Chapter Nineteen.
Leisure for once.
Precious to the statesman are the moments he can snatch for the common pleasures which are strewed over the earth—meant, apparently, for the perpetual enjoyment of all its inhabitants. The child gathers flowers in the meadow, or runs up and down a green bank, or looks for birds’ nests every spring day. The boy and girl hear the lark in the field and the linnet in the wood, as a matter of course: they walk beside the growing corn, and pass beneath the rookery, and feel nothing of its being a privilege. The sailor beholds the stars every bright night of the year, and is familiar with the thousand hues of the changing sea. The soldier on his march sees the sun rise and set on mountain and valley, plain and forest. The citizen, pent up in the centre of a wide-built town, has his hour for play with his little ones, his evenings for his wife and his friends. But for the statesman, none of these are the pleasures of every day. Week after week, month after month, he can have no eyes for the freshness of nature, no leisure for small affairs, or for talk about things which cannot be called affairs at all. He may gaze at pictures on his walls, and hear music from the drawing-room, in the brief intervals of his labours; and he may now and then be taken by surprise by a glimpse of the cool bright stars, or by the waving of the boughs of some neighbouring tree. He may be beguiled by the grace or the freak of some little child, or struck: by some wandering flower scent in the streets, or some effect of sunlight on the evening cloud. But with these few and rare exceptions, he loses sight of the natural earth, and of its free intercourses, for weeks and months together; and precious in proportion—precious beyond its utmost anticipation—are his hours of holiday when at length they come. He gazes at the crescent moon hanging above the woods, and at the long morning shadows on the dewy grass, as if they would vanish before his eyes. He is intoxicated with the gurgle of the brook upon the stones, when he seeks the trout stream with his line and basket. The whirring of the wild bird’s wing upon the moor, the bursting of the chase from cover, the creaking of the harvest wain—the song of the vine-dressers—the laugh of the olive-gatherers—in every land where these sounds are heard, they make a child once more of the statesman who may for once have come forth to hear them. Sweeter still is the leisure hour with children in the garden or the meadow, and the quiet stroll with wife or sister in the evening, or the gay excursion during a whole day of liberty. If Sunday evenings are sweet to the labourer whose toils involve but little action of mind, how precious are his rarer holidays to the state labourer, after the wear and tear of toil like his—after his daily experience of intense thought, of anxiety, and fear! In the path of such should spring the freshest grass, and on their heads should fall the softest of the moonlight, and the balmiest of the airs of heaven, if natural rewards are in any proportion to their purchase money of toil.
The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were those which he could spend with his wife and children, away from observing eyes and listening ears. He was never long pent up in the city, or detained by affairs within the walls of his palace. His business lay abroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, on horseback, throughout every part of the island. Admirable as were his laws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents of every description, there was no security for the working of his system so good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people. The same love which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort at home. There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eager to catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasures was unwitnessed intercourse with his family.
At length, when Hédouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud from another—when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain—it seemed to be time for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, to enjoy a little of it himself. He allowed his children, therefore, to fix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round the little island of Gonaïves, which was a beautiful object from the windows of the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.
The excursion had answered completely. General Vincent, leaving the south of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived to enjoy his honours in the presence of L’Ouverture and his family. Madame Dessalines had come over from Saint Marc. As Afra was of the party, Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a few hours. Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paul himself. He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he was sent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him; and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duck and drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where he was, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport. It was a day too soon gone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed at Pongaudin, at ten o’clock. The moon was high, the gardens looked lovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloys of the shrubbery.
“I want to know what you think,” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture, as they emerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay, clear and strong—“I want to ask you”—and as she spoke, she looked round to see that no one was at hand—“whether you do not think that General Vincent loves Aimée.”
“I think he does. I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it.”
“And are not you glad?”
“That partly depends on whether Aimée loves him. I doubt whether Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the matter as you are.”
“Aimée is not one who will ever show herself too ready— Aimée is very quiet—”
“Well, but, is she ready in her heart? Does she care about Vincent?”
