# Atalanta in the South/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI.
The Carnival was at hand, and the city was tingling with curiosity and expectation of the pranks the revellers were preparing to perpetrate. Practical jokes of the most complex nature were brewing in the minds of men whose age and occupation might in other parts of the world have precluded the possibility of their taking part in such frivolous amusement. Canal Street was crowded with shoppers, flaneurs, and loafers of all degrees, from the gentlemen congregated about the steps of the Club-house to the knot of unaccountables at the street corner. Nowhere in the world does the verb "to loaf" exist in so many tenses as in New Orleans; not dreamy Venice, nor sunny Naples itself, can excel the Crescent City in the number of its loafers or the quality of its loafing. It is an art, indeed, to loaf well and elegantly, so that the action is without irritating effect upon work-driven unfortunates, or repellantly suggestive of the waste of time to those who by nature resemble that tiresome, overrated insect, the busy bee.
​Ask this same hard-working honey-bee if he would n't like to be a drone if he could. I warrant he would jump, or fly, or buzz, or do whatever a bee does to express pleasure at the chance to change places with the favored attendant of the queen-bee.
One evening, when Canal Street was even more crowded with loafers than is its wont, two persons, who seemed to have some definite object in being abroad, took their way down this wide thoroughfare, the main artery through which the city's life-blood pulsates. Philip Rondelet and his companion, Margaret Ruysdale, would gladly have joined the throng of wayfarers loitering through the street; but as neither ventured to make the suggestion, they followed the programme they had marked out for the evening. Leaving the gay highway, they turned into a narrow alley which led through one of the poorest quarters of the town. There were no street-lamps here, only an occasional lantern swinging before the door of some dealer in liquors or small wares. At the corner of a cross street they paused for a moment, attracted by the interior of a small shop where a bright light was flaring. Heaps of vegetables and fruit were piled against the walls, and from the darkened rafters hung bunches of herbs and red peppers. A fire burned on the hearth, over which a pot ​was suspended by a rusty iron chain. A woman with a red handkerchief drawn over her head was superintending the cooking. She was no longer young, but showed traces of beauty in the outlines of her face and figure. She was of a Spanish type; but that her blood was not unmixed with that of an inferior race was evident from the too deep olive of the skin and the closely curling hair. A man sat near her on the counter engaged in sharpening a knife on a small grindstone. It was a harmless knife, fit only for the paring of vegetables; but in the hands of the red-shirted dago it seemed to lose its innocent character, his fierce dark face was so intent upon his work, his strong bare arm looked as if it could wield a more dangerous blade so effectively. The two were listening to a third person, who completed the group, a woman who might have been sister or daughter to her of the red handkerchief, judging from her profile. In a moment she turned to the man, who was delicately testing the blade of his knife upon his fingers; and as she moved toward him, the full light, falling upon her, revealed a white, eager face, framed in heavy black hair and marked by straight dark eyebrows. The resemblance had vanished; there could be no kinship surely between this tall young woman, with her white jewelled hands and simple mourning robe of ​modish design and the quadroon woman with her rough companion; and yet the eyes of all three had a curious resemblance, rising slightly at the corners, their color a deep fiery brown that was not without a tinge of red. The younger woman was evidently appealing to the man, for he shook his head and made a sign of dissent, shaking the forefinger of his right hand, and then setting to work on his knife again. The elder woman said something, in a language unknown to Margaret, in a soothing tone. The younger one answered passionately and with a despairing gesture.
"Theresita, be quiet; let 's hear no more about killing," said the man in a hoarse undertone. "Have n't you seen enough of that sort of business yet?"
The two in the street had paused outside, attracted by the picturesque interior, with its three striking figures. At these significant words Margaret started and turned to go. Rondelet stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed upon Therese, in whom he recognized the heroine of that strange adventure at the old duelling-ground.
Margaret touched him. "Come away," she whispered, appealingly.
Philip started, drew her arm through his own, and hurried her from the place, looking back over his shoulder as he walked.
​"What did it all mean?" she asked presently.
"God knows, my child. Promise me to forget it,—never to think of it or speak of it again."
"I can never forget that woman's face; I will not speak of it."
"I had no right to bring you through such a neighborhood. Ah, here is your church at last."
