowded;--thenthe fishing villages were thronged,--at least allwhich were easyto reach by steamboat or by lugger. And at last,even Viosca'sPoint,--remote and unfamiliar as it was,--had astranger toshelter: a good old gentleman named Edwards,rather broken downin health--who came as much for quiet as for sea-air, and who hadbeen warmly recommended to Feliu by CaptainHarris. For someyears he had been troubled by a disease of theheart.

Certainly the old invalid could not have found amore suitableplace so far as rest and quiet were concerned. Theseason hadearly given such little promise that several men of

the Pointbetook themselves elsewhere; and the aged visitorhad two orthree vacant cabins from among which to select adwelling-place.



He chose to occupy the most remote of all, whichCarmen furnishedfor him with a cool moss bed and some necessary

furniture,--including a big wooden rocking-chair. Itseemed tohim very comfortable thus. He took his meals withthe family,spent most of the day in his own quarters, spokevery little, andlived so unobtrusively and inconspicuously that hispresence inthe settlement was felt scarcely more than that of some dumbcreature,--some domestic animal,--some humblepet whose relationto the family is only fully comprehended after ithas failed toappear for several days in its accustomed place of patientwaiting,--and we know that it is dead.

IV.

Persistently and furiously, at half-past two o'clockof an August

morning, Sparicio rang Dr. La Brierre's night-bell.He hadfifty dollars in his pocket, and a letter to deliver. Hewas toearn another fifty dollars--deposited in Feliu's



hands,--bybringing the Doctor to Viosca's Point. He had riskedhis life

for that money,--and was terribly in earnest. Julien descended in his under-clothing, and openedthe letter bythe light of the hall lamp. It enclosed a check for alarger feethan he had ever before received, and containedan urgent requestthat he would at once accompany Sparicio toViosca's Point,--asthe sender was in hourly danger of death. Theletter, penned ina long, quavering hand, was signed,--"HenryEdwards."

His father's dear old friend! Julien could not refusetogo,--though he feared it was a hopeless case.Anginapectoris,--and a third attack at seventy years of age! Would iteven be possible to reach the sufferer's bedside in

time? "Duegiorno,--con vento,"--said Sparicio. Still, he mustgo; and atonce. It was Friday morning;--might reach the PointSaturday



night, with a good wind ... He roused hishousekeeper, gave allneedful instructions, prepared his little medicine-

chest;--andlong before the first rose-gold fire of day hadflashed to thecity spires, he was sleeping the sleep of exhaustionin the tinycabin of a fishing-sloop.

... For eleven years Julien had devoted himself ,heart and soul ,to the exercise of that profession he had firststudied rather asa polite accomplishment than as a future calling. Intheunselfish pursuit of duty he had found the onlypossibleconsolation for his irreparable loss; and when thewar came tosweep away his wealth, he entered the strugglevalorously, not tostrive against men, but to use his science againstdeath. Afterthe passing of that huge shock, which left all the

imposing andsplendid fabric of Southern feudalism wreckedforever, hisprofession stood him in good stead;--he foundhimself not only



able to supply those personal wants he cared tosatisfy , but alsoto alleviate the misery of many whom he had

known in days of opulence;--the princely misery that never doffed itssmilingmask, though living in secret, from week to week,on bread andorange-leaf tea;--the misery that affectedcondescension inaccepting an invitation to dine,--staring at the faceof a watch(refused by the Mont-de-Piete) with eyes half blinded bystarvation;--the misery which could afford but onerobe for threemarriageable daughters,--one plain dress to beworn in turn byeach of them, on visiting days;--the pretty misery--young, brave,sweet,--asking for a "treat" of cakes too jocosely tohave itsasking answered,--laughing and coquetting with itswell-fedwooers, and crying for hunger after they were

gone. Often andoften, his heart had pleaded against his purse forsuch as these,and won its case in the silent courts of Self . Butever



mysteriously the gift came,--sometimes as if fromthe hand of aformer slave; sometimes as from a remorseful

creditor, ashamed towrite his name. Only yellow Victorine knew ; but theDoctor'shousekeeper never opened those sphinx-lips of hers, until yearsafter the Doctor's name had disappeared from theCity Directory...