“I do not know that she does quite, yet—though I think she likes him very much, too. But surely she will love him—she must love him—so much as he loves her—and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is, in every way!”
“You think it so.”
“Why, do not you? Consider how many years we have known him, and what confidence you had in him when you sent him with our dear boys to Paris! And now he has done great things in the south. He comes, covered with glory, to ask us for our Aimée. What could be more flattering?”
“It was our child’s future happiness that I was thinking of, when I seemed to doubt. Vincent is full of good qualities; but he is so wholly French that—”
“Not so French as Monsieur Pascal, who was born, brought up, and employed at Paris; and you are pleased that he should marry Afra.”
“Vincent is more French than Pascal, though he is a black. He is devoted to Bonaparte—”
“What of that?” said Madame L’Ouverture, after a pause. “He is devoted to you also. And are you not yourself devoted to France and to Bonaparte? Do we not pray together for him every day of our lives?”
“Remember, Margot, to pray for him every day, as long as you live, if I am separated from you by death or otherwise. Pray that such a blessing may rest upon him as that he may be wise to see his duty, and strong to do it. If he injures us, pray that he may be forgiven.”
“I will,” replied Margot, in a low voice; “but—”
She was lost in considering what this might mean.
“As for Vincent,” resumed Toussaint, “my doubt is whether, with his views and tastes, he ought to ally himself with a doomed man.”
“Vincent is ambitious, my dear husband; and, even if he did not love our child as he does, he might be anxious to ally himself with one so powerful—so full of honours—with so very great a man as you. I would not speak exactly so if we were not alone: but it is very true, now that the Central Assembly has declared you supreme in the colony. Consider what Vincent must think of that! And he has travelled so much in the island, that he must have seen how you deserve all that is said of you. He has seen how all the runaways have come down from the mountains, and the pirates in from the reefs and the coves; and how they are all honestly cultivating the fields, and fishing in the bays. He has seen how rich the whole island is growing; and how contented, and industrious, and honest, the people are, in this short time. He has seen that all this is your work: and he may well be ambitious to be your son-in-law.”
“Unless he has the foresight to perceive, with all this, that I am a doomed man.”
“I thought you said so—I thought I heard that word before,” said Margot, in a trembling voice; “but I could not believe it.”
Toussaint knew by her tone that some vague idea of evil agency—some almost forgotten superstition was crossing her imagination: and he hastened to explain.
“Do not imagine,” said he, solemnly, “do not for a moment suppose that God is not on our side—that He will for a moment forsake us. But it is not always His pleasure that His servants should prosper, though their good work prospers in the end. I firmly trust and believe that our Father will not permit us to be made slaves again; but it may be His will that I and others should fall in defending our freedom.”
“But the wars are at an end. Your battles are all over, my love.”
“How can we be sure of that, when Bonaparte has yet to learn what the Assembly has done? Hédouville is on the way home, eager to report of the blacks, while he is ignorant of their minds, and prejudiced about their conduct. Monsieur Papalier and other planters are at Paris, at the ear of Bonaparte, while his ear is already so quickened by jealousy, that it takes in the lightest whisper against me and my race. How can we say that my battles are over, love, when every new success and honour makes this man, who ought to be my brother, yet more my foe?”
“Oh, write to him! Write to him, and tell him how you would have him be a brother to you!”
“Have I not written twice, and had no reply but neglect? I wrote to him to announce the earliest prospect of entire peace. I wrote again, to explain my intercourse with his agent Roume, and requested his sanction of what I had done. There has been no reply.”
“Then write again. Write this very night!”
“I wrote yesterday, to inform him fully concerning the new constitution framed by the Assembly. I told him that it should be put in force provisionally, till the pleasure of his government is made known.”
“Oh, then, that must bring an answer.”
Toussaint was silent.
“He must send some sort of answer to that,” pursued Margot. “What answer do you think it will be?”
“You remember the great eagle that I shot, when we lived under the mountains, Margot? Do you remember how the kids played in the pasture, with the shadow of that huge eagle floating above them?”
Margot, trembling, pressed closer to her husband’s side.