They entered a large square meeting-house, before which were flaring several pine-wood torches. Half a dozen blacks were loafing about the entrance; but the love-feast was too attractive to permit of many of the congregation's loitering outside the church. Margaret and Rondelet took their seats just as the preacher rose to his feet. He was a mulatto, with a clever face and a certain magnetism which made itself felt as soon as he opened his lips. The words of his text were, "The man that is perfect in his dealings, it is not a hard matter for him to get a living in this world. Therefore be perfect in all your dealings; and to be perfect you must be of one mind."
"The Apostle Paul says, 'Be of one mind.' Week after week you have a little preacher that stands here talking to you; what is he for? To get all your hearts centred on one thing,—the grace of God, that you may live again in peace, that you may be of one mind. That is the question, that is the question,—of one mind. ​Would it not be a good plan to be of one mind to take hold of a rope? You have seen men pulling on a cable. All get on the rope. If all pull one way, they move a great weight. But suppose one turns his face another way: they won't move much. Now in a class-meeting, if we are of one mind, and that mind the salvation of men's souls, can we not do a great work? Jesus says you can move a mountain. You can ask God for any service; you can ask God to convert any young man. He will do it.
"What a great comfort it is when a young man or woman who desires his salvation may come and see there are so many prayers going up in their behalf. God will answer prayer. God will take the sinner out of his own ways; 'he will place a new song in his mouth.'
"Any person that don't pray, can't be comfortable. By praying, a man or woman in the dark hours of midnight feels comforted when he wrestles with God. Some of you have witnessed this. Waking up in the night,—you get up in the dark, you wrestle with God in a sorrow and prayer, and he answers your prayer. You feel comfort in the Holy Spirit. But a person that don't pray can't feel comfortable. Ask a sinner man or sinner woman, ask him if a pain strikes him; he is not comfortable. But the child of God can bear the pain with comfort. The first ​thing his mind calls on is his Jesus. The first thing that strikes the sinner is God's judgment,—'I have offended God, I am troubled!' And for that poor sinner, if I can sing in his ears, there is good comfort. Live in peace; the God of love and peace shall be with you. Don't you want this peace? Don't you want a perfect body,—perfect before man, perfect before God? If there is anything the Old Man hates, it is to see a young man stand up and say he is going to be free. There is a little fear of Catholics in the second order going wrong, because they give a penalty on you; but in God's Church you are so free you let the penalty fall on your souls. Be perfect in your dealings, be true to one another; then it will be the consequence: the God of love and peace shall be with you, if you be perfect in these meetings. I have no fault to find; I can find fault after fault if I want. The best man that ever lived has done some fault; but the man that is perfect,—the man that is perfect in his dealings,—it is not a hard matter for him to get a living in the world. Be perfect in all your dealings; and to be perfect you must be of one mind. And in the next world, oh, my beloved sisters and brothers, we will part no more! There will be comfort and happiness, and the day of wrestling with God will be past, when we get to heaven, when we get to heaven!"
​The minister had begun his discourse quietly and fervently; but as he spoke he became more animated. His voice was of a sonorous quality and of unusual capacity. As he drew near to the close of his address he was frequently interrupted by cries of "Glory, glory! That 's so! Oh, my soul! Poor sinners!" These ejaculations acted as stimulants to the preacher, and his voice now grew soft and thrilling, and again pealed forth like a trumpet-blast. As he repeated the line, "When we get to heaven we will part no more," his body began to sway rhythmically to the words, and he spread out his arms toward the people. At the signal the congregation took up the words and chanted them to the monotonous music of one of their simplest hymns,—
"When we git to heaben, we will part no mo',
When we git to heaben, we will part no mo'."
The music grew louder, and was accompanied by a gentle rapping of time with the hands and feet and a metrical swaying of the body. The old men and women in the front seats, the church dignitaries seated either side of the preacher, the younger people, who occupied the centre of the church, and the children and lovers, who lurked in the shadow near the door, all joined the chorus, swaying slowly from side to side with dreamy, sensuous faces,—
"When we get to heaben, we will part no mo',
When we get to heaben, we will part no mo'."
Margaret unconsciously lifted her voice and took up the chant,
"When we get to heaven, we will part no more."
Her pulse seemed to beat out the measure, and her lithe body swayed in time with those of the men and women about her. The music and the emotion aroused by it seemed to have intoxicated the dusky crowd; and it was when this excitement was at its height that the minister with a gesture silenced the music he had led them into.