He had grown quite thin,--a little gray. Theepidemic hadburthened him with responsibilities too multifariousandponderous for his slender strength to bear. Thecontinualnervous strain of abnormally protracted duty, theperpetualinterruption of sleep, had almost prostrated evenhis will. Nowhe only hoped that, during this brief absence fromthe city, hemight find renewed strength to do his terrible task.

Mosquitoes bit savagely; and the heat becamethicker;--and therewas yet no wind. Sparicio and his hired boyCarmelo had been



walking backward and forward for hoursoverhead,--urging thevessel yard by yard, with long poles, through the

slime of canalsand bayous. With every heavy push, the weary boywould sighout,--"Santo Antonio!--Santo Antonio!" SullenSparicio himself at last burst into vociferations of ill-humor:--"SantoAntonio?--Ah! santissimu e santu diavulu! ...Sacramentu paescitevegnu un asidente!--malidittu lu Signuri!" Allthrough themorning they walked and pushed, trudged andsighed and swore; andthe minutes dragged by more wearily than theshuffling of theirfeet. "Managgia Cristo co tutta a croce!" ..."Santissimu esantu diavulu!" ...

But as they reached at last the first of the broadbright lakes,the heat lifted, the breeze leaped up, the loose sailflapped and

filled; and, bending graciously as a skater, the oldSan Marcobegan to shoot in a straight line over the blueflood. Then,while the boy sat at the tiller, Sparicio lighted his



tinycharcoal furnace below, and prepared a simplemeal,--delicious

yellow macaroni, flavored with goats' cheese; somefried fish,that smelled appetizingly; and rich black coffee, of Orientalfragrance and thickness. Julien ate a little, and laydown tosleep again. This time his rest was undisturbed bythemosquitoes; and when he woke , in the coolingevening, he feltalmost refreshed. The San Marco was flying intoBarataria Bay.Already the lantern in the lighthouse tower hadbegun to glowlike a little moon; and right on the rim of the sea, avast andvermilion sun seemed to rest his chin. Graypelicans cameflapping around the mast;--sea-birds sped hurtlingby, theirwhite bosoms rose-flushed by the western glow ...Again

Sparicio's little furnace was at work,--more fish,more macaroni,more black coffee; also a square-shouldered bottleof gin madeits appearance. Julien ate less sparingly at this



second meal;and smoked a long time on deck with Sparicio, whosuddenly became

very good-humored , and chatted volubly in badSpanish, and inmuch worse English. Then while the boy took a fewhours' sleep,the Doctor helped delightedly in maneuvering thelittle vessel.He had been a good yachtsman in other years; andSpariciodeclared he would make a good fisherman. Bymidnight the SanMarco began to run with a long, swinging gait;--shehad reacheddeep water. Julien slept soundly; the steadyrocking of thesloop seemed to soothe his nerves.

--"After all, " he thought to himself , as he rose fromhislittle bunk next morning,--"something like this is

just what Ineeded." ... The pleasant scent of hot coffeegreeted

him;--Carmelo was handing him the tin cupcontaining it, downthrough the hatchway. After drinking it he feltreallyhungry;--he ate more macaroni than he had ever



eaten before. Then, while Sparicio slept, he aided Carmelo; andduring the

middle of the day he rested again. He had not hadso muchuninterrupted repose for many a week. He fanciedhe could feelhimself getting strong. At supper-time it seemed tohim he couldnot get enough to eat,--although there was plentyfor everybody.

