Read Ebook: La vita militare: bozzetti by De Amicis Edmondo

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My mother and grandmother were almost always talking over the wants of the negroes,--what medicine should be sent, whom they should visit, who needed new shoes, clothes, or blankets,--the principal object of their lives seeming to be in providing these comforts. The carriage was often ordered for them to ride around to the cabins to distribute light-bread, tea, and other necessaries among the sick. And besides employing the best doctor, my grandmother always saw that they received the best nursing and attention.

In this little plantation world of ours was one being--and only one--who inspired awe in every heart, being a special terror to small children. This was the queen of the kitchen, Aunt Christian, who reigned supreme. She wore the whitest cotton cap with the broadest of ruffles; she was very black and very portly; and her scepter was a good-sized stick, kept to chastise small dogs and children who invaded her territory. Her character, however, having been long established, she had not often occasion to use this weapon, as these enemies kept out of her way.

Her pride was great, "for," said she, "aint I bin--long fo' dis yer little marster whar is was born--bakin' de bes' loaf bread, an' bes' beat biscuit and rice waffles, all de time in my ole marster time? An' I bin manage my own affa'rs, an' I gwine manage my own affa'rs long is I got breff. Kase I 'members 'way back yonder in my mammy time fo' de folks come fum de King's Mill plantation nigh Williamsbu'g. All our black folks done belonks to de Burl fambly uver sence dey come fum Afiky. My granmammy 'member dem times when black folks lan' here stark naked, an' white folks hab to show 'em how to war close. But we all done come fum all dat now, an' I gwine manage my own affa'rs."

She was generally left to manage her "own affa'rs," and, being a pattern of neatness and industry, her fame went abroad from Botetourt even unto the remotest ends of Mecklenburg County.

That this marvelous cooking was all the work of her own hands I am, in later years, inclined to doubt; as she kept several assistants--a boy to chop wood, beat biscuit, scour tables, lift off pots and ovens; one woman to make the pastry, and another to compound cakes and jellies. But her fame was great, her pride lofty, and I would not now pluck one laurel from her wreath.

This honest woman was appreciated by my mother, but we had no affinity for her in consequence of certain traditions on the plantation about her severity to children. Having no children of her own, a favorite orphan house-girl, whenever my mother went from home, was left to her care. This girl--now an elderly woman, and still our faithful and loved servant--says she remembers to this day her joy at my mother's return home, and her release from Aunt Christian. "I nuver will forgit," to use her own words, "how I use to watch for de carriage to bring miss home, an' how I watch up de road an' run clappin' my han's an' hollerin': 'Miss done come! an' I aint gwine stay wid Aunt Chrishun no longer!'"

Smiling faces always welcomed us home, as the carriage passed through the plantation, and on reaching the house we were received by the negroes about the yard with the liveliest demonstrations of pleasure.

It was a long time before it dawned upon my mind that there were places and people different from these. The plantations we visited seemed exactly like ours. The same hospitality was everywhere; the same kindliness existed between the white family and the blacks.

Confined exclusively to plantation scenes, the most trifling incidents impressed themselves indelibly upon me.

One day, while my mother was in the yard attending to the planting of some shrubbery, we saw approaching an old, feeble negro man, leaning upon his stick. His clothes were nearly worn out, and he was haggard and thin.

"Good-day, mistess," said he.

"Who are you?" asked my mother.

"Mistess, you don't know John whar use to belonks to Mars Edwin Burl--Mars Edwin, yo' husban' uncle, whar die on de ocean crossin' to Europe for he health. An' 'fo' he start he make he will an' sot me free, an' gie me money an' lan' near Petersbu'g, an' good house, too. But, mistess, I marry one free mulatto 'oman, an' she ruin me; she one widow 'oman, an' she was'e all my money tell I aint got nothin', an' I don't want be free no mo'. Please, mistess, take me on yo' plantation, an' don't let me be free. I done walk hund'ed mile to git yer. You know Mars Edwin think Miss Betsy gwine marry him, so he lef' her his lan' an' black folks. But we niggers knowed she done promis' twelve mo' gen'men to marry 'em. But she take de propity an' put on long black veil make like she grievin', an' dat's how de folks all git scattered, an' I aint got nowhar to go 'ceptin' hit's yer."

I wondered what was meant by being "free," and supposed from his appearance it must be some very dreadful and unfortunate condition of humanity. My mother heard him very kindly, and directed him to the kitchen, where "Aunt Christian" would give him plenty to eat.

With these melancholy predictions would he shake his head, and sigh that the days of glory had departed.

We often listened with pleasure to the recollections of an old blind man--the former faithful attendant of our grandfather--whose mind was filled with vivid pictures of the past. He repeated verbatim conversations and speeches heard sixty years before--from Mr. Madison, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Clay, and other statesmen, his master's special friends.

"Yes," he used to say, "I stay wid your grandpa ten years in Congress, an' all de time he was secretary for President Jefferson. He nuver give me a cross word, an' I nuver saw your grandma de leas' out of temper nuther but once, an' dat was at a dinner party we give in Washington, when de French Minister said something disrespectful 'bout de United States."

Often did he tell us: "De greates' pleasure I 'spect in heaven is seein' my old marster." And sometimes: "I dreams 'bout my marster an' mistess when I'se asleep, an' talks wid 'em an' sees 'em so plain it makes me so happy I laughs out right loud."

This man was true and honest,--a good Christian. Important trusts had been confided to him. He frequently drove the carriage and horses to Washington and Baltimore,--a journey of two weeks,--and was sometimes sent to carry large sums of money to a distant county.

His wife, who had accompanied him in her youth to Washington, also entertained us with gossip about the people of that day, and could tell exactly the size and color of Mrs. Madison's slippers, how she was dressed on certain occasions, "what beautiful manners she had," how Mr. Jefferson received master and mistress when "we" drove up to Monticello, what room they occupied, etc.

Although my grandfather's death occurred thirty years before, the negroes still remembered it with sorrow; and one of them, speaking of it, said to me: "Ah, little mistess, 'twas a sorrowful day when de news come from Washington dat our good, kind marster was dead. A mighty wail went up from dis plantation, for we know'd we had los' our bes' friend."

Another very old man remembered something of his father, who had come from Africa; and when we asked him to tell us what he remembered of his father's narrations, would say:

"My daddy tell we chillun how he mammy liv' in hole in de groun' in Afiky, an' when a Englishmun come to buy him, she sell him fur a string o' beads. An' 'twas monsus hard when he fus' come here to war close; ev'y chance he git he pull off he close an' go naked, kase folks don't war no close in he country. When daddy git mad wid we chillun, mammy hide us, kase he kill us. Sometime he say he gwine sing he country, an' den he dance an' jump an' howl tell he skeer we chillun to deaf."

They spoke always of their forefathers as the "outlandish people."

On some plantations it was a custom to buy the wife when a negro preferred to marry on another estate. And in this way we became possessed of a famous termagant, who had married our grandfather's gardener, quarreled him to death in one year, and survived to quarrel forty years longer with the other negroes. She allowed no children about her cabin--not even a cat or dog could live with her. She had been offered her freedom, but refused to accept it. Several times she had been given away--once to her son, a free man, and to others with whom she fancied she might live--but, like the bad penny, was always returned to us. She always returned in a cart, seated on top of her wooden chest and surrounded by her goods and chattels. She was dressed in a high hat with a long black plume standing straight up, gay cloth spencer, and short petticoat,--the costume of a hundred years ago. Although her return was a sore affliction to the plantation, my sister and myself found much amusement in witnessing it. The cold welcome she received seemed not to affect her spirits, but, re-establishing herself in her cabin, she quickly resumed the turbulent course of her career.

Finally one morning the news came that this woman, old Clara, was dead. Two women went to sweep her cabin and perform the last sad offices. They waited all day for the body to get cold. While sitting over the fire in the evening, one of them, happening to glance at a small mirror inserted in the wall near the bed, exclaimed: "Old Clara's laughing!" They went nearer, and there was a horrible grin on the face of the corpse! Old Clara sprang out of bed, exclaiming: "Git me some meat and bread. I'm most perish'd!"

"Ole 'oman, what you mean by foolin' us so?" asked the nurses.

Among these old cabin legends we sometimes collected bits of romance, and were often told how, by the coquetry of a certain Richmond belle, we had lost a handsome fortune, which impressed me even then with the fatal consequences of coquetry.

This belle engaged herself to our great-uncle, a handsome and accomplished gentleman, who, to improve his health, went to Europe, but before embarking made his will, leaving her his estate and negroes. He died abroad, and the lady accepted his property, although she was known to have been engaged to twelve others at the same time! The story in Richmond ran that these twelve gentlemen--my grandfather among them--had a wine party, and toward the close of the evening some of them, becoming communicative, began taking each other out to tell a secret, when it was discovered they all had the same secret--each was engaged to Miss Betsy McC.... This lady's name is still seen on fly leaves of old books in our library,--books used during her reign by students at William and Mary College,--showing that the young gentlemen, even at that venerable institution, sometimes allowed their classic thoughts to wander.

As soon as my sister and myself had learned to read and cipher, we were inspired with a desire to teach the negroes who were about the house and kitchen; and my father promised to reward my sister with a handsome guitar if she would teach two boys--designed for mechanics--arithmetic.

Our regular system was every night to place chairs around the dining-table, ring a bell, and open school, she presiding at one end of the table and I at the other, each propped up on books to give us the necessary height and dignity for teachers.

Our school proved successful. The boys learned arithmetic, and the guitar was awarded. All who tried learned to read, and from that day we have never ceased to teach all who desired to learn.

Thus my early life was passed amid scenes cheerful and agreeable, nor did anyone seem to have any care except my mother. Her cares and responsibilities were great, with one hundred people continually upon her mind, who were constantly appealing to her in every strait, real or imaginary. But it had pleased God to place her here, and nobly did she perform the duties of her station. She often told us of her distress on realizing for the first time the responsibilities devolving upon the mistress of a large plantation, and the nights of sorrow and tears these thoughts had given her.

On her arrival at the plantation after her marriage, the negroes received her with lively demonstrations of joy, clapping their hands and shouting: "Thank God, we got a mistess!" some of them throwing themselves on the ground at her feet in their enthusiasm.

The books, too, had been undisturbed in the library, except a few volumes of the poets, which had been carried to adorn some of the cabin shelves.

It was known by the negroes that their old master's will set them free and gave them a large body of land in the event of my father's death; and some of his college friends suggested that he might be killed while passing his vacations on his estate. But this only amused him, for he knew too well in what affection he was held by his negroes, and how each vied with the other in showing him attention, often spreading a dinner for him at their cabins when he returned from hunting or fishing.

I think I have written enough to show the mutual affection existing between the white and black races, and the abundant provision generally made for the wants of those whom God had mysteriously placed under our care.

The existence of extreme want and poverty had never entered my mind until one day my mother showed us some pictures entitled "London Labor and London Poor," when we asked her if she believed there were such poor people in the world, and she replied: "Yes, children, there are many in this world who have nowhere to sleep and nothing to eat."

Still we could not realize what she said, for we had never seen a beggar. But from that time it began to dawn upon us that all the world was not a plantation, with more than enough on it for people to eat. And when we were old enough to read and to compare our surroundings with what we learned about other countries, we found that our laboring population was more bountifully supplied than that of any other land. We read about "myriads of poor, starving creatures, with pinched faces and tattered garments," in far-off cities and countries. We read of hundreds who, from destitution and wretchedness, committed suicide. We read these things, but could not fully sympathize with such want and suffering; for it is necessary to witness these in order to feel the fullest sympathy, and we had never seen anything of the kind on our own or our neighbors' plantations.

Our negroes' religious instruction, I found, had not been more neglected than among the lower classes in England, Ireland, France, and elsewhere. Every church--there was one of some denomination near every plantation--had special seats reserved for the negroes. The minister always addressed a portion of his sermon particularly to them, and held service for them exclusively on Sabbath afternoons. Besides, they had their own ministers among themselves, and held night prayer-meetings in their cabins whenever they chose.

Many prayers ascended from earnest hearts for their conversion, and I knew no home at which some effort was not made for their religious instruction.

One of our friends--a Presbyterian minister and earnest Christian--devoted the greater part of his time to teaching and preaching to them, and many pious ministers throughout the State bestowed upon them time and labor.

I once attended a gay party where the young lady of the house, the center of attraction, hearing that one of the negroes was suddenly very ill, excused herself from the company, carried her prayer-book to the cabin, and passed the night by the bedside of the sick man, reading and repeating verses to him. I have also had young lady friends who declined attending a wedding or party when a favorite servant was ill.

On one occasion an English gentleman--a surgeon in the Royal Artillery--visiting at our house, accompanied us to a wedding, and, hearing that two young ladies had not attended on account of the illness of a negro servant, said to me: "This would not have occurred in England, and o della strada, mentre una voce sommessa e premurosa mi mormorava:--Badi, signor tenente, c'? il fosso.--E sempre lui!... Ma che cosa ho fatto io a quest'uomo perch'e' mi debba circondar di cure e di tenerezze come una madre? Che cos'ho, che cosa sono io perch'ei m'abbia ad amare con tanta virt?, con tanta religione? Che merito ho io verso costui, che non vive che per me, e che per me, ne son certo, darebbe la vita? Per qual ragione, in qual maniera questo povero giovane dai lineamenti rozzi, dalle mani incallite sulla vanga, dalle membra indurite nei disagi e nelle fatiche, senza coltura, senza educazione, nato e cresciuto in un romito abituro di campagna, ignaro d'ogni uso di vita cittadina, s'? fatto peritoso e gentile come una fanciulla, e trattiene il respiro per non destarmi dal sonno, e mi sfiora i panni colla mano per rimuovermi da un fosso, e mi porge una lettera tenendola colla punta delle dita quasi temesse di profanarla, e si sente felice d'un mio sorriso benevolo, d'una mia parola garbata, d'un mio cenno, d'un mio sguardo che voglia dire: Va bene?... Com'? questo? Ah! bisogna pur dire che il cuore umano impari sotto questi panni dei palpiti nuovi e sconosciuti a chi non ? soldato o non fu. La gente non suppone in noi altri affetti fuori di quelli che ci tempestano nell'anima nei giorni di guerra; in verit? che la gente ci conosce ben poco; essa non sa che a fare il soldato il cuore non solo non invecchia mai, ma ringiovanisce e si riapre alle tenerezze pi? soavi della prima et?, e in quelle vive e si esalta, assai pi? che nelle procellose e tremende gioie della guerra.... Oh! chi non ? soldato non comprender? mai che cosa sia l'affetto che mi lega a questo giovane! ? impossibile. Bisogna aver passato molte notti al bivacco, aver fatto molte marcie nel mese di luglio, essere stato molte volte d'avamposto sotto una pioggia dirotta, aver patito la fame e la sete tanto da svenirsi, e aver avuto sempre al fianco un amico che vi ha steso addosso il suo cappotto per ripararvi dal freddo, che vi ha asciugato i panni, che vi ha porto un sorso d'acqua, che vi ha offerto un tozzo di pane, privando s? di quel che porgeva a voi. Servitore! domestico! E v'? chi lo chiama cos?! Oh ? una bestemmia! S?...., perch? quando quest'uomo mi si affaccia l? sulla soglia, e mi saluta, e mi fissa in volto quel suo sguardo pieno di sommessione timida e amorosa, sento che tanto ? rispettoso il cenno che gli faccio io perch? abbassi la mano quanto ? rispettoso l'atto che egli fa per alzarla.... E quest'uomo mi abbandona,--mi lascia solo,--parte,--non torner? pi?! Ma no! no! io lo andr? a trovare, io! Lo andr? a cercare quando sar? in congedo; il nome del suo paesello lo so, domander? quello della sua parrocchia, quello del suo poderetto, correr? l?, lo sorprender? a lavorare nei campi, lo chiamer? per nome.--Non riconosci pi? il tuo uffiziale?--Chi vedo! Tenente! Lei qui! egli mi dir? tutto commosso. S?, s?! avevo bisogno di vederti! Vieni qua, mio caro soldato, abbracciami.--

In questo punto sent? su per le scale un passo leggero, lento ed ineguale, come di chi salga titubando e cerchi di indugiare la salita. Tende l'orecchio senza volger la testa; il passo si avvicina; si sente una stretta al cuore; si volge, eccolo,--? desso,--? il soldato.

Aveva la faccia turbata e gli occhi rossi; salut?, fece un passo innanzi e stette guardando il suo uffiziale. Questi tenea la testa rivolta dalla parte opposta.

--Signor tenente, io parto.

--A rivederci--gli rispose questi stringendo le labbra ad ogni parola e continuando a guardar altrove.--A rivederci.... Fa buon viaggio.... torna a casa.... lavora.... continua a vivere da buon figliuolo.... come hai vissuto finora e.... a rivederci.

--Signor tenente!--sclam? il soldato con voce tremante e facendo un passo verso di lui.

--Va, va, che non ti passi l'ora; va; ? gi? tardi; sbrigati; presto.

E gli porse la mano; il soldato gliela strinse fortemente.

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