"My friends, it is good to praise the Lord with hymns and rejoicings, but it is better to praise him with your acts. How is the church supported? how is its ministers and its deacons paid? By your acts of praise. Now the requisite sum needed for the salary of the elder deacon is fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents, and to-night I must see that fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents raised. Come, now, the Lord will help you; give bravely, give freely. The money in your pockets is ready to come out; give it with a free hand and a willing heart. Walk up this way, the brothers are waiting for you."
Four of the deacons, holding baskets in their hands, stood beside the pastor, and a fifth ​appointed dignitary taking his ragged hat in his hand held it out for contributions. The people filed down and dropped their money in the baskets, the ragged hat getting quite its share of the offering. The man who held it was of the coarsest African type. His ugly face was disfigured by many scars; but the expression of the creature was so full of a kindly humor that it was impossible to look into it without experiencing a responsive kindliness. The minister's speech had been unusually pure; this fellow spoke with the strongest negro brogue.
"Come, brudder Long, dat nickel is a jumpin' to git out of yer pocket! Step up dis way, young fellahs, step up and help de Lord! Nelly, Nelly, can't yo gib de Lord mor 'n a dime? yo' as gets so big wages—de Lord knows jest what yer gib him to-night, and don't yer forget it. Come up, come up; fill de ole hat. If we make up de fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents, I 'll buy a new hat for de next Sabbath."
His face and manner would have been better suited to a minstrel show than to a prayer-meeting, yet he was so earnest that he moved the people. The old hat was filled twice over with silver; but when the money was counted, it was found to be a dollar and a half short of the requisite sum.
​"Take this up," whispered Margaret to a young negro near her; and the fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents were thus made complete.
"Did you ever see that rascal with the cap before?" whispered Rondelet.
"No, I think not."
"It's my boy Hero, the greatest scamp I know. That woman with a baby is his sister Leander. They were twins, and the minister who christened them got their names mixed, and the mistake was never corrected. They belonged to my father."
Now that the elder deacon's salary was provided for, the singing began in good earnest. The pastor, whose restraining hand had checked the song just at the generous stage of exaltation, by way of reward gave the rein to his parishioners. The music grew more and more impressive, interrupted as it was by deep groans and excited exclamations. In a pause of the hymn the minister asked, "Where is the miserable sinner?" He was echoed by Hero, who groaned as if with acute pain.
"Ay! ay! Where is he? Let him speak!"
"Here, here, here!" was answered from all parts of the church.
"Let him show himself," said the pastor.
"Show yerself, stand up dar; de Lord sees yer," cried Hero.
​Three or four young men and as many women rose to their feet in different parts of the building.
"Oh, my poor sinners, we all have been sinners too, and may be yet again; we will pray for you that the day of grace be not far off."
"Pray for de poor sinners," moaned Hero; "I 'se a sinner myself; dis congregation may not see de sin, but de Lord knows it, and de Lord 's a helpin' me to wash dis sin away,—
"Oh, wash dis sin from off my soul, wash me!"
The people, always more prone to sing than to listen to prayer, caught up the song, and the rude music silenced the minister's voice,—
"Oh, wash dis sin from off my soul, wash me!"
The minister had no further opportunity to speak, for the singing continued without interruption till the hour came for breaking up. When the benediction was pronounced, a period of social intercourse followed. An old woman with snow-white hair and piercing black eyes offered her hand to Margaret. At this Rondelet interfered, and drew her from the church, silent and full of thought.
As they walked home together through the moonlit streets, Philip told her of his foster-brother Hero, always his friend, once his chattel, ​now his servant. He was a little older than Philip, and the scars on his ugly black face had been inflicted by the flames from which he had saved his master when they were both children. "We have never been separated, Hero and I," said Philip. "We have seen some hard times together, but he never would leave me in my worst straits. Once while I was ill in Paris Hero stole money to buy me medicine and food. I think he would die for me without hesitation."
Returning home, they found General Ruysdale waiting for them on the veranda. Philip soon took his leave, and the father and daughter walked together in the small garden. "Is not Rondelet rather a weak man, Margaret? He impresses me so." The General was beginning to be rather uneasy as day by day Rondelet and Margaret seemed to grow more and more in sympathy with each other. He was suffering for the first time that jealousy which is not the least painful one,—the jealousy of a father regarding a possible lover.
"I hardly know, papa."
"I always have a distrust of men with such voices."
His daughter answered slowly, "He is very different from our men, certainly."
"He is a thoroughly good fellow, I believe; ​but I wish his voice was not quite so silvery," demurred the General.
