 | CHAPTER XXIII.
HENRIQUE. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
HENRIQUE.
About this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with his eldest
son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at
the lake.
No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of
these twin brothers. Nature, instead of instituting resemblances
between them, had made them opposites on every
point; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite them in a closer
friendship than ordinary.
They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys
and walks of the garden. Augustine, with his blue eyes
and golden hair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious
features; and Alfred, dark-eyed, with haughty Roman profile,
firmly-knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always
abusing each other's opinions and practices, and yet never a
whit the less absorbed in each other's society; in fact, the
very contrariety seemed to unite them, like the attraction
between opposite poles of the magnet.
Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed,
princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit; and, from the first
moment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by
the spirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline.
Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was
easy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress; and this
pony was now brought up to the back verandah by Tom,
black Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great
expense, for Henrique.
Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession; and, as
he advanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little
groom, he looked carefully over him, and his brow darkened.
“What 's this, Dodo, you little lazy dog! you have n't
rubbed my horse down, this morning.”
“Yes, Mas'r,” said Dodo, submissively; “he got that
dust on his own self.”
“You rascal, shut your mouth!” said Henrique, violently
raising his riding-whip. “How dare you speak?”
The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just
Henrique's size, and his curling hair hung round a high,
bold forehead. He had white blood in his veins, as could be
seen by the quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his
eye, as he eagerly tried to speak.
“Mas'r Henrique! —” he began.
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip,
and, seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and
beat him till he was out of breath.
“There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to
answer back when I speak to you? Take the horse back,
and clean him properly. I 'll teach you your place!”
“Young Mas'r,” said Tom, “I specs what he was gwine
to say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing
him up from the stable; he 's so full of spirits, — that 's the
way he got that dirt on him; I looked to his cleaning.”
“You hold your tongue till you 're asked to speak!” said
Henrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to
speak to Eva, who stood in her riding-dress.
“Dear Cousin, I 'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept you
they come. What 's the matter, Cousin? — you look sober.”
“How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo?”
said Eva.
“Cruel, — wicked!” said the boy, with unaffected surprise.
“What do you mean, dear Eva?”
“I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so,”
said Eva.
“Dear Cousin, you don't know Dodo; it 's the only way to
manage him, he 's so full of lies and excuses. The only way
is to put him down at once, — not let him open his mouth;
that 's the way papa manages.”
“But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never
tells what is n't true.”
“He 's an uncommon old nigger, then!” said Henrique.
“Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak.”
“You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so.”
“Why, Eva, you 've really taken such a fancy to Dodo,
that I shall be jealous.”
“But you beat him, — and he did n't deserve it.”
“O, well, it may go for some time when he does, and
don't get it. A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo, —
he 's a regular spirit, I can tell you; but I won't beat him
again before you, if it troubles you.”
Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make
her handsome cousin understand her feelings.
Dodo soon appeared, with the horses.
“Well, Dodo, you 've done pretty well, this time,” said his
young master, with a more gracious air. “Come, now, and
hold Miss Eva's horse, while I put her on to the saddle.”
Dodo came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was
troubled; his eyes looked as if he had been crying.
Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroitness
in all matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in
the saddle, and, gathering the reins, placed them in her
hands.
But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo
was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins, —
“That 's a good boy, Dodo; — thank you!”
Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face;
the blood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes.
“Here, Dodo,” said his master, imperiously.
Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted.
“There 's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo,”
said Henrique; “go get some.”
And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo
stood looking after the two children. One had given him
money; and one had given him what he wanted far more, —
a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few
months away from his mother. His master had bought him
at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match to
the handsome pony; and he was now getting his breaking in,
at the hands of his young master.
The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two
brothers St. Clare, from another part of the garden.
Augustine's cheek flushed; but he only observed, with his
usual sarcastic carelessness,
“I suppose that 's what we may call republican education,
Alfred?”
“Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood 's up,” said
Alfred, carelessly.