All day long there had been exactly the samewave-creasedistorting the white shadow of the San Marco's sailupon the bluewater;--all day long they had been skimming overthe liquid levelof a world so jewel-blue that the low green ribbon-strips of marsh land, the far-off fleeing lines of pine-yellowsand beach,seemed flaws or breaks in the perfected color of theuniverse;--all day long had the cloudless sky

revealed throughall its exquisite transparency that inexpressibletendernesswhich no painter and no poet can ever reimage,--that unutterable



sweetness which no art of man may ever shadowforth, and whichnone may ever comprehend,--though we feel it to

be in somestrange way akin to the luminous and unspeakablecharm that makesus wonder at the eyes of a woman when she loves.

Evening came; and the great dominant celestialtonedeepened;--the circling horizon filled with ghostlytints,--spectral greens and grays, and pearl-lightsandfish-colors ... Carmelo, as he crouched at the tiller,wassinging, in a low, clear alto, some tristful littlemelody. Overthe sea, behind them, lay, black-stretching, a longlow arm of island-shore;--before them flamed the splendor of sun-death; theywere sailing into a mighty glory,--into a vast andawful light of gold.

Shading his vision with his fingers, Sparicio pointedto the longlean limb of land from which they were fleeing, andsaid to LaBrierre:--



--"Look-a, Doct-a! Last-a Islan'!"

Julien knew it;--he only nodded his head in reply,and looked theother way,--into the glory of God. Then, wishing todivert thefisherman's attention to another theme, he askedwhat was Carmelosinging. Sparicio at once shouted to the lad:--

--"Ha! ... ho! Carmelo!--Santu diavulu! ... Sing-aloud-a!Doct-a lik-a! Sing-a! sing!" .... "He sing-a nicee,"--addedthe boatman, with his peculiar dark smile. And thenCarmelosang, loud and clearly, the song he had beensinging before,--oneof those artless Mediterranean ballads, full of caressingvowel-sounds, and young passion, and melancholybeauty:--

"M'ama ancor, belta fulgente,

Come tu m'amasti allor;--Ascoltar non dei gente,Solo interroga il tuo cor." ...

--"He sing-a nicee,--mucha bueno!" murmured the



fisherman. Andthen, suddenly,--with a rich and splendid bassothat seemed to

thrill every fibre of the planking,--Sparicio joined inthesong:--

"M'ama pur d'amore eterno,Ne deilitto sembri a te;

T'assicuro che l'infernoUna favola sol e." ...

All the roughness of the man was gone! To Julien'sstartledfancy, the fishers had ceased to be;--lo! Carmelowas a princelypage; Sparicio, a king! How perfectly their voicesmarriedtogether!--they sang with passion, with power, withtruth , withthat wondrous natural art which is the birthright of the rudestItalian soul . And the stars throbbed out in theheaven; and theglory died in the west; and the night opened its

heart; and thesplendor of the eternities fell all about them. Stillthey sang;and the San Marco sped on through the soft gloom,ever slightly



swerved by the steady blowing of the southeastwind in hersail;--always wearing the same crimpling-frill of

wave-sprayabout her prow,--always accompanied by the samesmooth-backedswells,--always spinning out behind her the samelong trail of interwoven foam. And Julien looked up. Ever thenight thrilledmore and more with silent twinklings;--more andmoremultitudinously lights pointed in the eternities;--theEveningStar quivered like a great drop of liquid white fireready tofall;--Vega flamed as a pharos lighting the coursesethereal,--toguide the sailing of the suns, and the swarming of fleets of worlds. Then the vast sweetness of that violet nightenteredinto his blood,--filled him with that awful joy , sonear akin tosadness, which the sense of the Infinite brings,--

when one feelsthe poetry of the Most Ancient and Most Excellentof Poets, andthen is smitten at once with the contrast-thought of the



sickliness and selfishness of Man,--of the blindnessandbrutality of cities, whereinto the divine blue light

never purelycomes, and the sanctification of the Silences neverdescends ...furious cities, walled away from heaven ... Oh! if one could onlysail on thus always, always through such a night--through such astar-sprinkled violet light, and hear Sparicio andCarmelo sing,even though it were the same melody always,always the same song!

