The Fisherman of Pass Christian

by Alice Dunbar-Nelson

  


The swift breezes on the beach at Pass Christian meet andconflict as though each strove for the mastery of the air. Theland-breeze blows down through the pines, resinous, fragrant,cold, bringing breath-like memories of dim, dark woods shaded bymyriad pine-needles. The breeze from the Gulf is warm and softand languorous, blowing up from the south with its suggestion oftropical warmth and passion. It is strong and masterful, andtossed Annette's hair and whipped her skirts about her in bolddisregard for the proprieties.Arm in arm with Philip, she was strolling slowly down the greatpier which extends from the Mexican Gulf Hotel into the waters ofthe Sound. There was no moon to-night, but the sky glittered andscintillated with myriad stars, brighter than you can ever seefarther North, and the great waves that the Gulf breeze tossed upin restless profusion gleamed with the white fire ofphosphorescent flame. The wet sands on the beach glowed whitefire; the posts of the pier where the waves had leapt and left alaughing kiss, the sides of the little boats and fish-carstugging at their ropes, alike showed white and flaming, as thoughthe sea and all it touched were afire.Annette and Philip paused midway the pier to watch two fishermencasting their nets. With heads bared to the breeze, they stoodin clear silhouette against the white background of sea."See how he uses his teeth," almost whispered Annette.Drawing himself up to his full height, with one end of the hugeseine between his teeth, and the cord in his left hand, thetaller fisherman of the two paused a half instant, his right armextended, grasping the folds of the net. There was a swishingrush through the air, and it settled with a sort of sob as it cutthe waters and struck a million sparkles of fire from the waves.Then, with backs bending under the strain, the two men swung onthe cord, drawing in the net, laden with glittering restlessfish, which were unceremoniously dumped on the boards to be putinto the fish-car awaiting them.Philip laughingly picked up a soft, gleaming jelly-fish, andthreatened to put it on Annette's neck. She screamed, ran,slipped on the wet boards, and in another instant would havefallen over into the water below. The tall fisherman caught herin his arms and set her on her feet."Mademoiselle must be very careful," he said in the softest andmost correct French. "The tide is in and the water very rough.It would be very difficult to swim out there to-night."Annette murmured confused thanks, which were supplemented byPhilip's hearty tones. She was silent until they reached thepavilion at the end of the pier. The semi-darkness wasunrelieved by lantern or light. The strong wind wafted thestrains from a couple of mandolins, a guitar, and a tenor voicestationed in one corner to sundry engrossed couples in sundryother corners. Philip found an untenanted nook and theyensconced themselves therein."Do you know there's something mysterious about that fisherman?"said Annette, during a lull in the wind."Because he did not let you go over?" inquired Philip."No; he spoke correctly, and with the accent that goes only withan excellent education."Philip shrugged his shoulders. "That's nothing remarkable. Ifyou stay about Pass Christian for any length of time, you'll findmore things than perfect French and courtly grace among fishermento surprise you. These are a wonderful people who live acrossthe Lake."Annette was lolling in the hammock under the big catalpa-treesome days later, when the gate opened, and Natalie's bigsun-bonnet appeared. Natalie herself was discovered blushing inits dainty depths. She was only a little Creole seaside girl,you must know, and very shy of the city demoiselles. Natalie'spatois was quite as different from Annette's French as it wasfrom the postmaster's English."Mees Annette," she began, peony-hued all over at her ownboldness, "we will have one lil' hay-ride this night, and afish-fry at the end. Will you come?"Annette sprang to her feet in delight. "Will I come? Certainly.How delightful! You are so good to ask me. What shall--whattime--" But Natalie's pink bonnet had fled precipitately downthe shaded walk. Annette laughed joyously as Philip lounged downthe gallery."I frightened the child away," she told him.You've never been for a hay-ride and fish-fry on the shores ofthe Mississippi Sound, have you? When the summer boarders andthe Northern visitors undertake to give one, it is acomparatively staid affair, where due regard is had for one'swearing apparel, and where there are servants to do the hardestwork. Then it isn't enjoyable at all. But when the natives, theboys and girls who live there, make up their minds to have fun,you may depend upon its being just the best kind.This time there were twenty boys and girls, a mamma or so,several papas, and a grizzled fisherman to restrain the ardor ofthe amateurs. The cart was vast and solid, and two comfortable,sleepy-looking mules constituted the drawing power. There werealso tin horns, some guitars, an accordion, and a quartet of muchpraised voices. The hay in the bottom of the wagon was freelymixed