“You saw to-day,” he continued, “that troop of gay dolphins, in the smooth sea beyond the island. You saw the shark, with its glaring eyes, opening its monstrous jaws, as it rose near the pretty creatures, and hovered about them.”
“But you shot the eagle,” cried Margot; “and Denis wounded the shark.”
“Heaven only knows how it may end with us,” said Toussaint; “but we have the shadow of Bonaparte’s jealousy over us, and danger all about us. The greater our prosperity, the more certain is it to bring all France down upon us.”
“Oh, can Bonaparte be so cruel?”
“I do not blame him for this our danger; and any future woe must all go to the account of our former slavery. We negroes are ignorant, and have been made loose, deceitful, and idle, by slavery. The whites have been made tyrannical and unjust, by being masters. They believe us now ambitious, rebellious, and revengeful, because it would be no wonder if we were so. All this injustice comes of our former slavery. God forbid that I should be unjust too, and lay the blame where it is not due! For nothing done or feared in Saint Domingo do I blame Bonaparte.”
“Then you think—Oh! say you think there is no danger for Placide and Isaac. Bonaparte is so kind to them! Surely Placide and Isaac can be in no danger!”
“There is no fear for their present safety, my love.”
Toussaint would not for the world have told of his frequent daily thought and nightly dream, as to what might be the fate of these hostages, deliberately sent to France, and deliberately left there now. He would not subject himself to entreaties respecting their return which he dared not listen to, now that their recall would most certainly excite suspicions of the fidelity of the blacks. Not to save his children would L’Ouverture do an act to excite or confirm any distrust of his people.
“Bonaparte is kind to them, as you say, Margot. And if Vincent should win our Aimée, that will be another security for the lads; for no one doubts his attachment to France.”
“I hope Vincent will win her. But when will you send for the boys? They have been gone very long. When will you send?”
“As soon as affairs will allow. Do not urge me, Margot. I think of it day and night.”
“Then there is some danger. You would not speak so if there were not. Oh! my husband! marry Vincent to Aimée! You say that will be a security.”
“We must not forget Aimée herself, my love. If she should hereafter find her heart torn between her lover and her parents—if the hour should come for every one here to choose between Bonaparte and me, and Vincent should still adore the First of the Whites, what will become of the child of the First of the Blacks? Ought not her parents to have foreseen such a struggle?”
“Alas! what is to become of us all, Toussaint?”
“Perhaps Génifrède is the happiest of our children, Margot. She looks anxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heart will be at rest.”
“It never will,” said. Margot, mournfully. “I think there is some evil influence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear. She still fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing. She enjoys nothing, except when Moyse is by her side.”
“Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.—I was proud of him, Margot, last week, at Cap. I know his military talents, from the day when we used to call the boy General Moyse. I saw by his eye, when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered those old days on the north shore. Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents in that direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of another kind. You know what a passionate lover he is.”
“Yes, indeed. Never did I see such a lover!”
“Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation of the hour, whatever it may be.”
“Do you mean that he forgets Génifrède, when he is away from her?”
“I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him in his work. I’m sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him about home, which made him very happy. If I were to see him failing, as we once feared he would—if I saw him yielding to his passions—to the prejudices and passions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be, ‘You forget Génifrède.’ Moyse has yet much to learn—and much to overcome; yet I look upon Génifrède as perhaps the most favoured of our children. It is so great a thing to be so beloved!”
“It is indeed the greatest thing.” Margot stopped, as a turn in the walk brought them in view of the house. The long ranges of verandah stood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of the neighbouring trees. Every window of the large white mansion gave out a stream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery shining of the moon. “This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married, Toussaint. Yet I was quite happy and contented. It is indeed the greatest thing to be loved.”
“And have you not that greatest thing here too? Do I not love you, my Margot?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then—in that single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against the wall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before the door. But, Toussaint, look at the difference now! Look at this beautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces—and think of our palace at Port-au-Prince—and think of the girls as they look at church, or in the boat to-day—and how the country is up, rejoicing, wherever you go—and how the Assembly consider you—think of all that has happened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda! It is so fine—so wonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that can happen. I am sure the blessing of God is upon you, my husband; and you shall not make me afraid.”