... "Scuza, Doct-a!--look-a out!" Julien bent down,as the bigboom, loosened, swung over his head. The SanMarco was roundinginto shore,--heading for her home. Sparicio lifted ahugeconch-shell from the deck, put it to his lips, filledhis deeplungs, and flung out into the night--thrice--aprofound,

mellifluent, booming horn-tone. A minute passed. Then, ghostlyfaint, as an echo from very far away, a tripleblowing responded...



And a long purple mass loomed and swelled intosight , heightened,

approached--land and trees black-shadowing, andlights that swung... The San Marco glided into a bayou,--under ahigh wharfing of timbers, where a bearded fisherman waited, and awoman. Sparicioflung up a rope.

The bearded man caught it by the lantern-light,and tethered theSan Marco to her p]ace. Then he asked, in a deepvoice:

-"Has traido al Doctor?"

-"Si, si!" answered Sparicio... "Y el viejo?"

-"Aye! pobre!" responded Feliu,--"hace tres diasque estamuerto. "

Henry Edwards was dead!

He had died very suddenly, without a cry or aword, while restingin his rocking-chair,--the very day after Spariciohad sailed.



They had made him a grave in the marsh,--amongthe high weeds,not far from the ruined tomb of the Spanish

fisherman. ButSparicio had fairly earned his hundred dollars.

V.

So there was nothing to do at Viosca's Point exceptto rest .Feliu and all his men were going to Barataria in themorning onbusiness;--the Doctor could accompany themthere, and take theGrand Island steamer Monday for New Orleans.With this intention

Julien retired,--not sorry for being able to stretchhimself atfull length on the good bed prepared for him, inone of theunoccupied cabins. But he woke before day with afeeling of intense prostration, a violent headache, and suchan aversion forthe mere idea of food that Feliu's invitation to

breakfast atfive o'clock gave him an internal qualm. Perhaps atouch of malaria. In any case he felt it would be bothdangerous and



useless to return to town unwell; and Feliu,observing hiscondition , himself advised against the journey.

Wednesday hewould have another opportunity to leave; and inthe meanwhileCarmen would take good care of him ... The boatsdeparted, and

Julien slept again.

The sun was high when he rose up and dressedhimself , feeling nobetter. He would have liked to walk about theplace, but feltnervously afraid of the sun. He did not rememberhaving everfelt so broken down before. He pulled a rocking-chair to thewindow, tried to smoke a cigar. It commenced tomake him feelstill sicker, and he flung it away. It seemed to himthe cabinwas swaying, as the San Marco swayed when shefirst reached thedeep water.

A light rustling sound approached,--a sound of quick feettreading the grass: then a shadow slanted over thethreshold.



In the glow of the open doorway stood a younggirl,--gracile,tall,--with singularly splendid eyes,--brown eyes

peeping at himfrom beneath a golden riot of loose hair.

--"M'sieu-le-Docteur, maman d'mande si vousn'avez besoind'que'que chose?" ... She spoke the rude French of the fishingvillages, where the language lives chiefly as abaragouin,mingled often with words and forms belonging tomany othertongues. She wore a loose-falling dress of somelight stuff,steel-gray in color;--boys' shoes were on her feet.

He did not reply;--and her large eyes grew largerfor wonder atthe strange fixed gaze of the physician, whose facehad visiblybleached,--blanched to corpse-pallor. Silentseconds passed; andstill the eyes stared--flamed as if the life of the

man hadcentralized and focussed within them.