“I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for
him,” said Augustine, drily.
“I could n't help it, if I did n't. Henrique is a regular
ago. But, then, that Dodo is a perfect sprite, — no amount
of whipping can hurt him.”
“And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a
republican's cathecism, `All men are born free and equal!'”
“Poh!” said Alfred; “one of Tom Jefferson's pieces of
French sentiment and humbug. It 's perfectly ridiculous to
have that going the rounds among us, to this day.”
“I think it is,” said St. Clare, significantly.
“Because,” said Alfred, “we can see plainly enough that
all men are not born free, nor born equal; they are born
anything else. For my part, I think half this republican
talk sheer humbug. It is the educated, the intelligent, the
wealthy, the refined, who ought to have equal rights, and not
the canaille.”
“If you can keep the canaille of that opinion,” said
Augustine. “They took their turn once, in France.”
“Of course, they must be kept down, consistently,
steadily, as I should,” said Alfred, setting his foot hard
down, as if he were standing on somebody.
“It makes a terrible slip when they get up,” said Augustine,
— “in St. Domingo, for instance.”
“Poh!” said Alfred, “we 'll take care of that, in this
country. We must set our face against all this educating,
elevating talk, that is getting about now; the lower class
must not be educated.”
“That is past praying for,” said Augustine; “educated
they will be, and we have only to say how. Our system is
educating them in barbarism and brutality. We are breaking
all humanizing ties, and making them brute beasts; and,
if they get the upper hand, such we shall find them.”
“They never shall get the upper hand!” said Alfred.
“That's right,” said St. Clare; “put on the steam, fasten
down the escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you 'll
land.”
“Well,” said Alfred, “we will see. I 'm not afraid to
sit on the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and
the machinery works well.”
“The nobles in Louis XVI.'s time thought just so; and
Austria and Pius IX. think so now; and, some pleasant morning,
you may all be caught up to meet each other in the air,
when the boilers burst.”
“Dies declarabit,” said Alfred, laughing.
“I tell you,” said Augustine, “if there is anything that
is revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it
is that the masses are to rise, and the under class become
the upper one.”
“That 's one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine!
Why did n't you ever take to the stump; — you 'd
make a famous stump orator! Well, I hope I shall be dead
before this millennium of your greasy masses comes on.”
“Greasy or not greasy, they will govern you, when their
time comes,” said Augustine; “and they will be just such
rulers as you make them. The French noblesse chose to
have the people `sans culottes,' and they had `sans culotte'
governors to their hearts' content. The people of Hayti—”
“O, come, Augustine! as if we had n't had enough of that
abominable, contemptible Hayti! The Haytiens were not
Anglo Saxons; if they had been, there would have been
another story. The Anglo Saxon is the dominant race of the
world, and is to be so.”
“Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo Saxon
blood among our slaves, now,” said Augustine. “There are
plenty among them who have only enough of the African to
firmness and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour
comes, Anglo Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of
white fathers, with all our haughty feelings burning in their
veins, will not always be bought and sold and traded. They
will rise, and raise with them their mother's race.”
“Stuff! — nonsense!”
“Well,” said Augustine, “there goes an old saying to
this effect, `As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be; —
they ate, they drank, they planted, they builded, and knew
not till the flood came and took them.'”
“On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do
for a circuit rider,” said Alfred, laughing. “Never you
fear for us; possession is our nine points. We 've got the
power. This subject race,” said he, stamping firmly, “is
down, and shall stay down! We have energy enough to
manage our own powder.”
“Sons trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians
of your powder-magazines,” said Augustine, — “so cool and
self-possessed! The proverb says, `They that cannot govern
themselves cannot govern others.'”
“There is a trouble there,” said Alfred, thoughtfully;
“there 's no doubt that our system is a difficult one to train
children under. It gives too free scope to the passions, altogether,
which, in our climate, are hot enough. I find trouble
with Henrique. The boy is generous and warm-hearted, but
a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I shall send
him North for his education, where obedience is more fashionable,
and where he will associate more with equals, and less
with dependants.”
