By the Bayou St. John

by Alice Dunbar-Nelson

　　

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The Bayou St. John slowly makes its dark-hued way through reedsand rushes, high banks and flat slopes, until it casts itselfinto the turbulent bosom of Lake Pontchartrain. It is dark, likethe passionate women of Egypt; placid, like their broad brows;deep, silent, like their souls. Within its bosom are hiddenromances and stories, such as were sung by minstrels of old.From the source to the mouth is not far distant, visiblyspeaking, but in the life of the bayou a hundred heart-milescould scarce measure it. Just where it winds about the northwestof the city are some of its most beautiful bits, orange groves onone side, and quaint old Spanish gardens on the other. Who caresthat the bridges are modern, and that here and there pertboat-houses rear their prim heads? It is the bayou, even thoughit be invaded with the ruthless vandalism of the improving idea,and can a boat-house kill the beauty of a moss-grown centurion ofan oak with a history as old as the city? Can an iron bridgewith tarantula piers detract from the song of a mocking-bird in afragrant orange grove? We know that farther out, past theConfederate Soldiers' Home,--that rose-embowered, rambling placeof gray-coated, white-haired old men with broken hearts for alost cause,--it flows, unimpeded by the faintest conception ofman, and we love it all the more that, like the Priestess ofIsis, it is calm-browed, even in indignity.To its banks at the end of Moss Street, one day there came a manand a maiden. They were both tall and lithe and slender, withthe agility of youth and fire. He was the final concentration ofthe essence of Spanish passion filtered into an American frame;she, a repressed Southern exotic, trying to fit itself into theniches of a modern civilisation. Truly, a fitting couple to seekthe bayou banks.They climbed the levee that stretched a feeble check to watersthat seldom rise, and on the other side of the embankment, at thebrink of the river, she sat on a log, and impatiently pulled offthe little cap she wore. The skies were gray, heavy, overcast,with an occasional wind-rift in the clouds that only revealed newdepths of grayness behind; the tideless waters murmured a faintripple against the logs and jutting beams of the breakwater, andwere answered by the crescendo wail of the dried reeds on theother bank,--reeds that rustled and moaned among themselves forthe golden days of summer sunshine.He stood up, his dark form a slender silhouette against the sky;she looked upward from her log, and their eyes met with anexquisite shock of recognising understanding; dark eyes into darkeyes, Iberian fire into Iberian fire, soul unto soul: it wasenough. He sat down and took her into his arms, and in the eeriemurmur of the storm coming they talked of the future."And then I hope to go to Italy or France. It is only there,beneath those far Southern skies, that I could ever hope toattain to anything that the soul within me says I can. I havewasted so much time in the mere struggle for bread, while thepowers of a higher calling have clamoured for recognition andexpression. I will go some day and redeem myself."She was silent a moment, watching with half-closed lids adejected-looking hunter on the other bank, and a lean dog whotrailed through the reeds behind him with drooping tail. Thenshe asked:"And I--what will become of me?""You, Athanasia? There is a great future before you, littlewoman, and I and my love can only mar it. Try to forget me andgo your way. I am only the epitome of unhappiness andill-success."But she laughed and would have none of it.Will you ever forget that day, Athanasia? How the little gamins,Creole throughout, came half shyly near the log, fishing, andexchanging furtive whispers and half-concealed glances at thesilent couple. Their angling was rewarded only by a little blackwater-moccasin that wriggled and forked its venomous red tonguein an attempt to exercise its death-dealing prerogative. ThisAthanasia insisted must go back into its native black waters, andpaid the price the boys asked that it might enjoy its freedom.The gamins laughed and chattered in their soft patois; the Donsmiled tenderly upon Athanasia, and she durst not look at thereeds as she talked, lest their crescendo sadness yield aforeboding. Just then a wee girl appeared, clad in a multi-huedgarment, evidently a sister to the small fishermen. Her keenblack eyes set in a dusky face glanced sharply and suspiciouslyat the group as she clambered over the wet embankment, and itseemed the drizzling mist grew colder, the sobbing wind morepronounced in its prophetic wail. Athanasia rose suddenly. "Letus go," she said; "the eternal feminine has spoiled it all."The bayou flows as calmly, as darkly, as full of hidden passionsas ever. On a night years after, the moon was shining upon itwith a silvery tenderness that seemed brighter, more caressinglylingering than anywhere within the old city. Behind, there rosethe spires and towers; before, only the reeds, green now, andsoft in their rustlings and whisperings for the future. Falsereeds! They tell themselves of their happiness to be, and it allends in dry stalks and drizzling skies. The mocking-bird in thefragrant orange grove sends out his night song, and blends itwith the cricket's chirp, as the blossoms of orange and magnoliamingle their perfume with the earthy smell of a summer rain justblown over. Perfect in its stillness, absolute in its beauty,tenderly healing in its suggestion of peace, the night in itsclear-lighted, cloudless sweetness enfolds Athanasia, as shestands on the levee and gazes down at the old log, now almosthidden in the luxuriant grass."It was the eternal feminine that spoiled our dream that day asit spoiled the after life, was it not?"But the Bayou St. John did not answer. It merely gathered intoits silent bosom another broken-hearted romance, and floweddispassionately on its way.

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