His voice had risen to a cry in his throat, quiveredand swelled



one passionate instant, and failed--as in a dreamwhen onestrives to call, and yet can only moan ... She! Her

unforgotteneyes, her brows, her lips!--the oval of her face!--thedawn-lightof her hair! ... Adele's own poise,--her own grace!--even thevery turn of her neck, even the bird-tone of herspeech! ... Hadthe grave sent forth a Shadow to haunt him?--couldthe perfidiousSea have yielded up its dead? For one terriblefraction of aminute, memories , doubts , fears , mad fancies,went pulsingthrough his brain with a rush like the rhythmicthrobbing of anelectric stream;--then the shock passed, theReasonspoke:--"Fool!--count the long years since you firstsaw herthus!--countthe years that have gone since youlooked upon herlast! And Time has never halted, silly heart!--

neither has Deathstood still!"

... "Plait-il?"--the clear voice of the young girlasked. She



thought he had made some response she could notdistinctly hear .

Mastering himself an instant, as the heart falteredback to itsduty, and the color remounted to his lips, heanswered her inFrench:--

"Pardon me!--I did not hear ... you gave me such astart!" ...But even then another extraordinary fancy flashedthrough histhought ;--and with the tutoiement of a parent to achild, with anirresistible outburst of such tenderness as almostfrightenedher, he cried: "Oh! merciful God!--how like her! ...

Tell me,darling, your name; ... tell me who you are?" (Dis-moi qui tu es,mignonne;--dis-moi ton nom.)

... Who was it had asked her the same question, inanother idiom

ever so long ago? The man with the black eyes andnose like aneagle's beak,--the one who gave her the compass.Not thisman--no!



She answered, with the timid gravity of surprise:--

--"Chita Viosca"He still watched her face, and repeated the nameslowly,--reiterated it in a tone of wonderment:--"ChitaViosca?--Chita Viosca!"

--"C'est a dire ..." she said, looking down at herfeet,--"Concha--Conchita. " His strange solemnitymade hersmile,--the smile of shyness that knows not whatelse to do. Butit was the smile of dead Adele.

--"Thanks, my child, " he exclaimed of a sudden,--ina quick,hoarse, changed tone. (He felt that his emotionwould breakloose in some wild way, if he looked upon herlonger.) "I wouldlike to see your mother this evening; but I now feeltoo ill to

go out. I am going to try to rest a little."

--"Nothing I can bring you?" she asked,--"somefresh milk?"



--"Nothing now, dear: if I need anything later, I willtellyour mother when she comes. "

--"Mamma does not understand French very well."

--"No importa, Conchita;--le hablare en Espanol."

--"Bien, entonces!" she responded , with the sameexquisitesmile. "Adios, senor!" ...

But as she turned in going, his piercing eyediscerned a littlebrown speck below the pretty lobe of her rightear,--just in thepeachy curve between neck and cheek. ... His ownlittle Zouzounehad a birthmark like that!---he remembered thefaint pink traceleft by his fingers above and below it the day hehad slapped herfor overturning his ink bottle ... "To laimin moin?---to battemoin!"

"Chita!---Chita!"

She did not hear ... After all, what a mistake hemight have



made! Were not Nature's coincidences morewonderful thanfiction? Better to wait,--to question the mother first,

and thusmake sure.

Still--there were so many coincidences! The face,the smile, theeyes, the voice, the whole charm;---then thatmark,---and thefair hair. Zouzoune had always resembled Adele sostrangely!

That golden hair was a Scandinavian bequest tothe Floranefamily;---the tall daughter of a Norwegian seacaptain had oncebecome the wife of a Florane. Viosca?---who everknew a Vioscawith such hair? Yet again, these Spanish emigrantssometimesmarried blonde German girls ... Might be a case of atavism, too.Who was this Viosca? If that was his wife,---thelittle brownCarmen,---whence Chita's sunny hair? ...

And this was part of that same desolate shorewhither the LastIsland dead had been drifted by that tremendoussurge! On a





He stretched himself under the mosquito curtain. Itwas verystill, breath. less, hot! The venomous insects were

thick;---they filled the room with a continuousebullient sound,as if invisible kettles were boiling overhead. A signof storm.... Still, it was strange!---he could notperspire ...