"Why," said Margaret, "his most ordinary remark when he speaks to a woman is like a caress."
"I don't know, Margaret; it does n't seem quite manly to me to be so soft-spoken."
"To treat women as he does? Oh, papa, I think it is the most manly thing in the world to be gentle to women!"
She was a little indignant at her father.
"But do you not think him a little weak?" he persisted.
"Yes, and no. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he might pass a duty by or shirk a responsibility through indolence; but there is the stuff of which martyrs are made in Philip Rondelet. He would go to the stake without a tremor for—for—"
"For the sake of the woman he loved?"
"For conscience' sake!"
Brave words these, pleasant, one might think, to the ears of any man when pronounced by such a firm, sweet voice, words that might make many a man lift his head high with conscious pride at having inspired the belief they expressed in so true a woman.
Philip Rondelet, passing the rear of the house on his way to Jackson Square, caught their ​import, paused for a moment, threw away his scarce lighted cigarette, lifted his hat, as if in salutation, though the street was empty, and walked on, his head bowed, his nervous hands idly bending his light stick.
General Ruysdale was certainly jealous of Philip. He had confided to Mrs. Harden, to whose charms he had long since fallen a victim, his doubts of the wisdom of Margaret's seeing so much of the handsome doctor. The lady—Philip's stanch friend and ally—queried why the same objection could not be urged against Feuardent. "Robert Feuardent is a child beside Margaret," answered the General. "His mind is perfectly undeveloped; he doesn't know the difference between a statue and a bas-relief. I doubt if he ever heard of Michael Angelo. He poses for her, and she amuses herself with him, as she does with that animated plaything, my rival, General Jackson. The one is quite as harmless as the other."
"I do not agree with you, sir," replied Mrs. Harden.
"But, my dear madam, what possible interest could my daughter and that young Creole have in common? She knows nothing about horses beyond their anatomy, and he, pardon me, seems to know about very little else."
"General, you misjudge young Feuardent. If ​I had a daughter, I should consider him a dangerous associate for her."
"My dear Mrs. Harden, you do not know my daughter."
"My very dear General, I know her a great deal better than you do; and it is my belief that while Margaret knows more of art and is a better sculptor than she has any right to be at her age, it is at the expense of much useful knowledge of men and women. Of their effect upon each other, of character, and of real life she is as ignorant as a child."
Stuart Ruysdale, whose love for his daughter was almost as deep as his pride in her work, was annoyed at what her friend had said. He comforted himself, however, with the belief that Mrs. Harden had failed to understand the girl.
"And even if so," continued Mrs. Harden, somewhat inconsequently, "why not? Why should n't Margaret fall in love like everybody else? I don't suppose, General, that you are going to pledge your daughter to single unblessedness?"
"N-n-no, not that," said the General, doubtfully, prolonging the nasal sound of the n; "n-not that exactly. I should not wish to influence her in that respect; but it is a great question in my mind whether she would not be happier to remain as she is."
​"I think you are wrong. It seems to be necessary for women to marry for the full development of their minds. After thirty an unmarried woman's brain rarely gets any new creases." Mrs. Harden spoke with an air of conviction, and rumpled her pretty yellow hair in a distracting fashion, as was her habit on those rare occasions when by some accident she fell into talking seriously, if not sensibly. "You see," she continued, "you can't get something for nothing. Of course, men are inferior creatures, and I quite agree with you in thinking that there is not one born who is good enough for Margaret. But what will you have? There is certainly more badness than goodness in the world. If you want to live in the world, the better you know it the more easily you get along in it. Men are bad; argal, to know the world you must understand men. You must regard your future son-in-law"—the General winced—"you must regard your son-in-law, I say," she repeated maliciously, "as a sort of necessary evil for the education of your daughter."
"Your views respecting us men are rather harsh."
"Of course I am,—at least I mean they are; but my practice is so different from my views. I think that man is a degree below woman in evolution, that he is an inferior animal, that ​mentally as well as physically he is a less complex and less wonderful being than his mate. I say I think all this quite honestly and seriously; and yet I avoid my kind invariably, and consort on all occasions with the inferior human male, who, remember, I believe to have been created to do all the disagreeable work in the world for us women,—to keep the streets clean, govern the city, hang the murderers, make the laws, pay the butcher, and fight the battles."
With this exposition of Mrs. Harden's views concerning the sphere of man, the conversation came to an end.