University of Virginia Library

THE INDIAN WIFE.

Tahmiroo was the daughter of a powerful
Sioux chieftain; and she was the only being
ever known to turn the relentless old man
from a savage purpose. Something of this
influence was owing to her infantile beauty;
but more to the gentleness of which that
beauty was the emblem. Her's was a species

of loveliness rare among Indian girls. Her
figure had the flexile grace so appropriate to
protected and dependant women in refined
countries; her ripe pouting lip, and dimpled
cheek, wore the pleading air of aggrieved
childhood; and her dark eye had such an
habitual expression of timidity and fear, that
the Young Sioux called her the “Startled
Fawn.” I know not whether her father's
broad lands, or her own appealing beauty,
was the most powerful cause of admiration;
but certain it is, Tahmiroo was the unrivalled
belle of the Sioux. She was a creature all
formed for love. Her down-cast eye, her
trembling lip, and her quiet, submissive motion,
all spoke its language; yet various
young chieftains had in vain sought her affections,
and when her father urged her to
strengthen his power by an alliance, she
answered him only by her tears.

This state of things continued until 1765,
when a company of French traders came to
reside there, for the sake of deriving profit
from the fur trade. Among them was Florimond
de Rance, a young, indolent Adonis,

whom pure ennui had led from Quebec to the
Falls of St. Anthony. His fair, round face,
and studied foppery of dress, might have done
little towards gaining the heart of the gentle
Sioux; but there was a deference and courtesy
in his manner, which the Indians never
pay degraded woman; and Tahmiroo's deep
sensibilities were touched by it. A more
careful arrangement of her rude dress, and
anxiety to speak his language fluently, and a
close observance of his European customs,
soon betrayed the subtle power which was
fast making her its slave. The ready vanity
of the Frenchman quickly perceived it. At
first he encouraged it with that sort of undefined
pleasure which man always feels in
awakening strong affection in the hearts of
even the most insignificant. Then the idea
that, though an Indian, she was a princess,
and that her father's extensive lands on the
Missouri were daily becoming of more consequence
to his ambitious nation, led him to
think of marriage with her as a desirable object.
His eyes and his manner had said this,
long before the old chief began to suspect it;
and he allowed the wily Frenchman to twine
himself almost as closely around his heart, as
he had around the more yielding soul of his
darling child. Though exceedingly indolent
by nature, Florimond de Rance had acquired
skill in many graceful acts, which excited the
wonder of the savages.

He fenced well enough to foil the most expert
antagonist; and in hunting, his rifle was
sure to carry death to the game. These accomplishments,
and the facility with which
his pliant nation conform to the usages of
savage life, made him a universal favourite;
and, at his request, he was formally adopted
as one of the tribe. But conscious as he was
of his power, it was long before he dared to
ask for the daughter of the haughty chief.
When he did make the daring proposition, it
was received with a still and terrible wrath,
that might well fright him from his purpose.
Rage showed itself only in the swelling veins
and clenched hand of the old chief.

With the boasted coldness and self-possession
of an Indian, he answered, “There are
Sioux girls enough for the poor pale-faces

that come among us. A King's daughter
weds the son of a King. Eagles must sleep
in an eagle's nest.”

In vain Tahmiroo knelt and supplicated.
In vain she promised Florimond de Rance
would adopt all his enmities and all his friendships;
that in hunting, and in war, he would
be an invaluable treasure. The chief remained
inexorable. Then Tahmiroo no
longer joined in the dance, and the old man
noticed that her rich voice was silent, when
they passed her wigwam. The light of her
beauty began to fade, and the bright vermillion
current, which mantled under her brown
cheek, became sluggish and pale. The
languid glance she cast on the morning sun
and the bright earth, entered into her father's
soul. He could not see his beautiful child
thus gradually wasting away. He had long
averted his eyes whenever he saw Florimond
de Rance; but one day, when he
crossed his hunting path, he laid his hand on
his shoulder, and pointed to Tahmiroo's
dwelling. Not a word was spoken. The
proud old man and the blooming lover entered

it together. Tahmiroo was seated in
the darkest corner of the wigwam, her head
leaning on her hand, her basket-work tangled
beside her, and a bunch of flowers, the village
maidens had brought her, scattered and
withering at her feet.