Then it seemed to him that Laroussel was bendingoverhim---Laroussel in his cavalry uniform. "Bon jour,camarade!---nous allons avoir un bien mauvaistemps, mon pauvre

Julien." How! bad weather?---"Comment unmauvais temps?" ...He looked in Laroussel's face. There was somethingso singularin his smile. Ah! yes,---he remembered now: it wasthe wound!... "Un vilain temps!" whispered Laroussel. Then hewas gone... Whither?

---"Cheri!" ...

The whisper roused him with a fearful start ...Adele's whisper!So she was wont to rouse him sometimes in the old



sweetnights,--to crave some little attention for ailingEulalie,---to

make some little confidence she had forgotten toutter during thehappy evening ... No, no! It was only the trees. Thesky wasclouding over. The wind was rising ... How his heartbeat! howhis temples pulsed! Why, this was fever! Suchpains in the backand head!

Still his skin was dry,--dry as parchment,--burning.He rose up;and a bursting weight of pain at the base of theskull made himreel like a drunken man. He staggered to the littlemirrornailed upon the wall, and looked. How his eyesglowed;---andthere was blood in his mouth! He felt his pulsespasmodic,terribly rapid. Could it possibly---? ... No: this mustbe

some pernicious malarial fever! The Creole doesnot easily falla prey to the great tropical malady,---unless after alongabsence in other climates. True ! he had been four



years in thearmy! But this was 1867 ... He hesitated amoment;

then,--opening his medicine chest, he measuredout and swallowedthirty grains of quinine.

Then he lay down again. His head pained more andmore;---itseemed as if the cervical vertebrae were filled withfluid iron.And still his skin remained dry as if tanned. Thenthe anguishgrew so intense as to force a groan with almostevery aspiration... Nausea,--and the stinging bitterness of quininerising in histhroat;---dizziness, and a brutal wrenching withinhis stomach.Everything began to look pink;---the light was rose-colored. Itdarkened more,---kindled with deepening tint.Something keptsparkling and spinning before his sight , like afirework ... Then

a burst of blood mixed with chemical bitternessfilled his mouth;the light became scarlet as claret ... This--thiswas ... notmalaria ...



VI.

... Carmen knew what it was; but the brave littlewoman was notafraid of it. Many a time before she had met it faceto face, inHavanese summers; she knew how to wrestle withit; she had tornFeliu's life away from its yellow clutch, after one of those longstruggles that strain even the strength of love. Nowshe fearedmostly for Chita. She had ordered the girl under nocircumstances to approach the cabin.

Julien felt that blankets had been heaped uponhim,---that somegentle hand was bathing his scorching face withvinegar andwater. Vaguely also there came to him the ideathat it wasnight. He saw the shadow-shape of a womanmoving against the redlight upon the wall;---he saw there was a lamp

burning.

Then the delirium seized him: he moaned, sobbed,cried like achild,---talked wildly at intervals in French, in



English, inSpanish.

---"Mentira!---you could not be her mother ... Still, if youwere---And she must not come in here,---jamais! ...Carmen, didyou know Adele,---Adele Florane? So like her,---solike,---Godonly knows how like! ... Perhaps I think I know ;---but I donot---do not know justly, fully---how like! ... Si! si!---es elvomito!---yo lo conozco, Carmen! ... She must notdie twice ... Idied twice ... I am going to die again. She onlyonce. Till theheavens be no more she will not rise ... Moi, aucontraire, ilfaut que je me leve toujours! They need me somuch;---the slateis always full; the bell will never stop. They will ringthatbell for me when I am dead ... So will I rise again!---resurgam!

... How could I save him?---could not save myself . Itwas a badcase,--at seventy years! ... There! Qui ca?" ...

He saw Laroussel again,--reaching out a hand to



him through awhirl of red smoke. He tried to grasp it, and couldnot ...

"N'importe, mon ami," said Laroussel,---"tu vas lavoir bientot."Who was he to see soon?---"qui done,Laroussel?" But Larousseldid not answer. Through the red mist he seemed tosmile;---thenpassed.