“I would have none be afraid while God reigns, Margot. May you ever say that you will not fear! The blessing of God may be on us now, love; but it was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda. When I lay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many things I used to think of to say to you when I came home!”
“And so did I, as I kneeled at my washing by the brook-side, and you were driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home in the evening. How much there was to say at the end of those days!”
“It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to what we are. We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gathering plantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in these shrubberies. We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in this mansion, or in our palace. It is not for our own sakes that we have been so raised.”
“It is pleasant for our children.”
“It is. And it is good for our race. It is to make us their servants. Oh! Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart, remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it would not matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now. It is because we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state are necessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humble us.”
“I am sure you are not fond of show and state. You eat and drink, and wait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the only fine dress you like to wear. I am sure you had rather have no court.”
“Very true. I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake of the negroes who need it. To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we must make sacrifices—perhaps some which you may little dream of, while looking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children, worshipped as they are. We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice into all our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sake of the blacks. The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrow then!”
“I wish not to be proud,” said Margot, trembling—“I pray that I may not be proud; but it is difficult—Hark! there is a footstep! Let us turn into this alley.”
“Nay,” said Toussaint; “it is Monsieur Pascal. No doubt I am wanted.”
“For ever wanted!” exclaimed Margot. “No peace!”
“It was not so at Breda,” said Toussaint, smiling. “I was just speaking of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon will shine.—News, Monsieur Pascal?”
“News from Cap,” replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. “Bad news! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost.”
“There is light enough,” said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight fell upon the page.
While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L’Ouverture that messengers had brought news of a quarrel at Cap—a quarrel between the races, unhappily, about Hédouville’s proclamation again;—a quarrel in which several whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whites were crying out for vengeance.
“No peace, as you say, Margot,” observed Toussaint, when he had run over the letters. “See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people require! The curse of slavery is still upon us.”
“How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?”
“I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing,” said Toussaint gloomily. “Monsieur Pascal—”
“Your horses are coming round,” said Pascal, “and I shall be there almost as soon as you.”
“Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to follow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Génifrède. Farewell!”
As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw Génifrède standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found her cold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that she might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might be able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once more he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.
Again and again Aimée looked timidly forth, to see if she might venture to approach her sister. Once Madame L’Ouverture went to her, and once Thérèse; but she would say nothing but “Leave me!” From her they went to Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject their consolations. The night wore on wearily and drearily. When the moon set, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, Madame L’Ouverture went once more to Génifrède, determined to take her to her own chamber, and win her to open her heart. But Génifrède was not there, nor in her chamber. The mother’s terror was great, till a cultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L’Ouverture had gone a journey, on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her. Denis’s bed was indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables. They had fled to Moyse, no doubt. The hope was that they might fall in with Father Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back. There was another road, however: and by this road Thérèse declared that she would follow.
“Yes, yes—go!” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture. “She will heed you, if any one. She thinks you understand her. She says—”
“She loves me,” said Thérèse, sighing, “because—I hardly know—but Heaven forgive me, if it be as she says!”
“She says you hate the whites,” declared Aimée. “If it be so, may indeed Heaven forgive you! Moyse hates the whites: and you see how wretched we are!”
“Aimée, do not be hard. We are made to love—my heart inclines to all who are about me:—but if there are some—if one cannot—Oh, Aimée, do not be hard!”
“It is those who hate who are hard,” said Aimée, whose tears fell fast, in sympathy with Afra’s. “Is it not so, Afra?”
“Well, I will go,” said Thérèse, gently. “One kiss, Aimée, for Génifrède’s sake!”
“For your own,” said Aimée, tenderly embracing her. “Bring back poor Génifrède! Tell her we will devote ourselves to her.”
“Bring back my child,” said Margot. “Be sure you tell her that there may be good news yet. Moyse may have explanations to give;—he may do great things yet.”
These words renewed Afra’s weeping, in the midst of which Thérèse hastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to their chambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.