The Chief looked upon her with a vehement
expression of love, which none but
stern countenances can wear. “Tahmiroo,”
he said, in a subdued tone, “go to the wigwam
of the stranger, that your father may
again see you love to look on the rising sun,
and the opening flowers.” There was mingled
joy and modesty in the upward glance
of the “Startled Fawn” of the Sioux; and
when Florimond de Rance saw the light of
her mild eye, suddenly and timidly veiled by
its deeply-fringed lid, he knew that he had
lost none of his power.

The marriage song was soon heard in the
royal wigwam, and the young adventurer became
the son of a King.

Months and years past on, and found Tahmiroo
the same devoted, submissive being.
Her husband no longer treated her with the

uniform gallantry of a lover. He was not
often harsh: but he adopted something of
the coldness and indifference of the nation
he had joined. Tahmiroo sometimes wept
in secret; but so much of fear had lately
mingled with her love, that she carefully
concealed her grief from him who had occasioned
it. When she watched his countenance,
with that pleading, innocent look,
which had always characterized her beauty,
she sometimes would obtain a glance such as
he had given her in her former days; and
then her heart would leap like a frolicsome
lamb, and she would live cheerfully on the
remembrance of that smile, through many
wearisome days of silence and neglect.
Never was woman, in her heart-breaking devotedness,
satisfied with such slight testimonials
of love, as was this gentle Sioux girl.
If Florimond chose to fish, she would herself
ply the oar, rather than he should suffer
fatigue; and the gaudy canoe her father had
given her, might often be seen gliding down
the stream, while Tahmiroo dipped her oar
in unison with her soft rich voice, and the
indolent Frenchman lay sunk in luxurious
repose. She had learned his religion; but
for herself she never prayed. The cross he
had given her was always raised in supplication
for him; and if he but looked unkindly
on her, she kissed it, and invoked its aid, in
agony of soul. She fancied the sound of his
native land might be dear to him; and she
studied his language with a patience and perseverance
to which the savage has seldom
been known to submit. She tried to imitate
the dresses she had heard him describe; and
if he looked with a pleased eye on any ornament
she wore, it was always reserved to
welcome his return. Yet, for all this lavishness
of love, she asked but kind, approving
looks, which cost the giver nothing. Alas,
for the perverseness of man, in scorning the
affection he ceases to doubt! The little pittance
of love for which poor Tahmiroo's heart
yearned so much, was seldom given. Her
soul was a perpetual prey to anxiety and excitement;
and the quiet certainty of domestic
bliss was never her allotted portion.
There were, however, two beings, on whom
she could pour forth her whole flood of tenderness,
without reproof or disappointment.
She had given birth to a son and daughter of
uncommon promise. Victoire, the eldest,
had her father's beauty, save in the melting
dark eye, with its plaintive expression, and
the modest drooping of its silken lash. Her
cheeks had just enough of the Indian hue to
give them a warm, rich colouring; and such
was her early maturity, that at thirteen years
of age, her tall figure combined the graceful
elasticity of youth, with the staid majesty of
womanhood. She had sprung up at her father's
feet, with the sudden luxuriance of a
tropical flower; and her matured loveliness
aroused all the dormant tenderness and energy
within him. It was with mournful interest
he saw her leaping along the chase, with her
mother's bounding, sylphlike joy; and he
would sigh deeply when he observed her oar
rapidly cutting the waters of the Missouri,
while her boat flew over the surface of the
river like a wild bird in sport—and the gay
young creature would wind among the eddies,
or dart forward with her hair streaming
on the wind, and her lips parted with eagerness.
Tahmiroo did not understand the
nature of his emotions. She thought, in the
simplicity of her heart, that silence and sadness
were the natural expressions of a white
man's love; but when he turned his restless
gaze from his daughter to her, she met an
expression which troubled her. Indifference
had changed into contempt; and woman's
soul, whether in the drawing-room, or in the
wilderness, is painfully alive to the sting of
scorn. Sometimes her placid nature was
disturbed by a strange jealousy of her own
child. “I love Victoire only because she is
the daughter of Florimond,” thought she;
“and why, oh! why, does he not love me
for being the mother of Victoire?”