For some hours Carmen had trusted she could saveherpatient ,---desperate as the case appeared to be.His was one of those rapid and violent attacks, such as oftendespatch theirvictims in a single day. In the Cuban hospitals shehad seenmany and many terrible examples: strong youngmen,---soldiersfresh from Spain,---carried panting to the feverwards atsunrise; carried to the cemeteries at sunset. Eventroopers

riddled with revolutionary bullets had lingeredlonger ... Still,she had believed she might save Julien's life: theburningforehead once began to bead, the burning hands



grew moist.

But now the wind was moaning;--the air had

become lighter,thinner, cooler. A stone was gathering in the east;and to thefever-stricken man the change meant death ...Impossible to bringthe priest of the Caminada now; and there was noother within aday's sail. She could only pray; she had lost allhope in herown power to save.

Still the sick man raved; but he talked to himself atlongerintervals, and with longer pauses between hiswords;---his voicewas growing more feeble, his speech moreincoherent. His thoughtvacillated and distorted, like flame in a wind.

Weirdly the past became confounded with thepresent; impressionsof sight and of sound interlinked in fastastic

affinity,---theface of Chita Viosca, the murmur of the risingstorm. Thenflickers of spectral lightning passed through hiseyes, through



his brain, with every throb of the burning arteries;then utterdarkness came,---a darkness that surged and

moaned, as thecircumfluence of a shadowed sea. And through andover themoaning pealed one multitudinous human cry, onehideousinterblending of shoutings and shriekings ... Awoman's hand waslocked in his own ... "Tighter," he muttered,"tighter still,darling! hold as long as you can!" It was the tenthnight of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six ...

---"Cheri!"

Again the mysterious whisper startled him toconsciousness ,---thedim knowledge of a room filled with ruby coloredlight,---and thesharp odor of vinegar. The house swung roundslowly;---thecrimson flame of the lamp lengthened and

broadened byturns;---then everything turned dizzily fast,---whirled as if spinning in a vortex ... Nausea unutterable; and afrightful



anguish as of teeth devouring him within,---tearingmore and morefuriously at his breast. Then one atrocious

wrenching, rending,burning,---and the gush of blood burst from lipsand nostrils ina smothering deluge. Again the vision of lightnings,theswaying, and the darkness of long ago. "Quick!---quick!---holdfast to the table, Adele!---never let go!" ...

... Up,---up,---up!---what! higher yet? Up to the redsky!Red---black-red ... heated iron when its vermiliondies. So,too, the frightful flood! And noiseless. Noiselessbecauseheavy, clammy,---thick, warm, sickening---blood?Well might theland quake for the weight of such a tide!---Why didAdele speakSpanish? Who prayed for him? ...

---"Alma de Cristo santisima santificame!

"Sangre de Cristo, embriagame!

"O buen Jesus, oye me!" ...



Out of the darkness into--such a light! An azurehaze!Ah!---the delicious frost! ... All the streets were

filled withthe sweet blue mist ... Voiceless the City andwhite;---crookedand weed grown its narrow ways! ... Old streets of tombs, these... Eh! How odd a custom!---a Night-bell at everydoor. Yes, of course!---a night-bell!---the Dead are Physicians of Souls : theymay be summoned only by night,---called up fromthe darkness andsilence ... Yet she?---might he not dare to ring forher even byday? ........ Strange he had deemed it day!---why, itwas black,starless ... And it was growing queerly cold ......How should heever find her now? It was so black ... so cold! ...

---"Cheri!"

All the dwelling quivered with the mighty whisper.

Outside, the great oaks were trembling to theirroots;---all theshore shook and blanched before the calling of thesea.



And Carmen, kneeling at the feet of the dead, criedout, alone in

the night:------"O Jesus misericordioso!---tened compasion deel!"

The End

Documents

Lafcadio Hearn Memory of the Last Island