with pine needles, whose prickiness through your hose wasamply compensated for by its delicious fragrance.After a triumphantly noisy passage down the beach one comes tothe stretch of heavy sand that lies between Pass Christian properand Henderson's Point. This is a hard pull for the mules, andthe more ambitious riders get out and walk. Then, after a finalstrain through the shifting sands, bravo! the shell road isreached, and one goes cheering through the pine-trees toHenderson's Point.If ever you go to Pass Christian, you must have a fish-fry atHenderson's Point. It is the pine-thicketed, white-beachedpeninsula jutting out from the land, with one side caressed bythe waters of the Sound and the other purred over by the bluewaves of the Bay of St. Louis. Here is the beginning of thegreat three-mile trestle bridge to the town of Bay St. Louis, andto-night from the beach could be seen the lights of the villasglittering across the Bay like myriads of unsleeping eyes.Here upon a firm stretch of white sand camped the merry-makers.Soon a great fire of driftwood and pine cones tossed its flamesdefiantly at a radiant moon in the sky, and the fishers werecasting their nets in the sea. The more daring of the girlswaded bare-legged in the water, holding pine-torches, spearingflounders and peering for soft-shell crabs.Annette had wandered farther in the shallow water than the rest.Suddenly she stumbled against a stone, the torch dropped andspluttered at her feet. With a little helpless cry she looked atthe stretch of unfamiliar beach and water to find herself allalone."Pardon me, mademoiselle," said a voice at her elbow; "you are indistress?"It was her fisherman, and with a scarce conscious sigh of relief,Annette put her hand into the outstretched one at her side."I was looking for soft shells," she explained, "and lost thecrowd, and now my torch is out.""Where is the crowd?" There was some amusement in the tone, andAnnette glanced up quickly, prepared to be thoroughly indignantat this fisherman who dared make fun at her; but there was such akindly look about his mouth that she was reassured and saidmeekly,--"At Henderson's Point.""You have wandered a half-mile away," he mused, "and have nothingto show for your pains but very wet skirts. If mademoiselle willpermit me, I will take her to her friends, but allow me tosuggest that mademoiselle will leave the water and walk on thesands.""But I am barefoot," wailed Annette, "and I am afraid of thefiddlers."Fiddler crabs, you know, aren't pleasant things to be danglingaround one's bare feet, and they are more numerous than sandfleas down at Henderson's Point."True," assented the fisherman; "then we shall have to wadeback."The fishing was over when they rounded the point and came insight of the cheery bonfire with its Rembrandt-like group, andthe air was savoury with the smell of frying fish and crabs. Thefisherman was not to be tempted by appeals to stay, but smilinglydisappeared down the sands, the red glare of his torch making aglowing track in the water."Ah, Mees Annette," whispered Natalie, between mouthfuls of arich croaker, "you have found a beau in the water.""And the fisherman of the Pass, too," laughed her cousin Ida.Annette tossed her head, for Philip had growled audibly."Do you know, Philip," cried Annette a few days after, rudelyshaking him from his siesta on the gallery,-- "do you know that Ihave found my fisherman's hut?""Hum," was the only response."Yes, and it's the quaintest, most delightful spot imaginable.Philip, do come with me and see it.""Hum.""Oh, Philip, you are so lazy; do come with me.""Yes, but, my dear Annette," protested Philip, "this is a warmday, and I am tired."Still, his curiosity being aroused, he went grumbling. It wasnot a very long drive, back from the beach across the railroadand through the pine forest to the bank of a dark, slow-flowingbayou. The fisherman's hut was small, two-roomed, whitewashed,pine-boarded, with the traditional mud chimney acting as a sortof support to one of its uneven sides. Within was a weirdassortment of curios from every uncivilized part of the globe.Also were there fishing-tackle and guns in reckless profusion.The fisherman, in the kitchen of the mud-chimney, wassardonically waging war with a basket of little bayou crabs."Entrez, mademoiselle et monsieur," he said pleasantly, grabbinga vicious crab by its flippers, and smiling at its wild attemptsto bite. "You see I am busy, but make yourself at home.""Well, how on earth--" began Philip."Sh--sh--" whispered Annette. "I was driving out in the woodsthis morning, and stumbled on the hut. He asked me in, but I cameright over after you."The fisherman, having succeeded in getting the last crab in thekettle of boiling water, came forward smiling and began toexplain the curios."Then you have not always lived at Pass Christian," said Philip."Mais non, monsieur, I am spending a summer here.""And he spends his winters, doubtless, selling fish in the Frenchmarket," spitefully soliloquised Philip.The fisherman was looking unutterable things into Annette's eyes,and, it seemed to Philip, taking an unconscionably long timeexplaining the use of an East Indian stiletto."Oh, wouldn't it be delightful!" came from Annette at last."What?" asked Philip."Why, Monsieur LeConte says he'll take six of us out in hiscatboat tomorrow for a fishing-trip on the Gulf.""Hum," drily."And I'll get Natalie and her cousins.""Yes," still more drily.Annette chattered on, entirely oblivious of the strainedness ofthe men's adieux, and still chattered as they drove through thepines."I did not know that you were going to take fishermen andmarchands into the bosom of your social set when you came here,"growled Philip, at last."But, Cousin Phil, can't you see he is a gentleman? The factthat he makes no excuses or protestations is a proof.""You are a fool," was the polite response.Still, at six o'clock next morning, there was a little crowd ofseven upon the pier, laughing and chatting at the little"Virginie" dipping her bows in the water and flapping her sailsin the brisk wind. Natalie's pink bonnet blushed in the earlysunshine, and Natalie's mamma, comely and portly, did chaperonageduty. It was not long before the sails gave swell into thebreeze and the little boat scurried to the Sound. Past thelighthouse on its gawky iron stalls, she flew, and now roundedthe white sands of Cat Island."Bravo, the Gulf!" sang a voice on the lookout. The little boatdipped, halted an instant, then rushed fast into the blue Gulfwaters."We will anchor here," said the host, "have luncheon, and fish."Philip could not exactly understand why the fisherman should sitso close to Annette and whisper so much into her ears. He chafedat her acting the part of hostess, and was possessed of amurderous desire to throw the pink sun-bonnet and its owner intothe sea, when Natalie whispered audibly to one of her cousinsthat "Mees Annette act nice wit' her lovare."The sun was banking up flaming pillars of rose and gold in thewest when the little "Virginie" rounded Cat Island on her wayhome, and the quick Southern twilight was fast dying intodarkness when she was tied up to the pier and the merry-makerssprang off with baskets of fish. Annette had distinguishedherself by catching one small shark, and had immediately ceasedto fish and devoted her attention to her fisherman and his line.Philip had angled fiercely, landing trout, croakers, sheepshead,snappers in bewildering luck. He had broken each hopelesscaptive's neck savagely, as though they were personal enemies.He did not look happy as they landed, though paeans of praisewere being sung in his honour.As the days passed on, "the fisherman of the Pass" began to danceattendance on Annette. What had seemed a joke became serious.Aunt Nina, urged by Philip, remonstrated, and even the mamma ofthe pink sunbonnet began to look grave. It was all very well fora city demoiselle to talk with a fisherman and accept favours athis hands, provided that the city demoiselle understood that avast and bridgeless gulf stretched between her and the fisherman.But when the demoiselle forgot the gulf and the fisherman refusedto recognise it, why, it was time to take matters in hand.To all of Aunt Nina's remonstrances, Philip's growlings, and theaverted glances of her companions, Annette was deaf. "You arenarrow-minded," she said laughingly. "I am interested inMonsieur LeConte simply as a study. He is entertaining; he talkswell of his travels, and as for refusing to recognise thedifference between us, why, he never dreamed of such a thing."Suddenly a peremptory summons home from Annette's father put anend to the fears of Philip. Annette pouted, but papa must beobeyed. She blamed Philip and Aunt Nina for telling tales, butAunt Nina was uncommunicative, and Philip too obviously cheerfulto derive much satisfaction from.That night she walked with the fisherman hand in hand on thesands. The wind from the pines bore the scarcely recognisable,subtle freshness of early autumn, and the waters had a hint ofdying summer in their sob on the beach."You will remember," said the fisherman, "that I have told younothing about myself.""Yes," murmured Annette."And you will keep your promises to me?""Yes.""Let me hear you repeat them again.""I promise you that I will not forget you. I promise you that Iwill never speak of you to anyone until I see you again. Ipromise that I will then clasp your hand wherever you may be.""And mademoiselle will not be discouraged, but will continue herstudies?""Yes."It was all very romantic, by the waves of the Sound, under aharvest moon, that seemed all sympathy for these two, despite thefact that it was probably looking down upon hundreds of otherequally romantic couples. Annette went to bed with glowingcheeks, and a heart whose pulsations would have caused aphysician to prescribe unlimited digitalis.It was still hot in New Orleans when she returned home, and itseemed hard to go immediately to work. But if one is going to bean opera-singer some day and capture the world with one's voice,there is nothing to do but to study, study, sing, practise, eventhough one's throat be parched, one's head a great ache, andone's heart a nest of discouragement and sadness at what seemsthe uselessness of it all. Annette had now a new incentive towork; the fisherman had once praised her voice when she hummed abarcarole on the sands, and he had insisted that there was powerin its rich notes. Though the fisherman had showed no cause whyhe should be accepted as a musical critic, Annette had somehowrespected his judgment and been accordingly elated.It was the night of the opening of the opera. There was theusual crush, the glitter and confusing radiance of the brilliantaudience. Annette, with papa, Aunt Nina, and Philip, was latereaching her box. The curtain was up, and "La Juive" was pouringforth defiance at her angry persecutors. Annette listenedbreathlessly. In fancy, she too was ringing her voice out to anapplauding house. Her head unconsciously beat time to the music,and one hand half held her cloak from her bare shoulders.Then Eleazar appeared, and the house rose at the end of his song.Encores it gave, and bravos and cheers. He bowed calmly, swepthis eyes over the tiers until they found Annette, where theyrested in a half-smile of recognition."Philip," gasped Annette, nervously raising her glasses, "myfisherman!""Yes, an opera-singer is better than a marchand," drawled Philip.The curtain fell on the first act. The house was won by the newtenor; it called and recalled him before the curtain. Clearly hehad sung his way into the hearts of his audience at once."Papa, Aunt Nina," said Annette, "you must come behind the sceneswith me. I want you to meet him. He is delightful. You mustcome."Philip was bending ostentatiously over the girl in the next box.Papa and Aunt Nina consented to be dragged behind the scenes.Annette was well known, for, in hopes of some day being anoccupant of one of the dressing-rooms, she had made friends witheveryone connected with the opera.Eleazar received them, still wearing his brown garb andpatriarchal beard."How you deceived me!" she laughed, when the greetings andintroductions were over."I came to America early," he smiled back at her, "and thoughtI'd try a little incognito at the Pass. I was not well, you see.It has been of great benefit to me.""I kept my promise," she said in a lower tone."Thank you; that also has helped me."Annette's teacher began to note a wonderful improvement in hispupil's voice. Never did a girl study so hard or practise sofaithfully. It was truly wonderful. Now and then Annette wouldsay to papa as if to reassure herself,--"And when Monsieur Cherbart says I am ready to go to Paris, I maygo, papa?"And papa would say a "Certainly" that would send her back to thepiano with renewed ardour.As for Monsieur LeConte, he was the idol of New Orleans. Seldomhad there been a tenor who had sung himself so completely intothe very hearts of a populace. When he was billed, the operadisplayed "Standing Room" signs, no matter what the otherattractions in the city might be. Sometimes Monsieur LeContedelighted small audiences in Annette's parlour, when the hostesswas in a perfect flutter of happiness. Not often, you know, forthe leading tenor was in great demand at the homes of societyqueens."Do you know," said Annette, petulantly, one evening, "I wish forthe old days at Pass Christian.""So do I," he answered tenderly; "will you repeat them with menext summer?""If I only could!" she gasped.Still she might have been happy, had it not been for MadameDubeau,--Madame Dubeau, the flute-voiced leading soprano, whowore the single dainty curl on her forehead, and thrilled heraudiences oftentimes more completely than the fisherman. MadameDubeau was La Juive to his Eleazar, Leonore to his Manfred, Elsato his Lohengrin, Aida to his Rhadames, Marguerite to his Faust;in brief, Madame Dubeau was his opposite. She caressed him asMignon, pleaded with him as Michaela, died for him in "LesHuguenots," broke her heart for love of him in "La Favorite."How could he help but love her, Annette asked herself, how couldhe? Madame Dubeau was beautiful and gifted and charming.Once she whispered her fears to him when there was the meagrestbit of an opportunity. He laughed. "You don't understand,little one," he said tenderly; "the relations of professionalpeople to each other are peculiar. After you go to Paris, youwill know."Still, New Orleans had built up its romance, and gossipedaccordingly."Have you heard the news?" whispered Lola to Annette, leaningfrom her box at the opera one night. The curtain had just goneup on "Herodias," and for some reason or other, the audienceapplauded with more warmth than usual. There was a noticeablenumber of good-humoured, benignant smiles on the faces of theapplauders."No," answered Annette, breathlessly,--"no, indeed, Lola; I amgoing to Paris next week. I am so delighted I can't stop tothink.""Yes, that is excellent," said Lola, "but all New Orleans issmiling at the romance. Monsieur LeConte and Madame Dubeau werequietly married last night, but it leaked out this afternoon.See all the applause she's receiving!"Annette leaned back in her chair, very white and still. Her boxwas empty after the first act, and a quiet little tired voicethat was almost too faint to be heard in the carriage on the wayhome, said--"Papa, I don't think I care to go to Paris, after all."


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