It was too evident that de Rance wished
his daughter to be estranged from her mother,
and her mother's people. With all members
of the tribe, out of his own family, he sternly
forbade her having any intercourse; and even
there he kept her constantly employed in
taking dancing lessons from himself, and obtaining
various branches of learning from an

old Catholic priest, whom he had solicited
to reside with him for that purpose. But
this kind of life was irksome to the Indian
girl, and she was perpetually escaping the
vigilance of her father, to try her arrow in the
woods, or guide her pretty canoe over the
waters. De Rance had long thought it impossible
to gratify his ambitious views for his
daughter without removing her from the attractions
of her savage home; and each day's
experience convinced him more and more
of the truth of this conclusion.

To favour his project, he assumed an affectionate
manner towards his wife; for he well
knew that one look, or word, of kindness,
would at any time win back all her love.
When the deep sensibilities of her warm
heart were roused, he would ask for leave to
sell her lands; and she, in her prodigality of
tenderness, would have given him anything,
even her own life, for such smiles as he then
bestowed. The old chief was dead, and
there was no one to check the unfeeling rapacity
of the Frenchman. Tracts after tracts
of Tahmiroo's valuable land were sold, and

the money remitted to Quebec, whither he
had the purpose of conveying his children, on
pretence of a visit; but in reality with the
firm intent of never again beholding his deserted
wife.

A company of Canadian traders happened
to visit the Falls of St. Anthony, just at this
juncture; and Florimond de Rance took the
opportunity to apprise Tahmiroo of his intention
to educate Victoire. The Sioux
pleaded with all the earnestness of a mother's
eloquence; but she pleaded in vain. Victoire
and her father joined the company of
traders, on their return to Canada. Tahmiroo
knelt, and fervently besought that she
might accompany them. She would stay out
of sight, she said; they should not be ashamed
of her among the great white folks of the
east; and if she could but live where she
could see them every day, she should die
happier.

“Ashamed of you! and you the daughter
of a Sioux King!” exclaimed Victoire proudly,
and with a natural impulse of tenderness,
she fell on her mother's neck and wept.

“Victoire, 'tis time to depart,” said her
father, sternly. The sobbing girl tried to release
herself; but she could not. Tahmiroo
embraced her with the energy of despair;
for, after all her doubts and jealousies,
Victoire was the darling child of her bosom—
she was so much the image of Florimond
when he first said he loved her.

“Woman! let her go!” exclaimed de
Rance, exasperated by the length of the
parting scene. Tahmiroo raised her eyes
anxiously to his face, and she saw that his
arm was raised to strike her.

“I am a poor daughter of the Sioux; oh!
why did you marry me?” exclaimed she, in a
tone of passionate grief.

“For your father's land,” said the Frenchman
coldly.

This was the drop too much. Poor Tahmiroo,
with a piercing shriek, fell on the
earth, and hid her face in the grass. She
knew not how long she remained there.
Her highly-wrought feelings had brought on
a dizziness of the brain; and she was conscious
only of a sensation of sickness, accompanied

by the sound of receding voices.
When she recovered, she found herself alone
with Louis, her little boy, then about six
years old. The child had wandered there
after the traders had departed, and having in
vain tried to waken his mother, he laid himself
down by her side, and slept on his bow
and arrows. From that hour Tahmiroo was
changed.

Her quiet submissive air gave place to a
stern and lofty manner; and she, who had
always been so gentle, became as bitter and
implacable as the most blood-thirsty of her
tribe. In little Louis all the strong feelings
of her soul were centered; but even her
affection for him was characterized by a
strange, unwonted fierceness. Her only care
seemed to be to make him like his grandfather,
and to instil a deadly hatred of white
men. The boy learned his lessons well.
He was the veriest little savage that ever
let fly an arrow. To his mother alone he
yielded any thing like submission; and the
Sioux were proud to hail the haughty child
as their future chieftain.

Such was the aspect of things on the
shores of the Missouri, when Florimond de
Rance came among them, after an absence
of three years. He was induced to make
this visit, partly from a lingering curiosity to
see his boy, and partly from the hope of
obtaining more land from the yielding Tahmiroo.
He affected much contrition for his
past conduct, and promised to return with
Victoire, before the year expired. Tahmiroo
met him with the most chilling indifference,
and listened to him with a vacant look,
as if she heard him not.

It was only when he spoke to her boy,
that he could arouse her from this apparent
lethargy. On this subject she was all suspicion.
She had a sort of undefined dread
that he, too, would be carried away from
her; and she watched over him like a she-wolf,
when her young is in danger. Her
fears were not unfounded; for Florimond de
Rance did intend, by demonstrations of fondness,
and glowing descriptions of Quebec, to
kindle in the mind of his son a desire to
accompany him.

Tahmiroo thought the hatred of white
men, which she had so carefully instilled,
would prove a sufficient shield; but many
weeks had not elapsed before she saw that
Louis was fast yielding himself up to the
fascinating power which had enthralled her
own youthful spirit. With this discovery
came horrible thoughts of vengeance; and
more than once she had nearly nerved her
soul to murder the father of her son; but
she could not. Something in his features
still reminded her of the devoted young
Frenchman, who had carried her quiver
through the woods, and kissed the moccasin
he stooped to lace; and she could not kill
him.

The last cutting blow was soon given to
the heart of the Indian Wife. Young Louis,
full of boyish curiosity, expressed a wish to
go with his father, though he at the same
time promised a speedy return. He always
had been a stubborn boy; and she felt now
as if her worn-out spirit would vainly contend
against his wilfulness. With that sort
of resigned stupor, which often indicates

approaching insanity, she yielded to his request;
exacting, however, a promise that he
would sail a few miles down the Mississippi
with her the day before his departure.

The day arrived. Florimond de Rance
was at a distance on business. Tahmiroo
decked herself in the garments and jewels
she had worn on the day of her marriage,
and selected the gaudiest wampum belts for
the little Louis.

“Why do you put these on?” said the boy.

“Because Tahmiroo will no more see her
son in the land of the Sioux,” said she, mournfully,
“and when her father meets her in the
spirit-land, he will know the beads he gave
her.”

She took the wondering boy by the hand,
and led him to the water side. There lay
the canoe her father had given her when
she left him for “the wigwam of the stranger.”
It was faded and bruised now, and so
were all her hopes. She looked back on
the but, where she had spent her brief term
of wedded happiness, and its peacefulness
seemed a mockery of her misery. And was

she—the lone, the wretched, the desperate,
and deserted one—was she the “Startled
Fawn” of the Sioux, for whom contending
Chiefs had asked in vain? The remembrance
of all her love and all her wrongs
came up before her memory, and death
seemed more pleasant to her than the gay
dance she once loved so well. But then
her eye rested on her boy—and, O God!
with what an agony of love! It was the
last vehement struggle of a soul all formed
for tenderness. “We will go to the Spirit-Land
together,” she exclaimed. “He cannot
come there to rob me!”

She took Louis in her arms, as if he had
been a feather, and springing into the boat,
she guided it towards the falls of St. Anthony.

“Mother, mother! the canoe is going
over the rapids!” screamed the frightened
child. “My father stands on the waves and
beckons!” she said. The boy looked at the
horribly fixed expression of her face, and
shrieked aloud for help.

The boat went over the cataract.—

Louis de Rance was seen no more. He
sleeps with the “Startled Fawn” of the Sioux,
in the waves of the Missisippi! The
story is well remembered by the Indians of
the present day; and when a mist gathers
over the falls, they often say, “Let us not
hunt to-day. A storm will certainly come;
for Tahmiroo and her son are going over the
falls of St. Anthony.”