“Since training children is the staple work of the human
consideration that our system does not work well there.”
“It does not for some things,” said Alfred; “for others,
again, it does. It makes boys manly and courageous; and
the very vices of an abject race tend to strengthen in them
the opposite virtues. I think Henrique, now, has a keener
sense of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and deception
the universal badge of slavery.”
“A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly!” said
Augustine.
“It 's true, Christian-like or not; and is about as Christian-like
as most other things in the world,” said Alfred.
“That may be,” said St. Clare.
“Well, there 's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe
we 've been round and round this old track five hundred
times, more or less. What do you say to a game of backgammon?”
The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were
soon seated at a light bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board
between them. As they were setting their men, Alfred
said,
“I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should
do something.”
“I dare say you would, — you are one of the doing sort, —
but what?”
“Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen,” said
Alfred, with a half-scornful smile.
“You might as well set Mount Ætna on them flat, and tell
them to stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants
under all the superincumbent mass of society upon them.
One man can do nothing, against the whole action of a community.
Education, to do anything, must be a state education;
“You take the first throw,” said Alfred; and the brothers
were soon lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping
of horses' feet was heard under the verandah.
“There come the children,” said Augustine, rising. “Look
here, Alf! Did you ever see anything so beautiful?” And,
in truth, it was a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold
brow, and dark, glossy curls, and glowing cheek, was laughing
gayly, as he bent towards his fair cousin, as they came on.
She was dressed in a blue riding-dress, with a cap of the
same color. Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks,
and heightened the effect of her singularly transparent skin,
and golden hair.
“Good heavens! what perfectly dazzling beauty!” said
Alfred. “I tell you, Auguste, won't she make some hearts
ache, one of these days?”
“She will, too truly, — God knows I 'm afraid so!” said St.
Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to
take her off her horse.
“Eva, darling! you 're not much tired?” he said, as he
clasped her in his arms.
“No, papa,” said the child; but her short, hard breathing
alarmed her father.
“How could you ride so fast, dear? — you know it 's bad
for you.”
“I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot.”
St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor, and laid
her on the sofa.
“Henrique, you must be careful of Eva,” said he; “you
must n't ride fast with her.”
“I 'll take her under my care,” said Henrique, seating
himself by the sofa, and taking Eva's hand.
Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle
resumed their game, and the children were left together.
“Do you know, Eva, I 'm so sorry papa is only going to
stay two days here, and then I shan't see you again for ever
so long! If I stay with you, I 'd try to be good, and not be
cross to Dodo, and so on. I don't mean to treat Dodo ill;
but, you know, I 've got such a quick temper. I 'm not
really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now and
then; and you see he dresses well. I think, on the whole,
Dodo 's pretty well off.”
“Would you think you were well off, if there were not
one creature in the world near you to love you?”
“I? — Well, of course not.”
“And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he
ever had, and now he has not a creature to love him; — nobody
can be good that way.”
“Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his
mother, and I can't love him myself, nor anybody else, as I
know of.”
“Why can't you?” said Eva.
“Love Dodo! Why, Eva, you would n't have me! I
may like him well enough; but you don't love your servants.”
“I do, indeed.”
“How odd!”
“Don't the Bible say we must love everybody?”
“O, the Bible! To be sure, it says a great many such
things; but, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them, — you
know, Eva, nobody does.”
Eva did not speak; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful, for
a few moments.
“At any rate,” she said, “dear Cousin, do love poor Dodo,
and be kind to him, for my sake!”
“I could love anything, for your sake, dear Cousin; for I
really think you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw!”
And Henrique spoke with an earnestness that flushed his
handsome face. Eva received it with perfect simplicity, without
even a change of feature; merely saying, “I 'm glad you
feel so, dear Henrique! I hope you will remember.”
The dinner-bell put an end to the interview.
| CHAPTER XXIII.
HENRIQUE. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |